The Follower by Kate Doughty (ebook reader with built in dictionary TXT) 📕

privileges—immediately after the livestream—it felt like he was going through a physical withdrawal from being cut off. He wanted to post about the house, his theories, everything that was happening—but he couldn’t. He’d done investigative content before, of course, but it was usually digging into or commenting on internet drama. And now that he has something real to look into, all the internet drama just seems so . . . inconsequential.

Of course, that’s when he is allowed to post things that aren’t prescribed by his mother.

“Well, then I don’t want to do your posts, Rudy,” Mrs. Cole says. She sighs and leans on the counter, giving him a small smile. “It’s not that I don’t think you have good ideas—I really do—it’s just that this account is all that’s keeping us afloat right now, and I don’t want to do anything risky, anything that could . . . jeopardize that. There’s a lot riding on this. You understand that, right? We’re about to enter the second week of the renovation, and we need all hands on deck here.”

Rudy doesn’t say anything. He finds his protein powder and takes it out. Eyes the bagel in the toaster, where it’s beginning to turn golden-brown. Even when their kitchen is in shambles, his mom always insists on having basic appliances to make daytime meals. The toaster and coffee maker will get stowed away as soon as afternoon work starts.

In the harsh sunlight filtering in through the window, his mom looks . . . deflated. Stressed. Rudy can tell she’s got more to say, but he has no idea what it could be. Mrs. Cole shifts her weight, boards creaking in the silence underfoot. “I need you to give it back, Rudy.”

“Give what back?”

“Give the plaque back, Rudy. I know you took it.”

In the background, Amber and Cecily stop what they were doing.

“The . . . plaque? Like, the family one?” he asks, filling his blender bottle with powder and water and shaking it to make the drink. When he glances to the wall he sees that, sure enough, the plaque is gone.

“Rudy, this is serious. Stop messing around and look at me.” Rudy fights the urge to get angry. Of course whenever something goes wrong it’s his fault. Of course Mom thinks that he did it.

Cecily and Amber are both frozen, watching them. Cecily has a Pop-Tart halfway in her mouth. Rudy’s bagel pops out of the toaster.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom,” Rudy says, meeting her eyes. She looks so, so tired. “I didn’t take it.” He sips his drink. He’s so distracted and trying so hard to not lose his cool that he takes a bite of his bagel without even buttering it.

“We were out last night, remember? And don’t we need it in its frame for the livestream tonight?”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Cole says. “And it’s missing. Now, come on—I’m not mad, I’m really not. But you need to give it back.”

“I didn’t take it,” Rudy repeats, and he feels his frustration rise. “Maybe the crew moved it for the demo. I’m not the only other person in the house, you know—”

“Don’t make me cancel your livestream, Rudy. You’re the only one desecrating the—oh my god.” Mrs. Cole pivots from angry to . . . afraid. Cecily’s eyes widen.

“What?” Rudy asks, and then he feels it. Something is wrong. The heat. His face is hot, hot and itchy and—

He raises a hand up to his face and feels the bumps of sharp, bright welts. He rushes to the bathroom mirror, but he knows what’s happening before he sees his reflection.

His face is covered in hives. Itchy, painful hives.

His mom sprints in behind him. “What did you eat? What did you—”

“Just a bagel! And a sip of my shake!”

From the kitchen, Cecily reads off the bagel label: “Made in a facility that uses and produces tree nuts . . .” Mrs. Cole curses.

Mr. Cole arrives at the sound of shouting. He takes one look at Rudy, sees Cecily holding the bag of bagels, and figures out instantly what happened. “I just bought those! I thought that was the brand we always buy. I—”

Mrs. Cole is hunching over Rudy. “How do you feel? Are you okay? Do you think we should go to the hospital?”

Rudy shakes his head and stares at his face in the mirror, stretching the skin left and right. It only makes the hives puff more. They’re exploding all over his face, his neck, his shoulders. Underneath his clothes, he feels the itch of them creeping across his rib cage.

Rudy’s dad is beside himself. “Oh my god, Rudy, I am so sorry. I thought it was the brand we always got, I thought—”

Rudy tries to tell his dad it’s not his fault, that those are the bagels he always eats, but all he can manage is a grimace. “I—I’m fine, I don’t need the hospital—I mean, I can breathe, I’m fine, I just—need some Benadryl.”

Mrs. Cole rushes off and returns before Rudy can do anything other than stare at his contorted skin. This has happened before, of course, but not in a long time. He stares at his skin, caught up in the morbid curiosity of his own misshapen face, neck, shoulders.

“Here—take three, no, four—the livestream’s not until the evening; maybe the swelling will have gone down by then.”

The livestream. His one chance to interact with fans all day, and he is going to miss it. And of course Mom’s first thought is the livestream—Rudy has to be hot for the camera, as always. Get that female demographic. Well, it looks like he’s not going to be able to do that tonight.

Cecily and Amber appear at the door of the bathroom. Rudy raises an eyebrow at Cecily. Behind her, Amber’s mouth is hanging open.

“Ready to be on camera, sis?” Rudy asks her.

“Get some rest,” Mrs. Cole says. “Maybe it’ll go down by tonight . . .” She doesn’t sound very confident.

Rudy swallows the pills and lets his mother’s panicked planning fade into the background. He stares at his skin, puffing up as he