Someone Just Followed You

Chapter 56

Kirsten

@Tellatttale, TikTok

So I got to ten thousand followers. Honestly, you guys are the best. I guess I owe you some intel now, huh? #findElla

I put my car into gear. I wish it was dark, to match my mood, but the evening sun is still shimmering, so I drop the visor and press down on the accelerator.

I turn right at the intersection. I have nowhere particular to be, but I just need to get away for a few hours.

To pretend my life isn’t collapsing around me.

Because it’s been a very long week. And then Meg Jackson’s article came out today.

And it’s not just a piece in the regular paper, but a whole feature in The New York Times Magazine.

The story claims to be about kidfluencing in general, but it’s really about Maple – illustrated with a very unflattering photo of an angry me.

It seems that Meg Jackson thinks we should all celebrate Maple’s newfound agency, that it just might save her from a hellish future as a bop girl, or washed-up ex-celebrity with zero work skills.

Well fuck you, Meg Jackson. Get your judgmental claws out of my family.

I might have been spared the shame of the article if it wasn’t for Belinda.

It’s not like I ever buy that newspaper – or any newspaper actually; who needs to when everything gets shared online – but there’s no way Belinda was going to give up the opportunity to gloat.

She grabbed me outside church this morning, told me about it with such joy.

It was excruciating. Especially as I then had to sit through a whole hour of chapel, followed by a relief society meeting about Pioneer Day, before I could get hold of a copy.

The news had reached Garrett too, so we sat in stony silence on the drive home from church, and then he went straight back out to buy the paper.

We both read it, him first, then me. Then I threw it in the trash, and Garrett went out hunting with his brothers, but I don’t think either of us felt any better.

I pause at the stoplight, and my eyeline drifts right. I thrum my fingernails against the steering wheel. Look straight ahead again.

The light turns green. Fuck it. I spin the wheel, cross over to Freedom Boulevard. Maybe I was heading somewhere particular after all.

I park, and with my head lowered, push open the door to NBG’s Bar.

I draw in a long breath and feel my whole body relax as I exhale.

It’s dark, and musty, and seedy. The lit-up signs in the window cast shadows over the handful of drinkers hunched over beers or glasses of liquor.

I smile. A Mormon woman in a dive bar on the Sabbath.

This is so much more rejuvenating than a facial.

I order a vodka soda and take it to a small round table at the back of the bar.

It’s cool and sharp, and it’s not long before my glass is empty.

I shouldn’t have another – I need to drive home for one thing – but God, it tastes good.

And I like being here, amongst strangers who are too busy anaesthetizing their own problems to wonder about mine.

I catch the attention of the bartender, and he must be a mind reader because he nods, and a minute later, places a new glass in front of me.

I tap my card against his machine. Luckily I have a secret bank account – one I set up when Maple’s checks became big enough to hide money – but it’s a booze fund, not a new life fund, sadly.

Except. I take a sip of the cold drink, and with the buzz that freshly consumed alcohol always brings, an idea starts to form.

There’s over two thousand dollars in that account now, so enough to fund some clandestine activity.

And maybe there is a solution to this problem after all.

Maple’s right that her follower numbers are sky high, but Maddie’s also right that this obsession with finding Ella Hart has caused Maple’s earning potential to nosedive.

But maybe there is a way to bridge the gap.

I pick up my phone and start a Google search.

I find five possibles, then cross-check those against online reviews.

I choose the second one – no point overthinking it – and send an email to Stu Miller.

Then I smile at my own brilliance, at the chance that I might have found a way to survive this.

But as I click back to my home screen, I see there’s a new message on Telegram.

My stomach lurches. Has Blake finally responded to my request for more information?

Is that door still open for Maple after all?

But no. It’s just a message from the app, telling me about a new privacy feature. My heart sinks. But with the app open, I can’t help clicking on my chat with Blake anyway. I wonder why she never responded. Was I too demanding? Too needy?

I take a long sip of my drink. Blake runs an international modeling agency; of course she doesn’t have unlimited time for Maple. Maybe my message just slipped under the radar. So where’s the harm in following it up?

I send a quick message.

Hi Blake, how are you? Just reaching out as I haven’t heard from you in a while.

I’m not really expecting a reply, especially not on a Sunday evening, but when I look back at my screen, there’s one there. Finally, some good news.