“See you later, Cassie.”
“Bye, AJ.” She trudges off toward her house and I take the walkway up to ours, noting the orange and yellow flowers in pots sitting on either side of the rickety stairs.
I step through the front door to the high-pitched whir of a drill coming from upstairs, Uncle Merv and my mother bickering in the kitchen, and the smell of chocolate and spice lingering through the air.
“What do I need with all this damn kitchen stuff, anyway?” Uncle Merv says, waving his hands at the piles of small kitchen appliances, containers, and mismatched dishware hiding the countertop. “Donate it or toss it. I’ll never use it.”
“We don’t have to keep all of it! I just thought there might be something of sentimental value here and—”
“Unless I’m gonna be buried with it, I don’t need to keep it! I don’t need a broken blender or a chipped plate to remember Connie.”
“Fair enough. You’re right.” Mom gives his shoulder an affectionate pat.
“What’s going on?”
Mom turns to smile at me. “Hey, hon! I’m doing some cleaning. Figured it was a good time, with Mick repiping the house next week.”
I frown. “What’s he doing upstairs?”
“Making a whole damn lot of noise and eating your mother’s zucchini bread,” Uncle Merv complaints.
Mom rolls her eyes. “He’s replacing the shower faucet and valves.” She nods toward the kitchen table—a slice of said zucchini bread and a glass of milk await. Such a different world from the one in Calgary, where she didn’t step through the door until well after seven, long after I’d found myself something from the store-bought, premade options to heat up for dinner.
“So? What happened at school today?” She looks at me expectantly.
I flop into the chair. “Number one: if you don’t go back to work soon, I’m going to be a thousand pounds by Christmas.”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s a nice, round number.” Uncle Merv rubs a hand over his protruding belly and hobbles out of the kitchen toward the living room where the TV still blares.
“Three things from your day at school,” Mom reminds me, settling into her seat with one of her high-end collectible china cup-and-saucer sets—that used to sit in the display case, untouched, even on special occasions.
“Your fancy china, Mom? Really?”
She lifts it as if in cheers. “No point saving it until I’m dead.”
“You sound like Uncle Merv.” Who is this woman sitting in front of me? “Nice flowers outside, by the way.”
“Aren’t they? I saw them outside the grocery store today and figured I’d dress this old house up a bit. I haven’t bought chrysanthemums in years.”
“Yeah. Not since I’ve been alive.”
“Quit stalling.” She flutters her fingers at me.
I sigh. “Number one: I matched my worst time from grade nine at cross-country practice today.”
“See? Told you. Not bad for a kid who just started running again.”
“I guess. Number two: I had another surprise math test today and the questions were nothing like from the textbook examples. I think I failed it.”
Mom frowns with worry. “How much do these surprise tests account for?”
“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.