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“It’s not your fault. Maybe it’s good Xander didn’t come after all.” He would’ve been more anxious than I am, and Donnelly might’ve been the one to accompany him. I don’t mind that it’s turned into a more public affair if it means no “Donnelly-Luna” sightings.
Mom sighs. “Now we know why there’s a bajillion paparazzi out tonight.” She shakes her head repeatedly, eyes never deserting the streets. Windshield wipers squeak against the glass. “Call Monroe.” She speaks to the car’s Bluetooth hookup.
“Calling Mom,” the automated voice replies.
“Nononono!” Mom freaks as the phone rings over the car’s speakers. “Hang up!”
I push the red button on the screen. It clicks off before Grandmother Calloway could answer. “I’ll call Frog.” I’m already dialing Frog’s number on my phone. It’s not connected to the car, but I put it on speakerphone.
“You’re okay?” Frog asks, sounding worried.
“We’re fine right now,” Mom says first. “How far back are you two?”
“Three cars behind.”
“Temp guards are gone,” Monroe says in his Texas twang. All bodyguards are born and raised in Philly, but I heard that Monroe grew up half in Texas. Divorced parents. Spent summers with his mom and the twang stuck. “Flat tire.” According to Mom, he’s a man of few words, which reminds her of her first beloved bodyguard Garth.
“I think we should take a detour,” Mom tells them. After they work through directions, we hang up, and I watch my mom wiggle out of a gridlock and take the next exit.
Most paparazzi can’t follow in enough time. They’re stuck on the freeway.
And so is our security.
“We’ll meet at Putt Palace, ma’am,” Monroe says in another call.
“Good plan,” Mom says, then hangs up again.
City streets have more stop-and-go red lights, and silence fills the car as she concentrates. Her eyes flit to the rearview mirror more than once.
I crane my neck to see a gray sedan. “They’re still tailing us?”
“Just this one car. We can handle it.” She nods again, pumping herself up, but she purposefully goes around the block to lose them.
They ride our bumper. Rain blurs their windshield, so I can’t distinguish faces inside their car, but I have an uneasy feeling.
Boom Box.
Donnelly said they always chase Xander, and they think he’s in the car.
“They just ran a red light,” I say, my pulse accelerating.
“Just face forward. It’ll be fine.” She hasn’t loosened her grip on the steering wheel. “I’ve dealt with worse paparazzi.”
I fall back in my seat, facing the windshield.
“Your seatbelt is on?” she asks.
“Yeah.” My heart is racing out of my ribcage. “How much long—” We jolt forward. My heart catapults to my throat. Shitshit. They just rammed ourbumper.Not hard enough to cause an accident but enough to scare us.
Mom presses on the gas. She tries to speed up to lose the tail, but the sedan chases us down the road. “Call Lo,” Mom tells the car.
“Calling Mom,” the automated voice replies.
“No!” Mom yells. “CALL LO!”
It’s already ringing for Grandmother Calloway again, and I hit the red button on the car’s dash. The call drops. Once I find her phone in the cup holder, I manually call my dad.
“Hey, Lil.” He answers on the first ring.
