Be the Girl

“Five percent of my total mark.”

“Maybe there’s a disconnect between the curriculum in Alberta and here. I could talk to this teacher—”

“Mom.”

“Exactly! I’m your mother. If you need help, we’ll figure it out. I’m sure you’re not the only one who’s having a tough time.” She breaks off a chunk of zucchini loaf from my plate for herself. “What else?”

Zucchini in cake doesn’t sound all that appealing but neither does telling Mom that I recorded Holly in the bathroom today. I shove a piece into my mouth, savoring the warm chocolate chips while I stall on my next words. “I told Cassie I’d go to the animal shelter with her next Tuesday after school,” I say instead. There are some things my mother is better off not knowing.

Mom stares at me as I drag my finger through the melted smears of chocolate on my plate, and I begin to worry that she can tell I’m hiding something. But when I dare look up again, it’s into eyes that shine with pride. “That’s a great idea, Aria.”

I shrug. “I need volunteer hours anyway.”

“I was going to mention that. I had lunch with Heather today and she told me that every student needs forty hours of volunteer hours to graduate high school.”

“Yeah, it was in the paperwork that Ms. Moretti gave me.”

“So, maybe you should see if you can collect your hours there, too. Cassie goes twice a week to spend time with the animals. Apparently, they all love her there. Not that that’s a surprise. That girl just has a way about her. I can’t put my finger on it.”

I chew the inside of my mouth. Not according to Holly.

“Any big plans for this weekend?”

“Homework.” I collect my backpack and the laptop. Hiding in my room while I figure out what to do about this recording I have on my phone.

“Why don’t you start it here while I keep sorting through these cupboards?”

I give her a flat look.

“What? I like your company,” Mom says innocently, collecting the dirty dishes and carrying them to the sink.

“No, you want to monitor what I’m doing, and who I’m talking to, and what’s being said. You don’t need me to sit in the kitchen to do that.” She has a desktop spyware program that’ll give her everything she needs—my location, my texts, my websites visited. Everything. She has become Big Brother.

She twists her lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But we’ve talked about this already, Aria. I just … I worry, and for good reason.”

I swallow. “Things are a lot better here, Mom. I’m better. But I can’t become that weirdo at school who’s not allowed to have an Instagram account.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mom scoffs. “That doesn’t make you weird.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“I don’t have an Instagram account. Does that make me weird?”

“You’re not in high school. Even Cassie has an account.”

“She does?” Mom frowns with amusement. “What does she post about?”

“Dogs.”

“Of course.” Mom laughs, then shakes her head. “Fine. If you want to start a new Instagram account—if it’s important to you—then you can. I’m not trying to stifle you, Aria. I’m trying to protect you.”

“I know. But you don’t have to worry about me like that anymore.”

“I’m your mother. I will always worry about you.”

I push my open phone to her, wary that she’ll change her mind if I give her too much time to dwell on the past.

With a heavy sigh, she wipes her hands on her jeans and then begins punching in keys. “Seeing as I can monitor what you’re doing anyway, I’m going to disable the parental control. Just make sure your account is set to private and don’t use your name on your profile. Or your face.” A year ago, my mother had no idea how Instagram worked. Now she’s well versed in all the ways someone can send hateful messages.

“I wasn’t going to anyway.”

She holds up her finger in warning. “And I want the account info. Password and everything.”

“Of course.” I snatch the last bite of zucchini bread—I hate to confess that it’s good—and head to my room, feeling a small surge of victory.





Dogs, standing.

Dogs, sitting.

Dogs, running.

Dogs, jumping.

I shake my head as I scroll through Cassie’s profile. There’s even a close-up of a dog’s eyeball with a caption that reads “Bert’s eye,” followed by several laughing emojis. She’s a one-girl publicity department for the Eastmonte Animal Shelter. Of course, she’s only advertising to her circle of thirty-six people. Thirty-seven, now that she accepted my friend request, after I texted to get her handle and to give her mine: therunningllama.

I spy Emmett’s profile in Cassie’s list of followers—my real motivation for searching out Cassie. His icon is a professional photographer’s action shot of him on the ice. Of course. I click on the link and my stomach tightens with excitement, seeing that it’s not set to private. He has over two thousand followers.

Curling up in the window seat, I begin to scroll. He doesn’t post often, and when he does, it’s usually something about hockey or his team. Where there is the odd picture of him without a helmet, I linger, my heart rate spiking.

It’s at least twenty pictures before I come across a picture of him and Holly, taken last Christmas based on their matching Christmas sweaters. There’s another one of them, lying side by side in the snow, laughing.

I can’t help myself—I click on the tag that takes me to Holly’s profile.

It’s full of pictures of Holly and Emmett, of Holly alone, and beautiful candid shots of Emmett that make my heart ache, all of them with a slew of hashtags that stake her claim over him.

He’s all mine.

That’s what she said in the bathroom today.

My teeth grit at that wide, toothy smile.

What a phony.

A horn honks outside and I peer out the window to see a black SUV waiting in the Hartford driveway. Moments later, Emmett strolls out of the house in a dark-gray suit and silver tie, his stick in one hand, his enormous hockey bag in the other. He rounds the truck to toss his equipment in the back before climbing into the passenger seat.

They wear suits to games? Hockey is weird.

I grab a nearby book and pretend to read as the SUV backs out of the driveway. It’s Friday night. Will Emmett feel sorry for me if he happens to look up here and see me alone?

Did he actually say that to Holly?

My chest burns with equal parts anger and embarrassment.

Once the SUV is out of sight, I slide my earbuds in and replay the audio recording for the sixth time tonight, in all its unmistakable glory.

Proving that the only pretty thing about Holly is her big, fake smile.





10





Dear Julia,

WHAT SHOULD I DO?

I know what I WANT to do—send that video to Emmett. I have his number. I could do it. But what will he think? Is Jen right? Will he be pissed with Holly? Will he dump her for what she said? She’d deserve it.

But what if he doesn’t, and he’s pissed at me for recording her? Plus, my mom will KILL me if she finds out I was hiding in a bathroom stall, recording conversations, which means I can’t send this video to Emmett; she’d see it in her spyware.

So maybe I should just play it for her, and see what she says. Holly’s a horrible person. My mom would see that in a heartbeat.

Or she could demand that I delete it. Then I don’t have proof. Then Holly gets to keep strutting around being the Queen of Fake while talking trash about Cassie and me, and Jen, and who knows who else, all while pretending she’s this sweet angel and sucking on Emmett’s neck like a damn vampire (I’ve definitely been around Uncle Merv too much).

See the dilemma I’m in, Julia?

I know what I want to do. The thing is, I also know why I want to do it, and my reasoning probably isn’t all that noble.

~AJ





Eastmonte cross-country team, Practice tomorrow morning (Monday) is cancelled due to inclement weather. Thx, Ms. Moretti.