"I really think we should go to bed," I say. The numbers glowing in the upper righthand corner of my phone screen taunt me with every passing minute. In eight minutes, it will be three in the morning, and I'll be looking at barely five hours of sleep — not the best move to start the school year sleep deprived.

"But you're almost done!" Zoe exclaims.

"Shh," I say, peering over at Priya. She curled up on her side an hour ago, and I haven't seen her stir once ever since. Autumn seems to have nodded off, too, with her cheeks pressed to her pillow and her green eyes hidden by closed lids. Her sarcasm lost steam about twenty minutes ago despite her efforts to stay involved in the questionnaire.

I wish I was asleep. But Zoe's enthusiasm somehow kept me awake, though my muscles are so tired, they feel like jello ready to spill onto my sleeping bag.

My eyes refocus on the screen. "What was your favorite song a year ago?" I let my head slump backward, my light brown bun hitting the top of my back. This is why it has taken so long. It keeps asking me stuff that takes too long to answer. What was your favorite toy as a kid? What was your most embarrassing moment? How does your mom introduce you to people? Which activity would you never want to do on a first date?

What are you most afraid of?

I might not have answered that one, or any related questions, honestly.

"Oh, I know that. It was Levitating," Zoe says.

I shake my head. "That came out at least three years ago."

"Really? Let me check." While Zoe looks it up, I type 'Levitating' into the question box anyway. Accuracy is far from my top priority with this app.

Fifteen minutes later, I've slogged my way to the final question. I stare at it for a moment, all too aware of Zoe's eyes on my phone screen.

What's your deepest, most reputation-destroying secret that you'd never tell anyone?

I swallow, my throat tight and my mouth like sand. I breathe in and out, in and out. Can Zoe sense anything? Anxiety spikes along with my heart rate at the thought.

You are normal. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

Nothing to hide.

Three lies, yet they're all that will sustain me in these moments.

"Well, what is it?" Zoe says after a moment. She grins, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Perhaps she's never considered that I might've withheld something from her, even after knowing her since we were seven.

"I-I don't know." And it's almost true. Aside from the one thing about me that's off the table, I don't think I have kept any secrets from her.

I think she believes the genuine quality of my voice because mischief lights up her dark brown eyes. She glances at the other girls, then whispers, "how about your mom's former occupation?"

"No, I couldn't put that. It's not my secret to tell."

"You told me."

But no one else, not even Priya and Autumn.

Zoe crosses her arms. "Ugh, fine. Any better ideas?" I think for a moment, then type, 'I grab coffee with my mom each week.' Zoe snorts. "Seriously? That's not embarrassing."

"Well, maybe the app will think that I'm embarrassed to be seen with my mom."

"That's not true."

I shrug. "It doesn't really matter." I click submit before she can say anything more about it.

Oh no. A message has popped up on the screen telling me that I must verify my account... through the email I signed up with.

"I am such an idiot," I say. "I just wasted an hour and forty minutes."

"What do you mean?" Zoe rolls over to look at my screen upside down. "Just verify your email."

"Yeah, except for the fact that I used my mom's junk email." Zoe blinks at me. "You know, the one my mom set up to use for subscriptions, games, and other stuff that we want separate from our main emails."

"Oh, right. The conspiracy-theory email."

I cross my arms. "It is not a conspiracy-theory email. Frankly, I don't want this app to be able to bombard my main email with whatever junk it wants." Or to give it out to whatever creepy third parties approach it.

"Okay, fine," Zoe sighs. "So, how do we verify the email?" I stare down at the screen. "You're not getting out of this, missy. Either you verify the email, or you start all over again with an email you can access. Or..."

"Do not say that I can ask my mom if she'll verify the email for me. How on earth would I explain why I'm registering with a dating app?"

Zoe raises her hands. "Okay, okay."

"I... I guess we're going to have to get into her email."

"Do you know the password?"

"No. But I know the passcode to her phone."

Zoe and I stare at each other for a beat. Then, we get up in sync and creep to the door.

I'm sorry, Mom. Of course, Mom has never forbidden me from going on her phone. It's like there's a trust between us, an understanding that's arisen from a mother-daughter connection, or perhaps just from years of being roommates — an understanding I'm about to break. Just like Mom and I are free to enter each other's rooms, even look around if we've lost or need something, the same tentatively extends into digital space. She trusts me to not disrupt her things, and I trust that she'll do the same for me. She allows me to send pictures from her phone to mine and check the junk email account she set up for us. In fact, she's even let me check her real email when she's too busy to read the school's newsletters. Most of the time, it's boring announcements, but occasionally, it provides important information.

I've heard of some parents going through their kids' things, their phones. Honestly, I wouldn't care if Mom did. I have nothing to hide.

Despite whatever unspoken agreement we have, I still feel bad about sneaking into her room at night and checking her phone. Maybe things would feel different if I weren't so careful about which stairs I step on, cringing at the slightest rustle of my pajama pants, opening her bedroom door oh-so-slowly, slipping through the doorway that's barely large enough to fit through. Mom is curled up on her side, her chest gently rising and falling. I tip-toe to her bedside table, where the outline of her black phone case is barely visible in the darkness. My hand closes around its smooth, plastic sides, and I tug it off the charger.

The charger slips off the table with a clunk. Every muscle in my body freezes. Anxiety ripples through me in sweeping waves, makes my skin tingle, my hands shake. A shiver crawls down my spine, but I don't dare move. Only my eyes search for Zoe, finding her beside me. Panic widens her rich brown eyes, which look almost black in the darkness.

A minute passes on my mom's clock. The tension in my body eases, and I inch backward from Mom's room, step, step, step, step, until I'm flush with the door. I slip through the slender opening and hurry into the kitchen. It isn't until I've plopped on the floor behind the kitchen island that I allow myself to breathe. Air rushes into my lungs in huge gasps, and my heart still pounds.

Zoe slides onto the floor next to me. "That was close," she breathes.

"I know." My voice is barely a whisper. Light from my mom's phone blinds me when I turn it on. My thumbs quickly unlock the screen, then I scroll across the screen to her email. Her work email is logged in. I can tell because the subject lines read: "Hair Dye Delivery Delay," "Jennivive London's Ultimate Moisturizing Shampoo Restock," and "Request to Speak at the East Coast Crime Summit."

Wait, what? My eyes snag on the email. It isn't bolded, meaning that Mom has already seen it. That's all I need for my thumbs to click on it.

"Did you verify it yet?" Zoe leans over, but I whisk Mom's phone from view. For a second, hurt flashes across her face.

"Sorry," I murmur. "Mom isn't... signed in. I feel bad enough going on her phone at night... best if... well..."

Zoe settles her head against the kitchen cabinet. "It's okay, I get it. Best if I'm not on her phone, too." Her slender lips upturn in a genuine, understanding smile.

I scroll through the email. Ever since my mom retired from the FBI, she's received requests to speak about cases she worked on. Agents and police officers always want to hear about how she used her microscopic vision to solve crimes with the hopes that they can replicate her success, despite the fact their senses are less enhanced than hers.

In this lecture, Mom would speak on the Old Oak Bridge Murder, the very last case she worked on before she retired. I scan the email quickly, but long enough for every detail to be seared into my head.

Three weeks from this weekend. A special trip to Virginia Beach. All expenses paid.

My head reels, but I have enough mental clarity to navigate out of the message, out of Mom's work email account, and into the one we share. At the top, a bolded message reads "Verify Your Account," from .

"Oh, gosh." The words slip out without me even realizing.

"What is it?" Zoe leans closer, though careful not to view the screen.

"Zoe, literally everything about this app screams trouble.'

"I know." Zoe winks.

"No, no, look." I angle the phone so she can see the email. "It looks like it's from a sketch account."

"Anyone can make a Gmail account."

"Exactly my point. They don't even have a legit sounding email that's tied to a website."

Zoe shrugs. "After this many years, I'm sure someone would know if it installs malware."

There really is no getting out of this. I click the link, and it loads a new window in Mom's web browser. The screen flashes the message, "Congratulations! Your account has been verified." I exit the window and delete the website from her search history. After that, I click back to Mom's email to move the verification email to the spam folder. I'd rather that she doesn't accidentally discover that I'm using a dating app right now.

"Okay, it's done," I say to Zoe. "Let's get this phone returned and go to bed."