Influence Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Sara Shepard and Lilia Buckingham

  Cover art copyright © 2021 by Yoni Alter

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Shepard, Sara, author. | Buckingham, Lilia, author.

  Title: Influence / Sara Shepard and Lilia Buckingham.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Delacorte Press, [2021] | Summary: After her family moves to Los Angeles, Delilah Rollins, already a minor Internet celebrity, plunges into the competitive and glamorous world of social media influencers, but can cosmetics and good lighting conceal cheating, manipulation, blackmail, and murder?

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019017480 | ISBN 978-0-593-12153-5 (hc) | ISBN 978-0-593-12155-9 (ebook) | ISBN 978-0-593-18154-6 (intl. pbk.)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Internet personalities—Fiction. | Social media—Fiction. | Fame—Fiction. | Murder—Fiction. | Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.S54324 In 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9780593121559

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One Month Earlier

  Delilah

  Jasmine

  Fiona

  Screenplay

  Delilah

  Fiona

  Jasmine

  Screenplay

  Delilah

  Jasmine

  Fiona

  Screenplay

  Delilah

  Jasmine

  Delilah

  Screenplay

  Fiona

  Delilah

  Screenplay

  Fiona

  Jasmine

  Delilah

  Screenplay

  Delilah

  Fiona

  Jasmine

  Delilah

  Fiona

  Delilah

  Fiona

  Jasmine

  Delilah

  Fiona

  Jasmine

  Fiona

  Delilah

  Jasmine

  Fiona

  Delilah

  Two Weeks Later

  Jasmine

  Fiona

  Late August

  Delilah

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  PROLOGUE

  What happened at Gratitude was not in my plans.

  You see, in my world, we planned things very carefully. Everything we did, every move, every smile, every word out of our mouths—it was crafted. We showed you only what we wanted you to see. And, okay, a few things leaked recently that surprised you. But it was fine. I don’t know about everyone else, but I had my life under control.

  Or did I?

  Gratitude Prom took place on a clear, warm evening in late June, and it started perfectly. All of you watched the stories and the live feeds and the update videos of me as I got ready (after having everything already done professionally off camera, of course). I posted updates as I piled into the limo that had been secured for free in exchange for a simple mention online. I posted more updates as I paraded down the red carpet. You, my dear fans, circulated my pictures all over the world as I posed with “friends.” You shared and re-shared, you posted and re-posted, you made fan edits and comments. You gossiped. Sometimes you were even nasty about me. But I pretended not to notice. I stayed on message, on-brand.

  But as I headed to the after-party, which took place in the lavish apartment complex where many of us lived, I started to feel…nervous. I told myself to get a grip. Everything was going to be okay in the end—I had it covered. But so many people were angry with me. So many were disappointed. Some of you were over me, or thought I didn’t deserve to be where I was and what I was: famous. And maybe I was right to worry, because look what happened at the end of the night. I barely remembered those blurry, messy hours. The arguments. The betrayal. The pain. The sheer surprise of it all. I barely remembered screaming, and then storming off, and then spinning, and then yelling, and then closing my eyes.

  And then…nothing.

  But here’s the thing: Don’t hate me for filling up your feeds. Don’t hate me for the brands I convinced you to buy, the movies I goaded you to see. Don’t resent me for the gossip I dropped, breadcrumb-like, for you to devour, obsess over, believe. I was what you needed. I was your guiding light, people. That was why they called me an influencer—I had influence over millions of you. But that perfect little world you thought you were witnessing? It was mostly lies. My smiles and sweetness, my big hugs and happy hashtags: it was all a juicy, duplicitous trick for you to share and discuss and gobble up. And those lies were what destroyed me, plain and simple.

  But maybe you don’t want to hear that. Maybe you’d rather believe I was exactly who you saw on your screens: a girl who was beautiful, unflappable, and untouchable.

  And, most importantly, still alive.

  One month earlier

  DELILAH

  Delilah Rollins was going to a very, very important party.

  She sat in the back of her family’s nondescript SUV—as though her mom, Bethany, was an Uber driver and she was the passenger—biting her nails in excitement and terror. Her mom clutched the steering wheel and fitfully murmured about the chaos of LA traffic, a city the family was brand-new to as of six days earlier, when they’d moved there from Minneapolis. To say they were having culture shock was a major understatement.

  “So tell me again what this thing is?” Bethany asked warily, cursing under her breath as another driver cut her off.

  Delilah shifted. “It’s for Wellness Beauty. It should be great. A lot of influencers and celebrities will be there, there will be tons of photo ops, free stuff…”

  Delilah’s sister, Ava, who was also sitting in the backseat, turned, eyes gleaming. “Ooh, can you get me an eyeshadow palette?”

  Bethany frowned. “You’re too young for makeup, Ava.”

  Ava pouted. “Fourteen isn’t too young!”

  Bethany ignored this, glancing at Delilah again in the rearview mirror. “Who invited you?”

  Delilah felt the same thrill that she had when she’d first gotten the invitation. Only one of the most famous people on the planet invited me, actually. But she couldn’t tell her mom that. It might freak her out. Her mom was wary of famous people, especially influencers. “Just some people I know online,” she said casually.

  “In other words, strangers.” Bethany shook her head. “Maybe I should come in with you.”

  “No!” Delilah begged. “You can’t! I’ll be fine!”

  The argument was curtailed because Delilah’s mom had to make a scary merge onto an eight-lane highway. Delilah swallowed hard, then looked at her phone. On the screen was pretty much the most amazing thing that had ever happened to Delilah in her life: a direct Instagram message from @LuluJasmine, aka Jasmine Walters-Diaz, aka Lulu C from That’s Hot!, Delilah’s favorite dance show on Lemonade, which was the Netflix for tweens and teens. Delilah had the message memorized: Hey, Delilah! I’m a huge fan, and I live in LA, too! I’d love to invite you to a party for Wellness Beauty on Tuesday afternoon at the Evensong Hotel on the Strip! Let me know if you can make it!

  She still wasn’t sure it was real.

  Twenty million people followed Jasmine’s account on Instagram. The posts where Jasmine wore the rainbow skirt and lace leotard, the iconic outfit Lulu C was known for, practically broke the internet. Delilah had no idea how Jasmine found her page. Could it really have been from her Hey, I just moved to LA and I’m freaking out! she’d put on her Story a few days back? Delilah was suspicious of Jasmine’s message, but her account had the “I’m verified and you’re not” blue checkmark…so maybe it was true.

  As if on cue, Delilah’s friend Busy, the only person Delilah did tell about her brand-new, über-delicate, maybe-celebrity-friendship, texted. YOU HAVE TO TELL ME EVERYTHING ABOUT JASMINE, she wrote. She’s going to replace me as your BFF because I’ll be marooned in France on a digital diet. Busy’s family was leaving for a five-week European vacation tomorrow, and her parents had decided that Busy and her younger brother, Brock, would be leaving their phones at home. Which sounded like a particularly torturous circle of hell.

  You’re going to forget all about me! a new bubble from Busy read.

  Oh stop, Delilah wrote back. No one can replace you.

  She was just as heartbroken as Busy was that a) Busy wouldn’t be able to talk all summer, and b) they now no longer lived in the same city, thanks to Delilah’s father’s internal transfer at his environmental sustainability firm. Delilah and Busy had been friends since first grade, when they both carried matching One Direction backpacks. Busy introduced her to Instagram. They explored Snapchat together. They filmed videos on YouTube about how to make fluffy slime and how to apply Technicolor hair dye without it getting on the carpet. They did normal, non-internet things, too: volleyball tournaments, nights out for pizza, sleepovers, avoiding their pesky little siblings…but they weren’t as good at those things. As time went on, Delilah and Busy became masters at creating stylized, online versions of themselves—kids sought them out for advice on how to craft posts or light pictures or curate daily stories.

  And then, just this past March, it happened. Delilah’s account went from a meager few thousand followers to hundreds of thousands. And from there, things just…exploded. Hence Jasmine’s DM…maybe. Hence Delilah’s jittery feeling like she was on the precipice of something…huge.

  Soon, they pulled up to a concrete-colored hotel building flanked by guitar stores. Delilah had a very limited knowledge of Los Angeles, but she was pretty sure this wasn’t the coolest part of the Sunset Strip. Her mother wrinkled her nose as though the music shops were drug dens.

  “Electric guitars are very high-end!” Delilah chirped brightly.

  “I think it looks awesome!” Ava piped up. “You’re so lucky, Lila.”

  Delilah glanced at her sister. Ava was small for her age; today, she was wearing a striped romper from Gap Kids. But her booties were fashionable, as was her black leather crossbody. Back in Minneapolis, Ava hung out with a sweet, well-behaved crowd of girls, but the first day they arrived in California, Delilah received a follow request on her Instagram from @AvaBLove, and there was a tiny thumbnail image of Ava’s face as the profile picture.

  Bethany pulled into a parking spot and shifted into park. “I’m staying here, by the way. You can go in by yourself, but if you don’t send me an A-OK text every thirty minutes, I will assume someone is trying to abduct you into either child slavery or a rock band.”

  “What about me?” Ava piped up. “Can I peek inside?”

  “You’re not going anywhere. I’m conflicted enough about this as it is.” Bethany pointed to Delilah. “Have you tested your glucose recently?”

  “God, Mom, yes.” Delilah had been given a diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes when she was nine—in other words, a zillion years ago, so she had the whole regular-testing-and-insulin-shots down cold. “I have all my stuff.” She patted her bag full of supplies. “Don’t worry.”

  “I always worry!” Bethany cried.

  Delilah darted out of the car, but then she circled back, leaned through her mom’s open window, and gave her mom and sister a grateful smile. “Love you guys.”

  There were butterflies in her stomach as she entered the Evensong Hotel. The lobby smelled like peppermint gum. To the left was a sign announcing the Wellness Beauty party in the event space. Two polished, pretty girls in low-cut sweaters Delilah would be grounded for wearing sat behind a long table, checking names off a guest list. Delilah felt a pull in her chest when they eyed her. You’re out of your league.

  Then she peered into the event itself. It buzzed with influencers and photo ops and who’s-whos. Online stars Delilah recognized smushed together for pictures. A famous beauty influencer was speaking onstage to a group of adoring fans. Every time someone new walked into the room, heads turned to see if it was someone they should know.

  Oh God. This felt like too much. Maybe she should—

  “Excuse me?” A tall, skinny girl with long, fake eyelashes looked at Delilah. “Did I just see you on Ellen?”

  “Jimmy Fallon, actually,” Delilah admitted, astonished someone was speaking to her. “Last month.”

  “Right, I remember you.” The skinny girl smiled. “What’s your handle again?”

  “Lila D,” Delilah answered. Fake Eyelashes looked blank, so she added: “Puppy Girl.”

  Fake Eyelashes brightened, then tugged another girl’s sleeve. “Gigi, it’s Puppy Girl! You know, the one who rescued that adorable golden retriever puppy from that fire?”

  And suddenly, people were swarming around Delilah. Just like that. It was astonishing how one video could change your life. For Delilah, it was a shaky clip Busy shot of Delilah running into a neighbor’s burning shed and coming out, moments later, with a golden retriever puppy in her arms. The whole thing was a foolish, split-second decision—her mother grounded her for it, actually, because what idiot besides a firefighter runs into a burning building?

  But then the video caught on. Went viral. Delilah was suddenly a hero. The clip appeared on a local news show and then, two days later, the Today show. Delilah received a flood of new followers and endless phone calls for interviews and, finally, she was asked to make a guest appearance on Jimmy Fallon—yes, the Jimmy Fallon. During the taping, Fallon kept calling Delilah “the Animal Angel.”

  “Delilah?” another voice rang out.

  Delilah swung around. A gorgeous, dark-haired girl with blown-out hair and a colorful dress hurried up to her. Delilah tried not to gasp. Was that really Jasmine? In person?

  “So happy you made it!” Jasmine cried in her signature husky Lulu C voice, throwing her arms around Delilah’s shoulders. “I am such a big fan!”

  “Me too,” Delilah spluttered. She felt people watching. It made her feel important…but also really, really humble.