Page 22 of Someone Just Followed You

He drags the video back three minutes. He’s watched the film from the start – the skateboarding crash, the water volleyball – and it was good to see her smiling and giggling in the water. But he doesn’t need to see that a second time.

This is what he needs to see again. The kiss.

Although is it even that? The sticker appearing at the wrong moment, hiding their faces as the boy leans toward her, teasing their audience.

Maybe, Maybe Maple.

His palms are sweaty, so he picks up his drink, uses the chilled aluminum can to cool his hands. He takes a long swig, feels the cold liquid swill in his gut.

Did she kiss him? Did she fucking kiss that dude? He crunches the empty can.

He needs to see her, really see her. Not her kissing some skateboarding jerk with cartoon stickers flying around. But the true, whole Maple Clark.

But how?

Maybe the mom could offer a way in.

He’s heard the stories, how money talks with moms like her. He’s broke, of course, barely has a pot to piss in. But maybe the promise of wealth and glory will be enough if he aims high. And the sky’s the limit when it comes to fake promises.

He clicks on the @_MaybeMaple_ channel profile. There’s an email address there, an opportunity to connect privately. He can’t use his own contact details; that would be stupid. But there are ways to stay anonymous. A VPN and a new email address is all it requires.

He opens another can and sets to work. He makes up a name, one that gives nothing of his identity away, and crafts a message that he imagines will seduce a woman like her.

Because if the mom is going to agree to this, he needs her defenses right down low.

Chapter 28

Maple

I know I look a mess. I don’t need a mirror to show me that my skin is blotchy, my eyes puffy and bloodshot. But at least it’s just me out here in the darkness, plus a few long-legged insects, skittering across the pool like anorexic ballerinas.

It’s freezing cold, so I slide my feet up the lounger to my backside, pull my bare legs into my chest, and then cover them with my hoodie. The sky is clear, showing off its mass of sparkling stars. I usually love stargazing, but tonight I can’t even look up. As though uninhabited planets from light years away are going to judge me – like everyone else will.

I bury my face in my knees.

How could she do that to me? How fucking could she?

I close my eyes to trap the tears, but then the images come. The content Mom put on my YouTube channel. I don’t know if it was the angles she used, the filters, the exposure. But the way I’m jumping around the pool, giggling, adjusting my bikini. It makes me look sexy, like I’m performing for Dylan. When the only person we’re both trying to please is my mom, like always.

But the ending is by far the worst. The big fat lie that brought me out here at two in the morning, alone, too embarrassed and ashamed to even look at the stars.

Dylan and I are sitting on the loungers. I lean forward and he moves toward me. Then a sticker appears between our heads – FIRST KISS!! – with tiny love hearts raining down the screen. Mom knows damn well that Dylan was just reading the engraving on my necklace, but instead of sticking with the truth, she made up some fantasy story for clicks.

And I know that this is only the beginning. And not just for me. Whatever happens now, the rumors will always be there. Dylan Dope and Maybe Maple. Are they? Aren’t they? WTF is he thinking? He could do SO MUCH better.

I get that Mom’s ambitious for my channel, and yeah, stuff like this always blows up. But I’m her daughter; how could she do this to me?

I run my fingernails across the palm of my opposite hand, digging hard into the flesh, soaking up the relief that physical pain brings. I slice a line on my hand, and it gives me some resolve.

Because Mom has crossed a line. And this time, I am not going to let her talk me around.

I’ve let her off so many times. Like when she insists on filming even though I’m exhausted, or ill, or busy with my schoolwork, or just not in the mood. And how she pretends to care, when it’s really just manipulation. The only thing she actually cares about is creating content. It’s not just me – she wants to make the twins the most adorable double act on the planet – but it’s mostly me. Because I’m the one who brings in the big bucks for her.

‘I hate you.’

I say it quietly, testing the words in the anonymity of darkness. It feels good to let them out.

‘I’m done with you,’ I go on, getting louder. ‘With your demands, and your fake love, and how you always claim you know what’s best for me, but never bother to ask me what I think. Did you hear that, Mom?’