TweetyGram

26 - #TweetyFluencerCamp

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the warm, buttery aroma of croissants filled the pastry café. More than two dozen people had walked in and out of the café over the past forty minutes, yet I hadn't even seen so much as a strand of Trish Nash's blonde curls.

At this point, I began to think she wouldn't show up.

"Here you go." The waitress placed a plate of apple turnover, my third pastry of the day, next to the half-drunk glass of iced coffee on the table and took my empty plate.

I gave the waitress a thank-you smile. As soon as I was alone, I sank my knife into the puff pastry triangle, cut a large piece, and stuffed it into my mouth. Within minutes, my plate was empty, save for some pastry flakes. My stomach wanted more, but my wallet begged for me to stop.

The sensible thing to do was to leave the café, yet a part of me clung to the hope that Trish Nash would show up.

I pulled up my phone and checked my messages. There weren't any new ones.

Bored, I opened TweetyGram. The first post that appeared in Louise's feed was the Malibu Wolf's. It was a photo of a hand holding a strawberry ice cream cone.

Hot sunny day = time for ice cream 🍨

I brought my phone closer to my face and scrutinized the picture. The Wolf had thin, long fingers, polished nails, and a skinny forearm, her wrist bone sticking out. It suggested they might be an underweight person, like Harriet or Almond. But if there was one thing I'd learned over the past few weeks, it was that I shouldn't believe everything I saw on TweetyGram.

The Wolf might've edited the photo to look thinner, so I couldn't be sure if the Wolf was skinny.

There was, however, one thing that was unlikely to be edited: their charm bracelet.

Various charms hung from the silver bracelet: a shooting star, a four-leaf clover, a trophy with an engraved number 1, an opened book with a bookworm on it, and a sunglasses-wearing pineapple.

Wait a second. That charm. I've seen that charm before.

While I tried to recall where I'd seen the pineapple charm, a car horn blared outside the café. A polished, berry-pink Poignante cut off a truck. Luckily, the truck driver stepped on the brakes just in time, and no one was hurt. The driver of the sports car didn't seem to care about the commotion they'd caused and proceeded to pull over to an empty parking spot in front of the café.

Trish Nash stepped out of the berry-pink Pregantio, dressed in a red tweed coat, chic white-and-black dress, and sparkly yellow tights, a plaid headband perched on top of her lustrous curls. The 17-year-old girl turned heads as she swaggered toward the café.

Not in a good way.

Stopping by the door, she took her oversized sunglasses off. As she glanced around, I stood up and waved at her from across the room. She dropped her sunglasses into her black Luc Valbon bag and approached me.

"You're Liv's reporter friend?" She scanned me from head to toe, a condescending glitter in her eyes.

"Yeah." I extended a hand for her to shake. "I'm Lindsey Darling."

She merely brushed her palm against mine for less than a second before she took a seat across the table from me. As I sat down, she snapped her fingers twice at the waitress, who came rushing over. "One iced caramel macchiato with soy milk, twelve pumps sugar-free vanilla, twelve pumps sugar-free caramel . . ."

The waitress's mouth twitched with irritation as she jotted down Trish's ridiculous order. I'd only met Trish less than a minute ago, and I'd already felt a pinch of annoyance at the back of my throat.