Want to Know a Secret?
Freida McFadden
Chapter 1
APRIL
To: April Masterson
From: Unknown number
Want to know a secret?
Your son isn’t where you think he is.
“As you can see, I’ve now got a tray of delicious, ooey-gooey fudge brownies, fresh from the oven!”
I use my oven mitts to hold up my tray of brownies to the expensive digital camera mounted on the tripod in my kitchen. I tilt the tray slightly, so viewers will be able to see the brownies. They look delicious, if I do say so myself.
“Now for a taste.” I pick up the carving knife on the kitchen table. I cut myself a nice big square of chocolatey goodness and take a careful bite. When I first started doing this, I recorded myself eating treats multiple times, trying to figure out the right formula for not looking like a slob while I stuffed confections in my mouth. “Mmm. So good!”
Truth be told, I overbaked them by about five minutes. They taste a bit dry. But nobody watching will know it. That’s the great thing about video.
I lay down the rest of the brownie. I only ever take one bite and that’s it. Nobody wants to watch me gorge myself on their computer screen. “And there you have it, folks! My secret recipe for the most delicious brownies you’ll ever eat.” As long as you don’t overbake them. “If you enjoyed watching April’s Sweet Secrets, please subscribe to my YouTube channel.”
And now I wave at the camera, my eyes connecting with the lens. “Good night, Mom!”
That’s how I end every episode.
My show is called April’s Sweet Secrets. My secrets are my hook. In every episode, I tell viewers a few “secret tips” to get their sweet treats to taste better than anyone else’s. Want to know the secret to delicious brownies? The secret is melting good quality dark chocolate in with the cocoa powder.
I shut down the camera and detach the microphone. It’s only after the recording has stopped that my shoulders relax. Even though I’m not recording live, I feel tense when I’m on the screen in front of my thousands of subscribers. Even after five years of doing this.
And now there’s the question of what to do with all the brownies. A huge tray of them, sitting there, taunting me. They may be slightly overbaked, but they’re still delicious and I would love to stuff myself with two or three of them (or five). Unfortunately, I can’t afford to eat even one. That’s the ironic part—my career is teaching people to put together the most delicious treats, but I’m not allowed to touch them aside from that one bite on screen. I have to look good for the camera.
I’ll put aside a few for my seven-year-old son Bobby—he’s playing out in the backyard and he’ll come back inside soon, hungry for snacks. He deserves a treat for not having interrupted me even once during the filming. It’s something of a world’s record!
And I’ll bring the rest of the tray to Carrie Schaeffer later today. She’s going through that horrible divorce, and I know she’ll appreciate them.
I head out to the living room where I stashed my cell phone during the recording. My phone is a distraction that I can’t have anywhere near me when I’m making these videos. Nobody wants to watch a video of somebody sneaking looks at text messages on their phone—it’s so unprofessional. And sure enough, I’ve got several waiting for me.
The first text is from Julie, who lives two houses down from us and is my absolute best friend. She’s a little intense, but that’s only because she used to be an attorney in her previous life. You know, Before Kids. (BK.)
Are you coming to the PTA meeting on Tuesday?
She has asked me that question no less than five-thousand times. And the answer is always the same. Yes. Yes, I’m coming. I have come to every single PTA meeting in the entire time we have known each other. But I know if I don’t answer this one time, she’ll get snippy. So I quickly reply:
Yes, I’ll be there!
Can you come twenty minutes early to help me set up the tables and chairs?
I groan. I knew I was going to get roped into that. But it’s very hard to say no to Julie. And she means well. She’s amazing as president of the PTA.
Sure! No problem!
I notice another unread text message, this one from an unknown number. Undoubtedly, it’s a spam text message. Or maybe it’s from a fan who somehow got my cell phone number. Every once in a while, my number seems to get out there, despite my best efforts to keep it secret. I’ve had to change it twice. I click on the message to view it:
Want to know a secret? Your son isn’t where you think he is.
I stare at the message on the screen. What?
A cold, sick feeling comes over me. Bobby is in the backyard. We have a fenced-in backyard, and he and I have an agreement that when I’m filming one of my videos, he’s got to either stay out there or in his room. But about half the time, he finds a reason to interrupt me. I had been feeling proud of him that he didn’t interrupt me this time.
This has got to be a prank. But even so, I’ll go check on him.
My legs feel a little wobbly as I step onto the back porch and scan the grass, which is in dire need of trimming. I look around the yard, my eyes darting between the two trees and the little swing set that Bobby has nearly outgrown. I don’t see him. Maybe he’s hiding behind a tree or something. That kid loves to hide.