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.
‘Honey?’ she presses gently.
‘Maybe there’s something,’ I finally murmur.
‘Can you tell me about it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘How about I make you some eggs while you talk.’ She turns to open the fridge, then takes two eggs to the opposite counter and starts cracking them into a bowl.
Without her eyes on me, it feels easier, and I tell her what Taylor told me.
How Carmella was giving a presentation on the classroom screen yesterday afternoon when Tabitha airdropped a video to her laptop.
And when everyone chanted at Carmella to open it, she did.
‘And what did the video show?’ Mom’s tone is light and soothing.
‘It was from the old days of our channel,’ I murmur.
‘It was called Poop Scoop, and I was about two, racing around our old kitchen in a dirty diaper. You were chasing me. There were brown patches, Mom. Disgusting shit smears on my stupid fat thighs.’ I drop my head to hide my tears, but I can’t stop my shoulders convulsing.
Mom leaves the eggs and walks over, puts her hands on my arms. ‘Now, you know I don’t like to hear you swear, honey,’ she says. ‘But I’m sorry. That’s not kind of your classmates.’
I look up. ‘So can we take the video down?’
‘Of course we can.’
‘And could we maybe take all the content down of me when I was little?’
Mom bites her lip. ‘We could, yes. But you know what we should do first?’
‘What?’
‘Go shopping. Life always feels better in a new outfit.’