Finding Forever (17 page)

“A crack?” Brooklyn's mom picked her daughter's phone off the bedroom floor. “A tiny little crack?”

She sat on the edge of Brooklyn's bed and examined the missing piece of glass in the upper right corner of the screen. “Is this why you're having a meltdown?”

Brooklyn could smell the fruity odor of chardonnay on her mother's breath, a scent that had become all too familiar since her mom was widowed. Brooklyn buried her face in her pillow and growled.

“Honey, it's just a phone,” her mother said, not quite slurring but not sounding quite sober, either. She rubbed her daughter's back as Brooklyn used the white pillowcase as a Kleenex. “I'm sorry, but I really don't understand what the big deal is.”

No one did. No one could understand her inner torment. No one realized how much she needed all four corners of her phone screen to be perfectly intact. She couldn't tell her mom this. It would just set into motion awkward conversations and weekly therapy sessions in which the shrink would remind her how unnecessary her counting-to-four routine was.

“We can go to the store in the morning and get a replacement.” Her mom hit the Power button and the phone popped alive. “Hey, look, it still works! See, there's nothing to worry about. Plus, Brookie, there are bigger problems in the world than your phone.”

“I'm okay,” Brooklyn mumbled. “I just dropped it.”

“Are you sure you are okay? It's been quite a while since I've seen you like this.”

Two years ago the OCD diagnosed by her therapist got so bad that Brooklyn had to drop out of school for three months
and be home-schooled—and she had to sit on Dr. Kramer's couch three days a week talking about the same thing over and over. She knew her mom was purposely
not
mentioning that episode, but it was clearly her motherly fear.

“I'm seriously okay, just a little hormonal.”

Her mom sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed circles between Brooklyn's shoulder blades. “I think this blog might be causing you too much stress. Maybe getting out and being more social would help things. Maybe you could even get a real job.”

“My blog is a real job. I just don't make money.”

“Real jobs pay you real money, my dear.”

“I'd rather kill myself than work at Jamba Juice.”

“Honey, don't talk like that.”

“Not literally, Mom. My blog is what keeps me sane, makes me feel alive. And I'm making progress on the profit side.”

In the last two years, the number of unique monthly visitors to
DeadlineDiaries.com
had gone from zero to about half a million. And that was with only updating her site four days a week. Now the site was being linked to by major entertainment news sites on a regular basis. Revenue sharing from blogger ads brought in enough to pay for photos and monthly storage and hosting fees. But
Deadline Diaries
was not yet a money-making enterprise. Not even close.

Holden had presented Brooklyn with some ideas for ways to “monetize” page views—more videos, more photo slide shows, a more aggressive social media presence (including actually posting pictures of herself), investing in a Search Engine Optimization consultant. But Brooklyn had always resisted. If the only thing her blog did was disseminate truth and quality content, all the while bolstering her high school resume, that would be enough for her.

Until now.

Now Brooklyn wanted to break a story that would elevate her above the major sites, even
STARSTALK
. If she could unravel the story behind Taylor's disappearance, if she indeed had gone missing and not been shipped to rehab like so many celebs before her, then Brooklyn might have found her Holy Grail. But she knew that only old-fashioned journalism could achieve this goal.

After her mom walked out of the room, Brooklyn crawled out of bed and opened her laptop.

Bzzzzz.

Holden.

                      
No luck. that # is untraceable. Tried.

blah Ok. Thanks

That Pulitzer Prize would have to wait.