As the car pulls out of the drive, my shoulders slump. The constant tension in my body seizes my muscles so often I now have regular massages to alleviate the pain. At least for this next week, I can relax. The shorts I’ve been asked to film don’t even need to show my face much, and I can do a voice-over. I even have some material filmed, so this should take no time at all, really.

  The light work puts me on a bigger high than being home alone.

  I watch the car disappear to make sure that they’re really gone and I’m not being punked, my muscles unlocking and the tension in my shoulders releasing as they go. I hadn’t realized quite how stiff my body was until right now.

  The air smells fresher and the sky is definitely a brighter shade of blue. Which is nice for now since it’s storm season and we’re due horrible weather for most of the time Mom and Isla are away.

  Not something that bothers me.

  I let myself back into the house and hit the lock button on the alarm panel. A new addition that Jules recommended—well, told Mom to get. Her best friend of twenty years has tried to make her see the risks she’s taking, citing stalker cases she’s had to deal with as the reason she’s so critical of the vlog.

  Jules has seen a lot in her time on the force, and although she’s refused to share the horror stories, she’s said enough to make me even more furious at my mom. Not even her warning was enough to stop the vlog, but it did make her add some security features to the house. We have cameras covering almost every inch of the outside space, alarms, a panic button, and even a panic room.

  Isla and I laughed behind her back for a full week when she told us about that one.

  It doesn’t quite live up to the Panic Room movie. It’s a room in the house with a massive dead bolt, a landline phone, a makeup counter, a camera, and a ring light. You know, so while our attempted murderers try to get into the room, we can inform the ’Tube.

  I refuse to go in there because I really believe it could make me spontaneously combust in anger. We’ve never been threatened, but is it a risk we want to take?

  The first thing I do with my empty house on the weekend is put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. I have nothing against avocado toast, bagels, or homemade granola, but I want something with no nutritional value for breakfast. Mom’s morning routines have been too frequent recently.

  While I watch the bag grow and listen to the continuous pops, I send a message to Rosa.

  Connie: they left! when are you coming over?

  Rosa: helping my dad. be over this afternoon. Did your mom film it?

  Connie: of course she did!! She’d film herself on the toilet if it made her enough money

  Rosa: ew didn’t need the visual

  Rosa, Dustin, and Seth know better than anyone how I feel about my vlogging life. Dustin, as the son of the responsible sheriff Jules, isn’t allowed to be in any videos, but Rosa and Seth have been in the background of a few. I try not to bring them to the house or meet them out if we’re filming.

  Rosa: just think of the money

  Yeah, it’s not worth it anymore.

  Connie: I’m going to ask seth and dustin too

  Rosa: I’m still annoyed at dustin…I think

  I roll my eyes at her message, text the guys, and shove my phone in my pocket as the microwave beeps dramatically. Rosa and Dustin have been together since freshman year and argue like an old married couple. They’re cute, although frequently frustrating. And I bet she doesn’t even remember why she’s mad at him.

  Maybe he accidentally looked at another girl. I love Rosa, but she’s insecure about their relationship. I’ve known Dustin forever and he’s never shown even a hint of being an asshole. I’d trust him with my life.

  With my popcorn dumped into a bowl, I head to the living room and put on a Netflix murder documentary to kill time until the others arrive. Pun intended. I settle on one about a man who breaks into houses and murders people in their sleep.

  Not that I can focus.

  My phone chimes, Insta notifications flooding in—a constant distraction. I posted a photo with Mom and Isla before they packed up, like I was supposed to. That was about twenty minutes ago, and I have yet to check how it’s doing.

  It’s a public account but I mostly have no issues. No one really seeks me out, or if they do, they typically just like my pictures or occasionally leave a short comment. Mom tells me to post some vlog-relevant stuff on there, but I’ve managed to keep it to selfies from wherever we are. My personal accounts do not need to be an extension of her vlog.

  Something needs to be mine to control.

  I open the app and scroll while shoveling popcorn into my mouth, the feeling of freedom like floating on a cloud. I kick my legs up and read the comments section.

  Some of my friends have responded. Rosa saying we all look hot…Really? She thinks she’s funny. Seth has just liked it, not wanting to comment much and draw attention. Mom thinks we’re friends but nothing more, and he understands that we have to be super discreet or she’ll hit the roof.

  I’m about to swipe off the app when a name catches my attention. One I’ve never noticed on this platform before. Blueqb. Yesterday morning I liked a comment on YouTube and now they’ve migrated here and written you’re going to have a great week. Nothing snarky, no judgment. It’s like a totally different person but it’s the same username.

  I’m sure they haven’t been on my Insta before.

  They must’ve taken the simple interaction as an invitation to hunt me down on my personal social media. I try to stay calm but my heart beats faster and my scalp feels like it’s shrinking, pulling too tight over my skull. Who does that? I don’t know what I find more unsettling, the fact that they’ve searched for me or that their account is private. I still don’t know anything about this person, other than they like football—I assume the qb in their username stands for quarterback. Most of the country loves football, so that doesn’t exactly narrow it down.

  I’m not particularly hard to find online, thanks to my freaking mother. But why would they need to contact me on another platform? If it was to connect with me, it would be much easier if they weren’t anonymous.

  I mean, I guess I don’t really mind them being here since they’ve been nice and can see through my mom’s phony persona, but I do wish I could make my Instagram private and just have the people I’ve seen in the flesh on there. Well, and Travis Kelce if he wants.

  I startle as an engine rumbles by outside the house. It sounds like someone is slowing down, getting a good look.

  That’s what just happened to the woman on the screen. She ignored it and went to bed, and the next thing she knew a man was sitting on her legs driving a knife through her chest.

  My hand flies to my thudding heart and I feel like slapping myself. Talk about overreaction. I’m not the woman on the screen. This is a safe and quiet town, and no one can get into this fortress of a house.

  I admit that watching a crime doc the second I’m alone was a mistake. They always put me on edge, no matter how much I enjoy them.

  The engine probably belongs to a delivery driver looking for the right house. All the houses in my neighborhood are equally maintained and manicured. All have three stories, with lots of windows, big yards, mature shrubs and trees, and a respectable distance between them so no one disturbs each other.

  We never share our address online, though I constantly question how difficult it would really be to find us when people know the town. We do have a PO box, one I’ve been given instructions to check next week. Can’t be rude and have people wait twelve whole days to thank them for the stuff they send.

  It’s only when I can no longer hear the engine that I realize my free hand is gripping a cushion as if I’m trying to strangle it. I release a long breath, drop the cushion, and shake my hands out, flinging the last of my frayed nerves far away. I’m being paranoid. If my friends saw that, they’d ridicule me.

  Pressing pause, I put the remote down and leave the murder for when my friends arrive. Feels like a better idea then sitting here wondering which tool the Newbridge killer will decide to decapitate me with.

  I crane my neck to look out the window, unable to move because although I’ve rationalized this in my head, I’m not completely happy about it.

  As soon as I’m alone, I think the worst.

  Blue finding my Insta account has shaken me a little, I can’t lie. The way they talk about my mom makes me not want anything to do with them—but it also gives me a little thrill to see my mom get bashed. The conflicting emotions that come from being her daughter might just give me a stomach ulcer.

  If I block them and they go back and ask on the YouTube account, it’ll only cause trouble with Mom that I don’t want to invite. She does not like the negativity blocking brings, even if people keep telling her to do it to protect me and Isla from reading awful remarks.

  We go from You put your life and children online, so you should be able to handle those who don’t agree with you to Block these people and put your daughters first!

  After getting a bunch of that first type of message, she stopped blocking and instructed us not to as well. Bankroll the criticism, ignore your mental health. You can’t win whatever you do.

  I open the app again, but before I can read anything the phone starts ringing. Jumping, I knock the bowl over, spilling the entire contents all over the floor. Popcorn rolls into the center of the room.

  Oh my god, calm down!

  “Damn it,” I mutter, my hand flying to my overworked heart. That’s it, I have got to get a grip here.

  Maybe I’ll ask Rosa if she wants to sleep over every night or if I can stay at her place. If I’m like this now, I’m going to be a mess by the time it’s dark out. Maybe I just need someone else here for my first night alone and then I’ll be okay. This is my first time being completely on my own.

  I answer. “Hey, Seth,” I say. If he could see me now, he’d never stop laughing. Neither one of us wants to admit that murder shows freak us out. Everyone interviewed in these documentaries says the same thing: We didn’t think this would happen to us.

  “Lucky you, they’re gone. Your mom’s already posted a selfie from the road,” he says, his voice like steel. I think if anyone dislikes my mom more than me, it’s Seth. She’s the reason we can’t date traditionally, always having to have Rosa or Dustin here when he picks me up so that it looks like we’re all just friends hanging out.

  He hates that he can’t just pick me up to go to the movies like most teens. There have been many arguments about just telling Mom it’s happening whether she likes it or not, because she doesn’t really care if we date, but I think she worries that her control will start to slip when we do.

  I roll my eyes, sliding off the sofa to tidy up the popcorn. Imagining my mother freaking out if any grease were to soak into the carpet is enough to get me up.

  As I move, I glance out the window and see a UPS van across the street. Probably just been to Mrs. Crossby’s house, delivering her latest package from Pottery Barn.

  “Yeah, well, that’s my mom,” I tell him.

  Besides, I’ve done the same, haven’t I? Posting pictures almost daily. Isn’t that what most people do? So many happy, smiling faces portraying a romanticized life. You never know what the truth is behind the portrait.

  “So I was thinking we should go to the movies later.”

  “I’m in. My last bag of popcorn is all over the living room floor.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you called.”

  “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended.”

  “Well, there was a van that drove by right before.”

  “Oh, sure, makes more sense now…” I hear the amusement in his voice, and it helps to calm my earlier anxiety. “Anyway, Dustin messaged and told me his mom’s about to do a drive-by, so wave if you see her.”

  “Will do,” I say, putting the phone on speaker so I can scoop up the popcorn before the carpet smells like butter. This is why I usually go to our theater, where there’s hardwood flooring. I always make a mess somehow. And it typically involves Seth making me jump.

  “When’s the first party at your house? A couple guys from the team have been asking.”

  “I’m sure that would never get back to my mom,” I tell him, scooping handfuls back into the bowl, my palms sticky in a second.

  “Come on, we’ll keep it exclusive. Phones in a box, no pictures, no social media.”

  I never thought I’d crave phone-free time but that honestly sounds so good. I crave being off-grid. Not in a “go live in a forest and bathe in a stream” way but in a “not showing the internet what I’m doing every second” way.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Yes!”

  I scoop again. “Hey! I haven’t agreed.”

  “You have a free house for two weeks, and some of that time is over spring break. We have to take advantage.”

  I manage to get almost all the popcorn back into the bowl but will have to vacuum the rest. Some of the kernels have sunk into the pile and that’ll smell if I don’t deal with it soon. Cops could use Mom to sniff out drugs in an airport.

  Seth has an excellent point, though. I do love a party when I manage to get to one.

  “All right. I’ll consider it if you can promise me no one will find out. No one at all, Seth, I mean it.”

  “You have my word. We’ll make sure Jules is home by then so she won’t drive by and notice all the cars.”

  Someone’s already planned this out, but, yeah, I’m not throwing a party before the freaking sheriff drives by to check on me. Though I do wonder how she’d react, given that she’s on my side most of the time now. She must know that I just want to chill and enjoy my time away from my mother.

  I sit back against the sofa and pick up my phone, the mess contained for now, and notice yet another notification for Insta. The username drawing me in again…because it’s Blue.

  This comment is on a picture I posted yesterday on my walk home from school after swim practice. My waves were slightly damp on the ends after a half-hearted blow-dry with the caption “swim is taking over my life and hair.”

  Its great u do something for urself I think u look beautiful.

  Seth’s gone quiet and I can hear a football game in the background. He and his family are football obsessed and often rewatch old games. I like it but not that much.

  Blue comments again, their username now taking up every spot in my notifications until I scroll down.

  Who is this person? Another notification pushes the others lower.

  What the…

  I watch in real time as they like and comment on dozens of pictures. We’re talking going back weeks, months even, because I can see the trip I took with Mom and Isla in February.

  That’s kind of…worrying.

  My pulse is skittish as I try to figure out how I really feel about this person. They seem to be on my side…but I’m still not comfortable with it.

  I startle as an engine idles outside my house, my overactive mind instantly assuming it’s Blue who’s found me. My hand flies to my chest when I see the back of the sheriff’s car slowly driving away.

  “Connie, you still there? Phone’s too quiet.”

  I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. But no matter what I do, Blue is there, their profile picture multiplying across my notifications. “Sorry, just cleaning up. Are you busy right now?”

  “No, you want to go out? I was about to make a diner run for breakfast, but we can meet there and eat in if you want?”

  “Sounds good. Meet there in ten?”

  “Yeah, see you then.”

  I hit the end button and grab the bowl, leaving my phone behind for a minute, the notifications still pinging.

  It’s like they’re not stopping until they’ve viewed my entire online life.

  It feels…wrong.

  4

  Seth meets me in the parking lot, and one glance at his subtle frown tells me something’s up. That look could mean anything—lost socks or another rant about Mom’s dating rules.

  But then his eyes soften, and my heart sinks.

  Pity.

  I was hoping to hide my worry, but I forget—my friends know me better than my family. Seth would’ve caught the shift in my tone earlier. Not to mention the spontaneous change of plans to meet now.

  “You good?” he asks, kissing my cheek, eyes searching—digging for the truth.

  “I’m fine,” I respond, plastering on my best vlog smile.

  He tilts his head and those soft eyes shift, flashing irritation at my lie. “Try again.”

  “Really, I’m fine,” I say, then let out a sigh that sounds like I’m anything but. “It’s just this person who always comments on YouTube has found my Insta page and it threw me for a second. But it’s no biggie, really, don’t worry. I’ll ignore it.”

  I sound like I’m trying too hard to be cool about this, and there’s no way he won’t realize that.

  “What’re they saying?” he asks as we walk toward the building.

  “Literally nothing horrible, I promise. You can stand down,” I tease, nudging his arm to snap him out of his macho mood. It frustrates Seth when he reads some of the awful things people say about me, and he’s wanted, on more than one occasion, to take these people on.

  It’s so not worth it, and I’d never want him to get into trouble for fighting with random strangers online.

 

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