Page 5 of Someone Just Followed You

Maple

I listen to Mom’s footsteps on the stairs, and then the twins squealing at her no-school news. It makes me smile, my first real one since I watched the content Taylor sent me yesterday. I still feel so sick about it.

How can a video of people watching another video be so excruciating?

But that’s a stupid question when the video they’re all watching is two-year-old me in a leaky diaper. And the audience is my classmates, laughing so hard that half of them are bent over with it. Worst of all is that Theo Williams is there. We were on an eleven-day Snap streak before yesterday and I was thinking maybe … but how can anything happen between us now, when I’d rather die than face him?

Oh God, the shame.

Even Taylor, my supposed best friend, was giggling silently. I could tell from the way the footage jerked up and down.

I pick up my brush and run it through my hair. When I was little, I hated my hair, wanted it to be blond like my mom’s. But everyone goes on about how gorgeous it is now. Rich, warm, red tones, gold tones. The compliments keep coming. And it’s true that brunettes are owning it on Instagram right now. Maybe I need to start liking it too.

Eventually I place the brush back on my vanity and eye the door. I know I need to go downstairs. That if I don’t, Mom will be back here, reminding me what a beautiful day it is, how the light is just right for filming, and how much my subscribers will love to see some new content from me. But I’m not in the mood to pretend life is perfect today. I don’t have it in me to smile for the camera.

Which I know is how quitters talk. If I want to be a famous influencer, I need to put content out every day; it’s like the first amendment of the social media constitution. And I have to expect some rough treatment too – from people who are jealous or attention-seeking or just plain mean.

But it’s still a lot, that video, especially when I wasn’t at school to defend myself. Except, what would I have done if I had been? Screamed at Tabitha – the girl who shared it, according to Taylor – to fuck off and die, then watch that scene back on TikTok? Because someone would film it and post it, tag me in it too probably. And everyone who watched it would share it. And I doubt Maddie, or Studio 88, or Azione would want to work with me after seeing that.

At least I don’t have to face anyone at school today. I won’t go in tomorrow either – Mom won’t care; she never does – and then eighth grade will be over, and middle school will be done, and hopefully everyone will have forgotten about it by the time we start high school in August.

That thought lifts my mood enough for me to pick up my phone. My mom still runs my YouTube channel – she set it up when I was a baby, back when it was called Mom & Maple instead of Maybe Maple like it is now – and no one has ever suggested that she lets go of that control. I supposedly run my own TikTok and Instagram accounts, but Mom has all my login details and seems to interfere on a daily basis.

Which is why I click into Snapchat instead. The platform which is all mine. There’s a load of messages from my so-called school friends – Taylor, Scarlett, Milly, Martha – but I slide to delete them all. If they’ve sent me apologies, it’s too little, too late. And if they think I’ll see the funny side, well, they’re too dumb to be friends with anyway. I know I’ll forgive them at some point because I can’t do school without them. But right now, they are part of the problem, and I’m not ready to move on.

And anyway, I have other friends. Online friends like Coco. It’s crazy, but I sometimes think I’ve become closer with Coco than my girlfriends in real life over the last few months. I guess she understands me better because she’s trying to build her profile on social media too. And luckily there are five new snaps from her.

Chapter 8

Maple

I read Coco’s messages, a mix of goofy and sweet, then send her a selfie. She sends one back straight away. Coco’s roots are Mexican, and she has curly black hair, these amazing brown eyes, and tanned skin. She never seems to overthink stuff, so she’s always good with advice too. She has maybe five thousand subscribers to her channel, which is a lot less than me, of course, but her reason for wanting to build up her following is way cooler.

Coco wants to be a filmmaker, and nothing glitzy or commercial like Disney movies. She wants to make true crime documentaries. A fifteen-year-old girl from her neighborhood in Miami was raped and murdered three years ago. Sophie Lyle. Her killer still hasn’t been caught, which shows how crap the police are. But Coco is telling Sophie’s story via her @CocosColdCase channel and hopes to get justice for her that way. Uncover her killer. She knows it won’t be easy, but she’s determined to find a way. And knowing Coco, I bet she does.

We share a few more silly selfies, and I giggle at her weird expressions. Mom would freak out if she knew I was taking ugly pictures of myself, but luckily, she’ll never know. That’s the beauty of disappearing messages. Thank you, Snapchat.

‘Maple honey!’ Mom’s voice drifts up the stairs and I know my time is up.

‘Coming!’ I call back, while sending a final message to Coco and clicking out of the app. Then I take a deep breath, practice smiling in the mirror, and head down to the kitchen. The twins are already in the pool, splashing around, and Mom must have been filming them because her blouse is covered in splash marks.

‘Ah, you’re here,’ she says. She looks me up and down, then nods slightly, as though I’ve passed some mystery test. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better. Now, we’ve got that Verde Fresh smoothie filming to do, so let’s get that set up.’

God, not this. ‘Do we have to?’

‘Well, three grand says yes we do, actually.’

I feel my cheeks heat up. ‘I just mean, can we do it later? I’m so tired after yesterday; I’m not in the mood right now.’

Mom doesn’t say anything, but even her silence makes me feel guilty. Like she’s using some weird telepathic messaging to remind me how much she does for me. Maybe I should just get the filming over with. But then she drops her head to one side. ‘What’s wrong, Maple honey? You’re not yourself today.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I mumble.

She shakes her head. ‘It’s not nothing.’

Her tone is so soft that my eyes grow hot. Mom and I used to be really close, but it hasn’t felt that way lately. Last year she was all caught up in buying this house, and more recently it’s been about getting my YouTube channel to two million subscribers and signing new brand deals. I know it’s for my future; she reminds me of that regularly enough. And I do see how hard she works, for me and the twins. But it’s all we ever talk about, work. Like she doesn’t care about the other stuff going on in my life.

But she seems to care now, so maybe I’ve got that wrong.