Hanna makes a face, and Emily says, “Well, I think it’s brilliant.”

I’ve known her so long I can tell exactly what she’s thinking as she zones out, daydreaming about what she should wear for the first episode and what this means for her Instagram account.

“What if I don’t want to be involved?” Hanna says, and although she would never do that, I play along.

“Then you’ll be a blurry face, but I care what you think.”

She laughs, losing the disappointed-parent act. “What did your dad say?” she asks.

“He didn’t say no. Well, he did. But I convinced him. Mrs. Bradley said yes…after a little bit of emotional blackmail.”

Emily touches her hair, and I can see the cogs whirring as she figures out if it needs cutting before the big day.

“Why are you doing this?” Hanna asks, so I tell them everything.

Chapter 17

I have to sign more paperwork, giving the production team permission to access my phone and my social media accounts. This means that every time I get a notification or a message, the producers will see it. They can log in to everything, read everything, and, if they want, share everything with the rest of the world. They can put my messages on the viewers’ screens, filling in the blanks.

What this also means is that I’m going to have to tell everyone not to write anything they don’t want the whole world to know.

It’s all in the welcome pack, which explains what will happen when we go live and how much of my life will be public property. The only place cameras aren’t allowed is the bathroom. Everywhere else is fair game.

Yesterday, Adrian’s team turned our home into a studio. In every corner of every room, there are tiny cameras, and if you’re quiet, you can hear them when they turn.

The letters from Mrs. Bradley have gone out, and people at school are looking at me differently.

“They’re jealous,” Emily says.

“Some of them,” says Hanna. She still isn’t completely on board, but she understands why I’m doing this, and when your mom was murdered, people tend not to argue.

Sometimes I catch her looking at me like she’s trying to figure something out, like she knows this is out of character and is worried about my well-being. I’m used to those looks, although it’s been a while since I saw one.

I’m not outgoing. I don’t crave attention like some people at school—the ones who treat drama as their bread and butter. Maybe I would have if Mom was still around. Maybe I would have grown into a completely different person. Now I’m forcing myself to be someone else to get my story across.

Eventually, even when your mother was murdered, people stop shouting for you, and you have to shout for yourself.