“She’s lying.”
“So what? It’s not illegal.”
“Why were you taking pictures of us?” A hard edge has returned to Rafael’s voice.
“I was waiting to see if a bird would show up.” She smirks. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Give me your phone.”
Good one. That’ll definitely work.
To my surprise, she pulls it out of her pocket and dangles it in front of me with two fingertips. I reach for it, but as she swipes it back with a laugh it slips from her fingers and clatters to the ground. I lunge to grab it at the same time she does when Rafael pulls me away. His fingers grip my arms with just enough force to keep me from throwing myself at the girl.
She picks up her phone and glares at me again. “You’re insane!” She slams the door shut and peels away. When her car is out of sight, Rafael releases his hold on me.
I turn on him with renewed anger, ready to go another round, but he holds up both of his hands. “Before you say anything, just know that I was trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help!”
“I didn’t want you to do something you’d regret later.” His eyes plead with me to believe him.
It’s the same thing he said when he dodged my kiss in the car, and I’m sick of him trying to save me from regrets. “I wasn’t going to attack her. I was just going to delete the pictures or video of us from her phone.”
“Ten bucks says if you’d touched that phone, she would have called the police.”
“With what?”
Rafael smiles at my joke but shakes his head.
“I’m not afraid of her,” I say.
“I know. I’m actually kind of impressed.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Last week, you would have been.”
I think about Rafael’s words on our silent drive home. A few weeks ago, I could barely make eye contact with a fangirl in the bathroom. Today, I chased down and yelled at a complete stranger without a trace a fear. It could be because I had so much adrenaline from meeting Brittany and fighting with Rafael, but I think there’s more to it than that. Now that I know exactly who tried to kidnap me and why, I have no reason to be afraid of the rest of the world.
So why do I still feel so lousy?
“Pack a bag! We’re celebrating!” Poppy accosts me as I enter the house. Around her neck is a shiny silver medal.
“Congrats on second place, but I’m not in the mood.” I try to swerve around her, but she blocks my path. “We’re not celebrating this.” She rolls her eyes at the medal. Figures. She’s never known what it’s like to come in second. “We’re going to Disneyland. Tonight!”
Mom walks into the room with a duffle bag over her shoulder. “You girls always said you wanted to spend your eighteenth birthday at Disneyland!” She grins at me expectantly, waiting for me to scream, or . . . I don’t know, jump up and down. Poppy rushes out of the room to finish packing.
“When we were five.”
Her smile falters. “Aren’t you excited?”
“I have homework and stuff . . . I can’t go right now.” I have a pounding headache, and all I want to do is go to bed. I’m not in the mood to spend six hours in the car with Mom and Poppy droning on incessantly about the reality show, which is all they talk about these days.
“You only get one eighteenth birthday.”
“I know.” And I just spent mine desperately untangling the mess you created, I add mentally. Her eyebrows scrunch in confusion. She has no idea. And I’m tired of all the secrets.
“Can we talk? It’s important.”
“Sure. We’ll have plenty of time to talk in the car.”
I grit my teeth. Doesn’t she even care where I’ve been? Where I spent my real birthday? “You’re not listening. I’m not going.”
Poppy bounds down the stairs two at a time. “Then we’re going without you.” She brushes past me out of the house and slams the front door behind her. I feel like I’ve been slapped. Like my whole life is crumbling. I’ve been rejected my birth mother, and now by Poppy.
“Mom?”
“Please come? I promised her.”
I slowly shake my head. If Poppy’s so eager to leave me behind, I’m not going to force myself on her birthday celebration.
Mom kisses the top of my head and follows Poppy out that door.
And I’m alone.
Later that week, Jackson and Cami come over for Thanksgiving dinner. Which is a relief, honestly. Mom, Poppy and I have been tiptoeing awkwardly around each other since they got back from Disneyland. Once Mom chose Poppy over me, I abandoned the idea that we could actually talk about what happened. All Mom cares about is cranking out content and pretending our lives are shiny and happy. Plus, she’s busier than ever in discussions with STARR Network, and Poppy’s making up for lost time by filming new hair tutorials every day. I’ve been avoiding everyone (Rafael included) by lying low in the school library and leaving my uncharged cell phone in my room. I just don’t have the energy to deal with the constant deluge of comments and texts and emails and likes.
“How’s the college search going, Claire?” Poppy raises her eyebrows at me over a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes. Nothing says Thanksgiving like passive-aggressive hostility, right?
“I thought you girls had decided on ASU and the reality show,” Cami says.
“One of us has,” I say through a bite of turkey.
“Claire still needs convincing,” Mom says, as if it’s as simple a matter as changing my mind about what shoes to wear with my outfit.
“I think Jackson was looking forward to being a guest star.” Cami winks at me, and I wonder if she still thinks there’s a chance we will get together. Someone has to tell her the truth. Unfortunately, no one at this table is going to do it. Jackson never outwardly encourages her suggestions, but he never denies them either.
“I still don’t understand what you’re thinking.”
Obviously.
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”
One can only hope.
Mom moves the floral centerpiece a fraction of an inch to the left and takes another picture.
“Oh relax, Ashley. You deserve a day off. Everything looks beautiful.”
“Just one more. Claire, scoot closer to Jackson and smile.” Mom lifts the camera to her eye and waits for me to cooperate. I take another bite of turkey and pretend not to notice. “Lean in, Claire.” She sounds impatient, but I don’t move. The table falls silent.
“No offense, Jackson,” I glance at him with a look of apology, “but I’m not going to pose for a picture with you.”
He shrugs, unfazed.
“What are you talking about, Claire Bear?” Mom’s cheery voice is strained.
I turn to Jackson. “Did you know that people think we’re dating?”
His eyes dart from Mom to me.
“That’s a yes.”
“Oh Claire Bear,” Mom laughs. “It doesn’t matter what people on the internet think.”
“It matters to me! I don’t want people assuming things about me based on what they’ve read, and Jackson probably doesn’t either.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Jackson says through a mouthful of potatoes. “If someone asks, I tell them the truth.”
“See, Claire? You shouldn’t care what strangers think about you. People who know you in real life will know the truth.” She’s still standing with her camera in her hands, a smile plastered to her face.
“Not everyone.” I slink down in my seat.
Still smiling, Mom picks up the untouched bowl of cranberry sauce and hands it to me. “Don’t make a scene.”
I slump further into my seat. “At least then you’d have something to write about,” I mumble. Out of the corner of my eye, Jackson stifles a laugh.
Mom breathes into her hands and rubs them together to warm them up. I pull my sweater tight a
round my shoulders, cursing myself for not wearing a thicker jacket.
“You know the drill.” Mom pulls three copies of the same list out of her purse. She hands me a piece of paper with several items highlighted in orange. These are the things I’m responsible for picking up while Poppy holds our place in the checkout line. When it comes to Black Friday shopping, Mom leaves nothing to chance. There is no line too long, no store too crowded, no discount too small for her meticulous planning.
We had to wake up at 3:00 a.m. for this, and the only reason I’m here is because I need a distraction from thinking about my birth mom, and about Rafael. Poppy was hoping we’d film a Black Friday vlog but took one look at my unbrushed hair and bare face and slipped the camera back in her bag. Too bad I didn’t learn that trick several years ago.
Poppy glances at me sideways as we’re swept into a current of bodies and jostling elbows. “Cheer up. Think of today as retail therapy. It’ll help you forget your boy problems.”
I flex my fingers in an attempt to warm them. “I don’t have boy problems.”
“Riiiiiiight. That’s why you lied to me about dating Jackson and then blamed Mom for the fact that people think you two are a couple.” She shakes her head and ditches me to make a sprint for the checkout line snaking its way through the store.
We spend the morning with a “divide and conquer” mentality, but my heart’s not in it. I grumble my way through crowds and discounts, looking forward to getting home for a much-needed nap and some leftover pie. Eventually Mom and Poppy abandon me in a shoe store at an outdoor mall, probably because I won’t stop complaining about how a stranger in stilettos just stomped on my foot.
I don’t have a list in this store, so I just wander up and down the aisles. A pair of cognac-colored booties catches my eye. Eighty percent off. By this time, I’m too tired and hungry to fully appreciate the discount, but I grab them anyway.
“Don’t even think about it,” a woman growls and yanks the booties from my hands. She’s about Mom’s age with bleached blonde hair and way too much makeup. “These are mine!”
I look around for help, but we’re alone between two towering racks of women’s shoes, size seven. “I was holding those.”
“I saw them first,” she says, as if that matters. She pushes past me, sits on a small bench at the end of the aisle, and pulls off her stilettos. They’re the same ones responsible for my bruised foot, and something snaps in my brain.
“Don’t touch me.”
“What?”
“I said, don’t touch me.”
She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but I stand my ground. What happened with the girl in Superior was not a fluke. I’m done being afraid of people. I’m done letting strangers tell me what to do or how to feel. And no one gets to touch me without my permission.
“I’m not touching you.” She yanks on the first bootie.
“You pushed me when you walked past.”
She ignores me and zips up the second bootie.
“Please apologize.”
She stands and looks at them in front of the mirror.
“Apologize now.”
An anxious-looking employee about my age walks into the aisle. “Is there a problem?” His voice squeaks. He’s two inches shorter than me and looks terrified to be here.
“Yes,” the woman says. “She’s yelling at me because she wants these shoes.”
My blood is pounding in my ears when the employee turns to me. “I . . . I’m sorry, ma’am. If you can’t be civil, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I’m dumbstruck. Is this a joke? And then the woman smirks in the mirror, and I find my words again.
“Are you kidding me? She stole the boots from my hands! And then she pushed me! You should kick her out!” I gesture wildly toward the front door and accidentally smack my hand into a display. “Ow!” I yell, pulling my hand back in and dragging a plastic shoe stand with me. Shoes come cascading down around me, knocking me to the floor in the process. In a fraction of a second, I’m sitting on my butt in a pile of ankle boots with a throbbing hand and no dignity.
Despite this, the woman is the one who is screaming. “She’s trying to attack me!”
The small employee panics as security rounds the corner.
As the pudgy guard takes in the scene, the woman launches into a story about how I viciously attacked her. Meanwhile, I’m still drowning in a pile of boots. No one offers to help me up, which is fine. I’m too tired to stand anyway.
“Is this true?” The security guard turns to the employee for more information.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to believe this kid over me?” the woman demands, gesturing to me.
I don’t love the emphasis she puts on the word kid, as if I’m untrustworthy just because I’m a teenager. The employee refuses to meet my eyes. That’s when I know what he’s going to say before he says it.
Thirty seconds later, I’m escorted out of the store and asked to never return.
I throw myself onto a bench next to the toddler play place and lie down. The air is crisp and cool this morning, and around me, children squeal happily, and people laugh and talk as they walk from store to store, collecting their purchases. I wish I could join them, but I don’t know how. Everything in my life is so tangled up, and I have no idea how to fix any of it. What I need is a big pair of scissors that I could use to cut through all the mess until something makes sense again.
“There you are, Claire! Have you seen your sister?” Mom walks out of a perfume store with a pink shopping bag swinging from her wrist. “Come in for a picture!” She holds her hand out to help me up from the bench, and that’s when I grab my metaphorical scissors.
“No.” To my surprise I sound incredibly calm. Calm, but sure of this decision that has been years in the making.
Mom sighs. “Not today, Claire. I’m tired. Just get in here.”
This is the moment. Everything inside of me is screaming that I have to do this now. If I don’t, I might never get another opportunity. I’ve imagined this moment a million times, but I never expected it to take place in front of twenty wild toddlers crawling on top of giant plastic ladybugs.
“I’m done with your Instagram, and Twin Tuesday, and the YouTube channel.”
Mom raises her eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“That means no more vlogs. No photo shoots. And most importantly, no reality show. I’m out.”
Mom smiles nervously and glances around. There are dozens of parents surrounding the play place, and several of them are pretending not to listen to us. She walks closer to me and hushes her voice. “I know you’re upset about Jackson—”
“This isn’t about Jackson! But since we’re on the subject, I don’t understand why you’re still pretending we’re together!”
“At this point, we’re characters more than anything. You, Poppy, even me! The readers love the Jackson storyline. I know you’re upset, but don’t quit the blog simply because of a misunderstanding with a boy.”
“This isn’t about a boy!” My voice rises, and several faces turn in our direction. “This is about the fact that you’ve lied to me every day of my life. I found your journal. I know everything.”
The color drains from her face.
A familiar shriek pierces the air. Poppy marches toward us with her phone in her hand and a livid expression on her face.
“What the hell did you do?”
Incoming Email
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Video
I’m gonna make this real simple. If you sign the STARR Network contract, I’ll release this video and send everyone after your precious boyfriend and your crazy mom.
And that will just be the beginning.
I open the attachment on Poppy’s phone and play the video of Rafael and I arguing.
Loudly.
It’s not pretty.
<
br /> “This isn’t anything.” My voice wobbles, betraying my lack of confidence. I hand the phone back to Poppy. “I’m not the first girl to get in a fight with her . . . whatever he is.”
“Then why is someone using it to blackmail me?” She spits the words at me furiously.
“The better question is, who’s blackmailing you?” Mom takes the phone. The lines on her forehead deepen as she watches the video.
“Probably the same people whose been harassing us for a year.”
“Get a grip! It’s not Emily and Erica!”
“You met Brittany?” Mom asks quietly.
“Who’s Brittany?”
I nod and tears swell in the corners of Mom’s eyes.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod again.
“What’s going on? Who is Brittany?” Poppy looks back and forth, waiting for an answer.
“She’s my birth mother.”
Poppy’s jaw drops open.
I look back at Mom. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
“I always planned to, and then she did . . . what she did, and I wanted to protect you from that awful truth.” Mom looks around at the busy shopping square. “We have a lot to talk about, but we shouldn’t do it here.”
The words spill out as soon as we’re on the road. I sit in the backseat as Poppy drives and piece together the story for them. Poppy knows some of it, Mom knows other parts, but both of them turn around with shocked expressions when I describe the scene in the café. By the time I’m finished, we’re sitting in our garage. It seems like no one knows what to say.
“Is this a scandal? Will it scare off STARR?” Poppy asks. And thus, we resume our normal programming. Her eyes dart toward me. “If Claire decides to do it.”
“I have to make several calls, starting with my lawyer. Claire, we’ll talk more later, but for now, are you okay?” I nod as she reaches back and squeezes my hand. Seconds later, she’s out of the car, fingers already dialing.
“Are you mad?” I ask, even though it’s probably the dumbest thing I could say at this particular moment.
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