I lie on my side on Willow’s couch and tap the device, while it sits on my friend’s coffee table—Poe and Rey in the background—and read:
Mom: You stayed the night at Willow’s again. Is everything okay?
I lift up from this horridly uncomfortable throw pillow and scramble for my phone. Flopping back down, my head hits the pillow. I hold the device above me to reread Mom’s message. Ominous music sounds in the background, and it feels so very appropriate for my life right now. “How does she know I’m at Willow’s?”
I send her a cool, relaxed, Stella-isn’t-hiding-a-thing text:
Me: ?
Mom: I can see you’re there, Stella. No work today?
“Private detective?” I ask Willow’s ceiling. How else is my mother spying on me from Canada?
Mom: You shared your location with me last year when we met up for your cousin Connie’s wedding, remember?
Me: And you’re still using it?
Mom: I’m not allowed to live in the same country as my daughter at the moment. She refuses to move here. Forgive me if I have to get creative when checking up on her.
Mom: You’ve been at Willow’s two nights in a row.
Well, it doesn’t sound as if she knows I’ve been here twenty-four-seven for more than a week. So …
Me: Yeah. Two nights.
Me: My place is getting some work done.
“A lot of work, actually,” I mutter. “Not to mention the landlord evicted me.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
Mom: Updates on the house? That sounds like fun. And in the meantime, you get a little slumber party.
I sigh. “So fun.”
Me: I’m thinking about moving.
I have to say something. The woman is literally tracking my location. She’ll know soon enough that I will never step foot back inside that cottage.
Mom: Oh, Stella. Don’t. The only reason Daddy and I don’t worry about you every second of the day in that huge city is because of that house and your neighborhood. The policeman who lives across the street is a godsend.
Ugh.
Well, as long as I’m lying to the woman who gave me life?—
Me: OKAY, MOM. I’LL THINK ABOUT IT. BYE. BYE. I’VE GOTTA GET TO WORK! LOVE YOU. TALK TO YOU LATER. GIVE DADDY MY LOVE.
“Hey Siri,” I say, one second after hitting send. “How do you remove someone from tracking your location?
“Okay,” Siri says. “I found this on the web?—”
Before I can dig any deeper into my search and see just what Siri found, another text pops up.
Willow: What are you doing tomorrow?
Willow: Scratch that. You LITERALLY have nothing on your agenda right now. And Star Wars doesn’t count.
Willow: Go shower. Brush your teeth. Put real actual clothes on. Because …
Her “because” is followed by seven little drums. But I’m too impatient. And slightly offended.
