Don't Call Me Baby

by Heasley, Gwendolyn

  Ardsley pulls out a long sequin black dress and lays it flat across the bed. A few sequins catch the overhead light and they twinkle.

  “Everyone wants a makeover,” Ardsley argues. “Wanting a redo is, like, part of the human condition.”

  She lays long pearls across the dress.

  “And it’s not a makeover. It’s like a grown-up version of playing dress-up. We can become other people for a night. I’m thinking 1920s silent film stars.”

  Me, a twenties silent film star? That’s a stretch.

  I finger the sequins on the dress.

  “My mom wore it to some gala in the eighties back when she lived in New York. Now it’s part of my collection,” she says. “When I get interviewed by Women’s Wear Daily, I’m going to mention this piece as an influence for my couture line.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, Ardsley’s passion is infectious. She really believes she can be whoever she sets her mind to being—whether it’s a fashion designer or a 1920s film star.

  I’ve never been that confident. The only thing people ever see me as is Babylicious—and she’s not even my own creation.

  “Please,” Ardsley says. “It’s either this or E!, and let’s face it, we’re probably both caught up with the Kardashians.”

  I remember the only rule of improv is to say yes.

  “Fine.”

  Ardsley shows me a YouTube clip from an old silent film. “See, in silent films, there was always the ingénue and the vamp,” Ardsley explains. “Because the films had no spoken words, you had to be able to identify who was who just by their clothes.”

  I point to the conservatively dressed actress. “Let me guess who I’ll be?”

  “Actually, you’re going to the vamp,” Ardsley says, and brings up a window with an image of a sultry brunette. “This is called dress-up after all.”

  Ardsley stands up and plugs in hot curlers. “I’ll be wearing my hair in ringlets to make me look more fresh faced. And I’m going to pin yours up in a bob.” Ardsley points at a pink velvet love seat in front of a vanity. “Sit here. Just so you know, bobs, or short hair in general, was majorly radical back then.”

  I sit on the love seat. Ardsley starts shoving bobby pins in my hair.

  “You’ve done a lot of research,” I say, watching her and trying not to wince.

  Ardsley shrugs. “It’s all online,” she says. “Can you imagine life before the internet? In the olden days, people had to go a library just to find something out. Who would ever do that? I would rather just stay stupid.”

  Sometimes I forget, because I hate blogs so much, that the internet is pretty radical—it even saves people like Ardsley from giving into stupid.

  After only a few moments, Ardsley has tucked up all my hair with bobby pins. She places a tiny jeweled-comb on one side. “Ta-da,” she says. “Talk about instant transformation.”

  I look in the mirror and Ardsley’s right. I don’t look like Imogene. I don’t look like Babylicious, either.

  Ardsley winds her own hair into rollers. As they’re warming up, she gets her computer out and pulls up a Pinterest board of pirate costumes from various movies.

  “I’m psyched for the dance,” Ardsley says. “I’m going to do homeless chic meets the original Peter Pan look. Tara said I could design her costume too.”

  I start thinking about the dance. Earlier today I would’ve given anything for Dylan to ask me to the dance, but now I can’t stop thinking about how stupid that was. He actually thinks it’s fun to have a mommy blogger for a mom.

  “Who do you want to ask you?” I ask Ardsley, trying to shake Dylan out of my head.

  “I don’t want a date,” Ardsley declares. “I did want one for a while, but after I started ‘Mermaids, Manicures, and Macaroons,’ I decided I wanted to go stag. I don’t need some guy in a Halloween Express costume messing up my photos. I need high-fashion ones, so I can blog them. My number-one life priority right now is my blog.”

  Ardsley looks at me and then looks down at the carpet as if she’s counting threads. Then finally she looks me at me again.

  “Hey, I’m sorry I teased you about your mom’s blog. It’s just I didn’t get it . . . until now.”

  I watch Ardsley’s expression. I wait for her to laugh, but she seems sincere, so I just nod.

  “That’s why I needed to do something for you. I had to thank you because you’re the one that helped me get my blog going.” She gives me a twirl. “You look glamorous, which is exactly what I was going for. . . . Epic success. Hey, do you want someone to ask you to the dance?”

  “I’m not sure if I’m going,” I say. Ardsley raises her eyebrows but doesn’t push it.

  She holds up the sequin dress. “Put this on,” she says. “My hair’s nearly set.”

  I shimmy into the dress and Ardsley carefully zips it. I’ve never worn anything like this in my life. My mom’s closet mostly consists of workout clothes and those are not exactly ideal for dress-up unless you’re trying to look like a crazed mommy blogger—which is a little too close to home to be funny.

  Once I have the dress on, Ardsley applies a bright-red lipstick to my lips—brighter than even Grandma Hope’s Ruby Red. I look in the full-length mirror and it’s as if my wish has been granted.

  For this moment in time, I’m someone else.

  I hear a loud whistle. “Wow, I’m good,” Ardsley says.

  She turns toward the mirror, slips on long white gloves, and covers her shoulders with a tiny fox fur coat.

  Ardsley walks over to the vanity and scrimmages with the objects in the tiny drawer. “You can totally say no this.”

  “No to what?”

  She holds up a tiny pink digital camera. “One picture. For my blog? I want to show off my stylist side.”

  I nod even though “for my blog” are three of my least favorite words when put together. I don’t want ruin this for Ardsley. Besides, for the first time a while, I truly believe that there can be more to me than being Babylicious—even if it is just dress-up.

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  Chapter Fifteen

  YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO BRIBE ME WITH MORE THAN PANCAKES

  “IMOGENE, WAKE UP,” MY MOM SAYS.

  I shield my face with my hands. I can never be too careful around her. Who knows if she has a camera?

  “Are you wearing lipstick?” my mom asks. She touches her index finger to my lip.

  I push her hand away. “Gross, mom. And it was for Ardsley’s blog. You can understand that, right?”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I washed my face after getting home last night, but apparently Ardsley’s red lipstick doesn’t come off that easily.

  “We’ll discuss this later, but right now, we’re all going out to breakfast. Grandma insists,” she says. “Apparently, Grandma Hope’s new hobby is family bonding. When I was a kid, she golfed every Saturday morning. But now that I’m a busy professional and she’s injured, she’s got nothing but time. Typical.”

  I moan and pull the covers up.

  “Mom, can you save it for your blog?”

  My mom throws up her hands.

  “What happened to my sweet Babylicious?” my mom says.

  “She grew up,” I say. I get out of bed, walk into the bathroom, and turn on the shower.

  “No more makeup, Imogene,” my mom calls. “I’m the mother, you’re my child, and I have rules.”

  What about my rules? I think. What about how I want to live my life.

  “How about you shut down that blog of yours?” I ask, but I’ve already stepped into the shower so I know she doesn’t catch what I said. But she will hear it once the Plan for BlogHer unfolds. She’ll hear it—and then some.

  The Cove Inn is a historic hotel near the Gulf of Mexico. Actually, it might technically be a motel since all the rooms have their own separate outdoor entr
ances. The special part about the place isn’t the hotel; rather it’s the Cove Inn’s restaurant—the Coffee Shoppe.

  The entire restaurant is smaller than Sage’s kitchen, and she lives in a teeny tiny two-bedroom apartment—or at least she did the last time we spoke, which has been a while. All the waitresses have worked here forever. They make Grandma Hope look juvenile.

  After we wait forty-five long minutes outside, watching boats dock, we finally sit down. No matter where you sit at the Cove Inn, you’re half in the kitchen, since the grill, which is always sizzling, takes up about a fourth of the restaurant.

  We all huddle around a folding table with paper placemats. The placemats have a map and illustrations of the waitresses in bikinis—and thankfully, they’re all much younger in the illustrations.

  “Isn’t this terrific?” Grandma Hope asks.

  My mom snaps a few photos. “Readers love this place. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve recommended it to. That reminds me: I need to update the Naples section of my website. I should probably get a discount here for all the referrals. Maybe I’ll talk to a manager about it.”

  “How about you do that another time?” Grandma Hope says. My mom glares at her, then turns her camera on me.

  “Say cheese!” my mom says, but I hold the menu near my face and block her angle. This is a technique I’ve learned from Us Weekly. It’s what celebrities do when they’re being attacked by the paparazzi.

  And occasionally they also throw punches. I don’t think I’m going to try that.

  At least not yet.

  “Imogene, you know I’ll get a photo of you sooner or later, so decide if you want it before or after you drizzle syrup on your shirt.”

  Oh, so she does still give me choices. And I’m not that messy.

  I give a little smile.

  Click.

  My dad flips over his menu on the table. “I’m getting the crepe pancakes with bacon on the side. There’s no need to read this.”

  My dad does this routine every time we come here.

  I flip my menu over too. “I’m in,” I say.

  “Me three,” Grandma Hope says. She stacks her menu on top of mine.

  I can’t help smiling for real, despite my flash-happy mom. Something about the smell of bacon puts me in a good mood—even though I usually have to shower the smell of grease out of my hair after eating here. It’s worse than even chlorine.

  Our waitress takes our orders and maneuvers around the other waitresses and tables with the poise of a practiced prima ballerina. I’ve never seen any of the ladies drop a dish or get an order wrong.

  I stop watching The Coffee Shoppe Suite when I notice my mom is fishing around in her purse. She pulls out a typed piece of paper and places it in front of me.

  “Here’s your speech for the BlogHer panel, Imogene,” my mom says matter-of-factly.

  “You mean, here’s your speech?” I clarify.

  My mom smiles, and I notice my grandma nudge my dad under the table.

  “Honey, because you’ve been so busy with school and your own blog, I thought it’d be easier if I wrote down what you should say. I have a lot more experience with this, and I know that you didn’t want to do this panel in the first place. Think of it as an olive branch. We both win.”

  I look down at the paper. “Starting a Blog: The Advantages of Being a Teen Online.”

  This is no olive branch. It’s not even a twig.

  “Have you read my blog lately?” I ask my mom. I try not to raise my voice since this place echoes with the drop of a fork.

  My mom nods. “I think your tone’s much improved. I know that it’s always hard to find a writing voice at first, but this one’s so much better.”

  Find a writing voice? Unlike Mommylicious, my blog’s genuine. It’s how I feel. It’s not a voice—it’s me.

  “Mom,” I say, and look toward my dad and grandma for support. “My blog is currently all about the advantages of taking a step back from social networking. How am I supposed to get up there at the conference and tell everyone how great I think blogging is?”

  My mom sighs. My grandma signals to our waitress for more coffee. My dad studies his placemat.

  “Honey, this is a blogging conference. You can’t just get up there and talk about how you think people should unplug. Would that make any sense at all? That’s the same as going to a cattle convention and preaching about being a vegetarian. It’s ludicrous.”

  “Meg—” my dad starts to say before my mom interrupts him.

  “This is the easy way,” my mom says. “You don’t have to write a speech since I took care of it for you. I won’t even make you thank me.”

  I quickly look over her speech for me. “Blogging helps me navigate those difficult days at school. Blogging has brought me closer to old friends,” it reads.

  “Mom, this speech is filled with lies. It’s total bullshit,” I say. “This isn’t what I think at all.”

  All my life my mom has put words in my mouth and tried to make me into someone I’m not. But today I’ve finally had enough. I hold the paper up and rip it in half.

  “Georgia,” my grandma says, looking at me. She takes the two torn pieces of the paper from me and puts them in her purse. She shakes her head at me. “Young ladies shouldn’t use that word in polite company.” My grandma then turns to my mom. “This is bullshit, Meg. I’m old enough to use that word and to call it when I see it.”

  My dad shakes his head at my mom. “Honey, you shouldn’t get to write her speech for her. She’s already going out of her way to be on the panel.”

  “I’m out of here,” I say. I push out my chair and walk toward the parking lot. Thank God, I have the Plan. That feels like the only thing saving me right now.

  My stomach grumbles for pancakes, but I don’t stop walking. My mom might think that she has this whole panel figured out, but little does she know that I’ve already written my BlogHer speech. I’ve been fine tuning it for years. The Plan is so set in motion.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Chapter Sixteen

  I WISH MY PARENTS HAD A BLOG ABOUT ME

  I’VE WALKED AROUND THE FIFTH STREET AREA ABOUT EIGHT times. I know exactly what Best of Everything is selling in its front window, and I also know that the Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte has arrived. I don’t feel any calmer. I’m sure that my parents—and my grandma—are out looking for me, but I’m not ready to deal with them right now.

  Even though it’s only eleven in the morning, I decide to go into the ice cream parlor Kilwins. Right now I’m in serious need of some sort of pick-me-up. As Grandma Hope always says, “Just because you don’t buy ice cream from a pharmacist doesn’t mean that it’s not medicine.”

  I’m sitting at a table and enjoying my hot-fudge banana “don’t judge me” split. As I’m trying not to wish I could call Sage to talk over this latest mommy blogger fiasco, the store’s door opens and a bell jingles.

  Since I don’t have a good luck bone in my body, I turn to see it’s Dylan who walks in.

  “Tsk. Tsk. Ice cream before noon,” he says. “I can’t say that I think that sounds good. But what’s that saying . . . ? Different strokes for different folks?”

  “What are you doing here then?” I ask.

  “I decided to change my blog’s theme to ice cream,” he says. “Dylaneatsicecream.com.”

  I don’t laugh. “I’m not really into blog jokes,” I say. “I was previously enjoying a sundae until you appeared. And why are you here if you think ice cream in the morning is gross? Maybe you have some more insightful things to tell me about myself?”

  Wow. I’ve definitely lost my filter this year.

  “I’m here running an errand for my mom,” Dylan says, lifting his eyebrows. “She’s too busy to put my birthday cake order in for next week, so she asked me if I’d do it.”

  D
ylan moves up to the counter where the owner gets out a pad and paper and takes down his order—a mint chocolate chip ice cream cake with Oreo crunch.

  Once he’s finished paying, I hold my breath for him to leave.

  Instead he pulls a chair up to my table, turns it around, and straddles it. I hate it when people sit like that.

  “I don’t even want to have a family party—or this cake,” Dylan says. “My mom and dad will sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in twenty seconds flat, I’ll blow out the candles, they’ll take a picture, and then they’ll be back on their phones within a minute. The whole thing will be gone and done in ninety seconds. Do you ever hate doing things just because you’re supposed to?”

  Even though I’m supposed to be acting like I’m mad at Dylan, I find myself nodding. “I feel like half my life I’ve been playing this role of daughter and my mom’s been playing this role of mother, but mostly I feel like it’s one big circus for her blog. It’s like reality TV, where no one’s sure what’s real and what isn’t.”

  Dylan makes a firecracker motion with his hand. “Newsflash, it’s like that even if your parents don’t have a blog. We’re all sort of just pretending,” he says. He reaches over and takes my spoon. “Maybe one bite in the morning wouldn’t be that bad.”

  “You’re a weirdo,” I say, and block him from my ice cream with my hand. “And there is a giant difference between me and you. We’re not the same unless your mom has a secret blog about you.”

  “Have you ever seen Dr. Phil?”

  I roll my eyes. Is this Dylan’s way of telling me that his dream is to be a psychologist and that I’m going to be his first practice patient?

  “Yes, I’ve seen it, but I don’t make a habit of watching.”

  Dr. Phil would have a field day with my mom. Probably me, too.