Don't Call Me Baby

by Heasley, Gwendolyn

  Ms. Carter slows the car. For a second I think she’s going for her phone to take a picture. Instead she pulls over to the side of the road.

  She pauses before answering. “It’s shelter and a food bank. Those people are waiting for a Sunday meal. They also have temporary apartments for families in need or crisis.”

  “We lived there,” Sage says softly.

  Ms. Carter nods. She turns around and looks at Sage. “For a little while we did. I’m sorry, Sage. I didn’t mean to bring us this way. I must have forgotten it was this direction. It’s a great place that does very kind things, but it’s not where we had some of our best memories.”

  My mom reaches over and rubs Ms. Carter’s shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” Sage says. “I’m glad we came this way.”

  My mom and I are quiet. I feel like an intruder in a moment that doesn’t belong to me. For big events like weddings and funerals, guests are usually invited, but sometimes it’s the small, private moments that really change people. It seems strange to be an audience to one of those moments. It’s as if I can almost feel something changing between Sage and her mom.

  It’s sort of how it felt for me yesterday at the panel.

  Without another word, we drive to the airport.

  “You’re home!” calls out Grandma Hope as we open the front door. “How was the Midwest? Any Paul Bunyan sightings?”

  “You’re upstairs!” my mom says.

  “Yes,” Grandma Hope says. “I was just spending some time with my favorite son-in-law. He needed some extra hands—rather, one extra hand—for a project he’s been working on.”

  “I’d like kisses from my ladies,” my dad says. He’s sitting at the kitchen table and has thrown a tarp over whatever he was working on.

  “Go on,” Grandma Hope says. “Don’t leave the man waiting.”

  Both my mom and I go over and give my dad a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I see that you’re both alive. Hope, you lost the bet and you owe me fifty dollaroos. Please pay up in a timely fashion.”

  My grandma laughs, but I’m not entirely certain it’s actually a joke.

  “How did it go?” my dad says. “Maybe next year I can come to this meeting of the bloggers. It sounds like something out of a Roald Dahl book.”

  My mom pulls up a chair and sits next to my dad.

  “You would’ve been really proud of Imogene,” she says. “Your daughter gave a great speech.”

  Grandma Hope also pulls up a chair. “I take it that means she didn’t read the one you wrote for her, Meg.”

  My mom lets out a fake cackle. “You’re hilarious, Mom. No, Imogene did the speech impromptu. It was very touching. I know that she says she doesn’t want to be a blogger, but she does have a gift with words.”

  “If you all don’t mind, I’m going to go upstairs and have a few blog-free moments,” I say. “I also need to get under the covers and warm up. I’m still freezing from Minneapolis.”

  My mom walks up to me and warms me up with her hands like she used to when I was little and got into a cold bed. “See you tomorrow,” she says. “I’m still holding you to your promise about your other speech.”

  I head up to my bedroom. I practice my newest speech, one that I worked on during the flight. I still get my message across in it like I did in one from the Plan, but it’s not so angry. For once, I’m not scared or mad, I’m just ready.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Chapter Twenty

  I’VE WAITED A DECADE TO TELL YOU THIS

  “MOM,” I ASK, “CAN I STAY HOME FROM SCHOOL? I’M BEAT from our trip.”

  Staying home from school used to be my favorite thing ever. I’d drink orange soda and watch The Price Is Right and daytime soaps. As I got older, I stopped asking to stay home from school because that was the only time I knew that I was free from my mom and her blog.

  But today’s different.

  My mom turns around from stirring her pot of oatmeal.

  “I’m doing fine in all my classes, and I can miss one day. I promise,” I say. “Besides, we have a lot to talk about—like my other speech.”

  My mom grabs a bowl from the cabinet and dishes out a helping. She sets it on the counter.

  She pulls up a stool. “Okay, but can I have breakfast first?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Nobody should ever talk about the big stuff without a full stomach.” Dad’s words, not mine.

  After my mom and I finish breakfast, we sit in our family room. I’m happy not to be having another living-room talk. That was scary. I felt like I was on Downton Abbey.

  “Mom . . . ,” I start to say. “You know how when you write your blog, you just write it and people can only make comments afterward?”

  “Yes.” Mom raises her eyebrows only a little bit.

  “Can this work the same way? Can I say everything I need to say and then you can comment afterward?”

  My mom puts her hand over mine. “Of course. I’m always willing to hear to what you have to say.”

  I know that she’s a good mom and that she probably does mean it, but I also know that sometimes it’s hard to listen when someone’s going to tell you something you don’t want to hear.

  “I’ve been practicing and revising this for a long time,” I say. I pinch the couch’s leather between my fingers and squeeze hard. “I don’t want to be the focus of your blog anymore. I know that your blog means a lot to you, and after this weekend, I understand why you started it in the first place.”

  I breathe in. I can’t look at my mom, or I know that I won’t be able to keep going. “I understand that you started it because you wanted to grow as a mother and as a person, and I think that the blog is an important part of who you are.”

  “It is.”

  I put my finger to my lips and continue. “I’m not asking you to stop writing or to stop blogging, I’m just asking you to stop writing about me online. Whether I like it or not, most people spend a lot of time online and what people write online does count. It stays online and it’s going to be around even after you’re not—”

  “That’s morbid,” my mom interrupts but then stops herself. “Okay, I’ll be quiet.”

  “When you write about me online, I feel like I’m losing part of myself. I’m scared to do anything, because I’m worried you’re going to blog about it. I can honestly say that I understand why Britney Spears went ‘bald-head, umbrella-wielding’ crazy. Sometimes people need to make their own mistakes and live their own lives without people watching or commenting on it every five seconds. Once and a while I want to have a bad hair day and not have to worry about you blogging about it.”

  My mom nods.

  “I know that you’ll always have an opinion, and I’m okay with that, but I want you to share your opinion with me—not the World Wide Web.”

  My mom frowns.

  “I want to choose a college without hearing any of your readers’ thoughts about it. I want to choose a boyfriend without reading about it online. I want to finish growing up without you blogging about me,” I say. “Actually, I think I can only grow up when Mommylicious—and Babylicious—sign off.”

  “I do it because I love you,” my mom squeaks out. Tears fall from her eyes, and they splatter the couch like rain on a windshield.

  I hand my mom a Kleenex.

  “I know that’s why you started it,” I say. “But I’m asking you for my privacy. And I want you here in the present. I can tell when you’re writing your blog in your head. Your mouth actually moves. It’s like you’re trying to shape our lives through your writing and your pictures. I don’t want that, Mom. I want us to just enjoy this time in real time. I don’t want you to hide behind your blog anymore.”

  “I’m sorry you feel this way,” my mom says. “I’m sorry that my blog blinded me from seeing how you really feel.”
>
  I move to hug my mom, and I realize I don’t have much else to say.

  “Just think about it, please,” I say.

  My mom nods. “I’ll do it that, Imogene. Thank you for telling me how you feel—I know that isn’t always easy for you.”

  I spend the rest of the day drinking orange soda and catching up on Days of Our Lives. When I hear the doorbell, I get up off the couch to answer it. I look through our peephole and hesitate before opening the door.

  It’s Dylan. He looks as handsome as ever, wearing neon board shorts and carrying his skateboard.

  “Hi,” I say, but I don’t welcome him in. I’m still a little annoyed by how he acted at the ice cream parlor.

  He pulls a sheet of paper from his backpack. “Algebra homework,” he says. “I noticed you weren’t in math class, so I skateboarded over to drop this off.”

  I put the paper down on our entryway table. “How thoughtful. I was just thinking to myself a few moments ago that I wished I were doing the quadratic equation.”

  “Sarcasm,” he says, nodding. “I like it. You don’t look sick, by the way.”

  I shake my head and wave him in. “I’m not. It’s called a personal day. I’m recovering from the blogging convention.”

  He sets his skateboard down in the entryway, and we wander toward my kitchen.

  “Was it that bad of a weekend?” Dylan asks.

  “No, it was okay,” I say, smiling big. “I actually had an epiphany, and realized how darn lucky I am to have a mom who blogs about my every move.”

  “Touchdown: sarcasm,” Dylan says in a sport’s announcer voice. “Listen, I’m sorry if I offended you at the ice cream parlor—and in English class.”

  I open our fridge and toss Dylan a water bottle.

  “You didn’t,” I say. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

  Dylan chugs half the bottle with one gulp. He sets it down on the counter.

  “I was pissed at my parents,” he says. “I’ve been annoyed at them all year. They keep making promises and breaking them, and then they try to bribe me by letting me have parties. I guess I was just jealous. Your family is so Brady Brunch.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Fine, Modern Family,” he says. “You guys are always together. I bet you couldn’t even pick my dad out of a crowd.”

  “Thanks for the homework, I guess,” I say. “And I am sorry your parents aren’t around more. Maybe you should talk to them. I think parents are sometimes just clueless about how their kids are actually feeling.”

  Dylan sighs. “Do you know that you’re much better than the weird shrink my parents sent me to in elementary school?”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Hey, have you ever thought about writing a blog about your parents? That’ll get their attention. Believe me, they’ll notice, although I don’t recommend it at all. Grounding usually ensues.”

  Dylan laughs. “Hey, Imogene, what about that Pirate’s Booty Ball thing?”

  “What about it?” I say. I know I’m turning lifeguard-swimsuit red.

  He looks down at his shoes. “Would you be interested in going with me?”

  I’ve been waiting for Dylan—or anyone—to ask me that for so long, but I never thought it would happen like this.

  “Of course I’ll go with you,” I say. “But I’ll only go long as we promise not to talk about our parents. Or about blogs.”

  Dylan reaches over for my hand to shake on it. “Deal. And I’ve thought about it, Imogene, and I understand that there are some good reasons why you don’t like your mom blogging about you. Namely, that you feel stalked and manipulated by her. I’m sorry I didn’t see that before. I was only thinking of my own situation.”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay, Dylan. I also need to remember the reason she started the blog in the first place. You were right. It does come from a good spot.”

  I walk Dylan to the door. Just as I’m opening it for him, my mom stumbles in with two bags of groceries.

  “Hi, Dylan,” she says in a startled voice.

  I watch her eyes go to her camera, which is sitting right next to my algebra worksheet.

  She catches my eye, and she pauses. “I hope I’ll see you around soon. Have a good night.” She shuts the door behind him.

  I nearly cry with happiness.

  No click.

  My mom opens her mouth and then shuts it. “I’ll unpack these, and I won’t ask you why Dylan was here. I’ll try that privacy thing.”

  But for once in my life, I want to share my news with my mom. And I’m only mildly worried that she’ll share it with the World Wide Web. But after my talk, maybe she won’t.

  “Guess what?” I say. “Dylan asked me to the dance. Well, technically, he asked his shoe, but I think he meant me.”

  My mom squeals and gives me a big hug.

  I run upstairs to scream into my pillow.

  Later that night I’m on my bed, working on my newest blog entry, when my phone vibrates.

  It’s a text from Sage.

  Sage: U aren’t anything like ur mom. I’m sorry.

  Me: I know. I’m your best friend, after all.

  Sage: Hope u feel better—but I don’t think u were really sick. PS U r nothing like Babylicious. You’re MUCH cooler. C U in front of school tmrw?

  Me: Definitely. & . . . I want u to be the 1st to know that Dylan asked me to the dance!! Wish u weren’t grounded.

  Maybe Sage and I do both know each other just as well as we thought—and we’ve also let each other change, which probably the greatest gift you can give to a friend.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE PIRATE’S BOOTY BALL

  OF COURSE, THE OFFICIAL NAME OF THE DANCE ISN’T PIRATE’S Booty Ball. Father Sullivan would definitely not go for that. The official name of the dance is the Pirate’s Ball, but among the ninth graders, it has always been called the Pirate’s Booty Ball.

  After I lace up my knee-high pleather boots over my fishnet stockings, I take a look in the mirror. Dressed in a red-and-white-striped raggedy wench’s dress, complete with a pirate’s hat, I don’t look anything like myself. Obviously, I’m in costume, but something else is different. I feel like I’m missing something, and I know that it’s Sage. What’s a wench without her best friend?

  I wish she wasn’t still grounded and could come to the dance.

  “Imogene! Your date is here!” my mom calls. Her voice sounds like a teenager going gaga for a teen idol. I brace myself for the photos that are about to happen. Even though my mom’s promised to “evolve” her blog, she’s still definitely going to take a thousand photos—even if they’re just for her.

  After all, she still has photo rights to the dance per our barter.

  I take a few breaths and walk down the stairs.

  “Arrrrrgh!” Dylan calls.

  I laugh. I used to think Dylan was the coolest guy ever. Now I realize he’s a total dork, which just makes me like him more. I guess just as there’s more to me than Babylicious, there’s also more to Dylan than looking like a model on a Florida postcard.

  Dylan takes his plastic sword out of his holder and poses for a solo shot.

  “Am I going to be on the blog?” he asks as my mom snaps away.

  “I’m afraid not,” my mom says, and winks at me.

  Dylan turns toward me, raising his eyebrows.

  The door from the basement swings open, and Grandma Hope walks in, panting from running up the stairs.

  “Goodness!” she says between deep breaths. “I wouldn’t want to have missed this, but I was tied up on the phone signing up for a computer class. I figured it’s about time. I’m officially going to join the gaggle of Google.”

  Now it’s my mom who’s raising her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Really,” Grandma Hope answers.

  I’ve alway
s loved how great my grandma is at golf, but it’s also been great to see her embrace other things these past few weeks. She’s one brave Ace.

  “Hello, Dylan,” my grandma says.

  “Hello, Grandma Hope,” Dylan says.

  “Please excuse my manners.” Grandma Hope pulls out a tube of eyeliner from behind her back. She holds it up to my mom.

  My mom nods. “Go on, but just for tonight, Imogene. . . .” She holds up index her finger. “The make-up ban is only lifted for tonight. You might not be a baby anymore, but I’m still your mother.”

  Grandma Hope mock-wipes sweat off her eyebrow. “Thank goodness.” She walks a few steps over to me and with her good hand, she applies a thin coat of eyeliner. “Perfect.”

  I check out my reflection. Not bad.

  Grandma Hope holds up a tube of mascara.

  My mom shakes her head at my grandma. “Don’t push it, Mom.”

  “What about you Dylan?” Grandma Hope asks, heading in his direction with the eyeliner in hand. “That Johnny Depp pirate makes guy eyeliner look pretty handsome if I do say so. I’m not a cheetah or anything, but he’s not bad on the eye.”

  “It’s called a cougar,” my mom says, laughing. “Old ladies who go after young men are cougars. And if they’re really old—not that you are—they’re called jaguars.”

  “This is why I need this Google thing. Then I won’t have to take your word for it all the time,” Grandma Hope says.

  My grandma reaches Dylan and he quickly puts his hand over his face. “No, thank you!” he squeaks.

  Just then my dad emerges from the kitchen covered in tiny woodchips. “Hello, Dylan. Do I have your pirate’s honor that you’ll take good care of my daughter tonight?”

  “Sir,” Dylan says mock-seriously. “Pirates aren’t particularly known for their honor, but I’ll take great care of Imogene.”

  A few months ago, I would’ve been mortified by all this, but I’m realizing part of the fun part of life is peeling back layers and showing people your real life, even if that includes a photo-happy mom, a golf-fanatic grandma, and a corny, messy dad. Dylan’s also helped me to realize that I actually have a pretty cool family—even if my mom is a mommy blogger.