Don't Call Me Baby

by Heasley, Gwendolyn

  After I wash the dishes, I go to my room. I briefly think about calling Sage before I remember that we’re fighting.

  Suddenly I feel very alone.

  * * *

  The next morning, Sage isn’t waiting for me outside of school at our bench. She doesn’t show up to lunch, either, so I sit with Mackenzie and Anne again.

  “Imogene, are you in a fight with Sage?” Anne asks. “Andrew’s words, not mine. I should’ve guessed, since you two are normally, like, conjoined at the hip.”

  “We’re not in a fight exactly,” I say. I don’t really want to get into it with Anne and Mackenzie. “Sage’s probably just practicing piano in the band room. She’s very serious about her future. She’s trying to get into Juilliard.”

  Anne pours soy sauce into a small container and shakes her head.

  “Andrew said it has something to do with your blogs.”

  When did Andrew become such a gossip? And why is Sage telling him about our fight?

  Mackenzie grabs a piece of a California roll from Anne’s plate. “If you guys are in a fight, I bet that you didn’t hear that Sage got asked to the Pirate’s Booty Ball. I think she’s the first girl in our class to be asked.”

  I drop my tuna fish sandwich down on my tray.

  “What?”

  “Yup. Andrew asked her last night, but she didn’t say yes, exactly, because she’s not sure if she’ll still be grounded by then.”

  “Oh. Good for her,” I say, but I can’t force myself to smile. “She and Andrew have a lot in common.”

  I’m trying to make it sound like I don’t care. But I do care. It’s Sage and I who have a lot in common. Or at least, we used to.

  And it’s bad enough that Sage and I are in fight, but it’s even worse that something actually important happened to her and I wasn’t the one she told. Getting asked to our first real dance is a huge deal, and we always go to each other first when something big happens.

  “Andrew, like, practically begged me to ask you to get Sage to quit this whole blog thing, so she can go to the dance. He’s got it bad for her,” Mackenzie says. She frowns. “I wish a guy liked me like that.”

  “Sage’s blog is up to Sage,” I say. “Please tell Andrew I don’t have any control over that.”

  Which is true. Sage made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want anything to do with me right now.

  The thought of talking about this anymore or eating the rest of my sandwich makes me feel queasy, so I get up, mutter an excuse, and spend the rest of lunch in the girls’ locker room, trying not to cry.

  When I walk into English class, Sage’s already there. But she’s not sitting in her usual seat up front. She’s sitting in the back row, which is something Sage’s never done before.

  She’s just not a back-row kid.

  I walk right past her without a word.

  If anyone’s apologizing, it should be her. I still can’t stop the words You’re just like your mom from swimming in my head.

  Because Sage has upset the seating balance, Dylan—who always sits in the back row and is a back-row kid—is forced to sit next to me in Sage’s empty seat when he shows up late.

  A few days ago, sitting next to Dylan would’ve made my week, but right now I’m just too depressed to care.

  After class, Ardsley sashays her way up to my desk.

  “You’re on the swim team, right?” Ardsley asks.

  I nod.

  “I thought so. You have this green twinge to your hair. It totally gives swimmers away. Any-who, I’ll have my mom pick you up after your practice and bring you over to help me with my blog.”

  Ardsley scampers off, and Dylan, who’s still packing up his backpack, starts laughing.

  “Is she for real?”

  I force a laugh, but in reality, I just want to get to mirror to see if my hair actually is turning green.

  “It’s not green,” Dylan says as if he’s reading my mind. “It’s brown, but a pretty brown if that makes sense.”

  “Thanks,” I say, but Dylan’s already heading out the door.

  If Sage and I weren’t in a fight, we’d totally have a major squeal over that moment.

  Instead I walk to the pool alone.

  During swim practice, I try to think of excuses to get out of helping Ardsley.

  My grandma’s hurt and needs my help.

  Half true, but my grandma doesn’t need my help. She’s probably grilling half a cow right now.

  I need to see a hairdresser about my green hair.

  Hopefully not true.

  My former best friend and I are in a huge fight. She thinks that I flaked out on our mission, and I think that she’s being crazy. And I also can’t stop thinking about how she said I was just like my mom.

  Definitely all true, but I don’t want to tell Ardsley any of that.

  But if I go home, there will be just more questions from Grandma Hope about my sad face and more nagging from my mom about preparing for BlogHer. I decide to suck it up and go to Ardsley’s house. At least my mom can’t take pictures of me or mention BlogHer when I’m not home.

  As promised, Ardsley’s mother is waiting for me in our school’s parking lot.

  “Imogene, over here!” she calls out of her car’s window.

  I get in and focus on deep breathing. Don’t think about BlogHer. Don’t think about Sage. Just get through tonight.

  Mrs. Taylor starts the car and we head toward Ardsley’s house—somewhere I probably haven’t visited since Ardsley’s seventh birthday party.

  Despite my feelings toward Ardsley, I’ve always really liked Mrs. Taylor. Every year, when the PE teachers force us to run the mile (which is inhumane—especially in the Florida heat), she always brings everyone juice boxes and granola bars to eat after we finish.

  “Imogene, I just wanted to thank you for helping Ardsley with her blog,” Mrs. Taylor says.

  “No problem,” I say. “I have a little experience with blogs,” I joke.

  Mrs. Taylor smiles. “No, really, it’s very kind. School’s never been Ardsley’s brightest spot, but she’s been really excited about her blog. I’m hoping that this might be something that helps build her self-confidence.”

  Ardsley needs help building her self-confidence? I find that hard to believe.

  This conversation reminds of me what Sage said about how blogs are really just ways for people to feel good about themselves, and I wonder if she’s right. But I also wonder if that’s a truly terrible thing.

  Did I use my blog to gain friends and self-confidence?

  Am I like my mom and Ardsley?

  I shake the thoughts from my head. After all, I’m the one who thought of the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters and I didn’t start it to become popular. I started it to show my mom something. Just because Sage doesn’t like the way I’m doing it now, doesn’t mean that I’m wrong.

  “So thank you, Imogene,” Mrs. Taylor repeats as we pull into the driveway. “This is going to really help Ardsley since I know that you’re very well-versed in blogs.”

  Too well versed, I silently add. It’s practically my first language—one I’m always wishing I could forget.

  I find Ardsley sprawled out on her bedroom’s pink carpet. Scattered all around her are fashion magazine and newspaper article cutouts. In a corner of her room, there’s a hanging rack overflowing with colorful clothes. The metal rod is literally bending from the clothes’ weight.

  Ardsley catches me staring at it as I take in the room.

  She shrugs. “Not all my clothes can fit in my closet,” she admits. “Clothes are my thing with a capital T, so it’s barbaric that we attend a school with uniforms. I can’t wait for the tenth grade when I’m finally liberated from polyester. It’s going to feel like I was released from prison.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her analogy and find a spot on the floor among the clippings.

  “Thanks for coming,” Ardsley adds. She turns her laptop to face me.

  “Sure,” I say. “W
hat do you want help with?”

  “I’ve read all these articles about teens who’ve become famous fashion bloggers. One girl—she’s not even from New York City—gets a front-row seat at fashion week. I want to become her. Or at least become just like her. Can you help me?” Ardsley nearly glows with excitement.

  She looks like my mom when she talks about her blog.

  I hesitate, thinking about how I don’t actually believe in blogging. How I think blogging is a waste of time and how much I wish that my mom would stop doing it. Then I think about how blogging’s what came between Sage and me. Finally I think about how I have an entire plan, with a capital P as Ardsley would say, to stop my mom at BlogHer.

  But I also see how sincerely interested Ardsley is, and how she’s treating me (almost) nicely for the first time of my life. I also remember what her mom said in the car.

  I hand Ardsley a pen and a paper from my bag.

  “Okay, Ardsley, you need to start taking notes because I’m about to give you a crash course in blogging one-oh-one. Let’s start with your brand. What makes you special? What’s your fashion blog going to offer readers that no other blog can? What’s the best design to attract and keep readers?”

  Three hours later, I stumble out of Ardsley’s house. I’m exhausted and I’m surprised on two levels. First, Ardsley’s actually not that bad one-on-one, and second, I’m pretty good at this blogging thing.

  It’s too bad that I hate it so much.

  Mommylicious

  “Great News, Great News, Read All About It.”

  Dear Mommylicious readers,

  As you might’ve guessed, I have some great—okay, fantastic—news.

  Imogene and I are honored to announce that we’ve been selected for a panel at BlogHer. We’ll be talking about what it’s like to be a mother-and-daughter blogging duo. (And I promise, I’ll pass on Imogene’s blog URL once it’s up and ready for consumption! She’s still working on some nuts and bolts. . . .)

  I’m so excited for the conference, and I just can’t wait to share my thoughts with all of you! I love BlogHer because I can finally give my readers real hugs rather than virtual ones.

  Plus, I can’t wait to spend some QT with Imogene. Why doesn’t anyone tell you that part of your kids growing up means that they grow apart from you?

  In other news, Imogene has her first swim meet of the year soon, and I promise to live Tweet you the results. She’s not Olympic material . . . yet, but I’m still one proud swim momma.

  What about y’all? Are you the ones in the stands hollering and cheering? Or are you the silent but supportive types?

  How do we encourage our kids but not overwhelm them?

  Butterfly Kisses,

  Mommylicious

  PS Rumors are flying that boys are starting to ask girls to the Pirate’s Booty Ball. Cross your fingers that someone’s smart enough to snag Imogene! Where’d my baby go? Or should I say where’d our baby go?

  The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: The Girl on That Blog

  “Why Do We Blog?”

  Lately I’ve been up late, wondering why humans blog.

  Or rather, why do some humans blog?

  One day will everyone document their lives for people they don’t know? Will it be a basic need like food or water?

  Is it about gaining confidence?

  Finding friends?

  Is it about sharing expertise? Or sharing experiences?

  Is it about being heard?

  I’m wondering if I’ve been against blogging for so long that I’ve forgotten to see the other sides.

  But still,

  Don’t Dare Call Me Babylicious

  The Mommy Blogger’s Daughter: Life With VeggieMom

  “On Not Giving Up On What You Believe In”

  Every celebrity says that they hate fame. It’s so awful, they cry.

  They act all surprised, as if they didn’t know it was part of the career description.

  “Ohmigosh,” a celebrity squeals, “I didn’t become famous to get free stuff, be on magazine covers, and have everyone want to be me.”

  “It’s so miserable,” they repeat over and over.

  I say it’s all BS.

  If you believe in privacy, you have to fight for it.

  Sometimes, you even have to sacrifice what you love most for your privacy.

  I’m becoming a freedom fighter and starting today, I’m quitting the piano and going on a piano strike in protest of my mom’s blog. In protest against all the invasive mommy bloggers out there.

  And, Andrew, I’m sorry, but I’m definitely still grounded, so I can’t go to the dance.

  VeggieBaby Fights Back

  PS I’m on day three of an all-you-can-eat junk food “cleanse” and I’ve never felt better. Message me for the “diet.” It’s awesome. It involves eating all the colors you can’t find in nature. Bright orange makes up the base of the pyramid. Hello, Doritos (snack strong!) and Cheetos (it ain’t easy being cheesy)!

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Chapter Twelve

  THE ALLIGATORS AREN’T THE ONLY THINGS THAT BITE

  I’M TRYING TO FIND MY SCRUBBIEST PAIR OF SWEATPANTS IN THE back of my closet, the part that’s dark and holds remnants from years passed. While I’m on my hands and knees, digging through Halloween costumes from elementary school, I hear someone clear her throat.

  I whip around to see my mom standing above me.

  I quickly check to see that she doesn’t have a camera anywhere on her, especially since I’m wearing only a silk robe, another gift from one of my mom’s sponsors.

  “What do you want, Mom? I’m trying to find a pair of sweatpants for our swamp walk. Mr. Swenson told us three times that whatever we wear is going to get destroyed. We’re going through, like, three biospheres or atmospheres or something—I can’t remember what they’re called.”

  My mom gets down on her hands and knees. She pulls out the bottom drawer of my dresser and reaches into the very back of it.

  My mom tugs out a pair of gray sweats with LITTLE DOLPHIN, sewn in patch letters, written across the butt. “Are these what you’re looking for?”

  I take the pants from her. “Thanks,” I say. “I think it’s finally time to say hey, hey, good-bye to these.”

  I wait for my mom to leave so I can finish getting ready.

  She doesn’t take the clue. Instead she repositions herself and sits cross-legged on my floor.

  “Can we talk, Imogene?”

  “My last two posts weren’t even about you, Mom,” I say. “I think I’m done with that whole idea of trying to get you to change by posting about you. It obviously didn’t work. And by the way, please stop writing about the Pirate’s Booty Ball. I don’t need the whole world to know that I don’t have a date. It’s bad enough that the whole school knows it.”

  My mom stands up, extends her hand to me, and pulls me up off the ground. “This isn’t about your blog. Or my blog, for that matter.”

  “Is it about BlogHer? We still have over two weeks to work on the panel,” I say. “And besides, I don’t even want to do it.”

  I don’t mention that I have the Plan for when she does make me do it.

  “It’s not about BlogHer, either,” my mom says. “But you’re doing the panel, no ifs, ands, or buts. We’ve made a commitment, and we’re keeping it. The Mommylicious name means something, and I intend for it to stay that way.”

  It’s funny that my mom cares more about what strangers think of her than her own daughter. Good thing my mom can’t read my mind; she’d flip if she knew about the Plan. What will strangers think after I follow through on that?

  I roll my eyes and start tossing fresh clothes into a bag to put on after the swamp walk.

  “Well, can you just blog about whatever you want to talk to me about? Because I’m sort of in a hurry here?”

  My
mom laughs. “You’re getting funny in your old age,” she teases. “But this is serious, Imogene. I want to talk to you about Sage.”

  I stop and ball a pair of socks into a tight fist in my hand. Slowly, I turn around.

  I look down at the carpet. “What about her?”

  It’s been nearly a week since Sage and I last spoke. I knew that eventually Sage’s mom would talk to my mom, but I’ve been holding my breath and hoping it would all be resolved before it came to this. I’ve also been holding out that Sage would apologize. Plus, I want to tell her about the Plan!

  My mom bends down and picks out an old pair of Keds from a pile of shoes. “Wear these, honey. Keds are never coming back in style. I’m not sure why they were ever in style, come to think of it. Anyway, Zoey—I mean Ms. Carter—is really worried about Sage. She thinks that Sage is going through a bit of a life squall. She’s threatening not to go to BlogHer, and Ms. Carter said Sage’s post from last night was about how she has quit the piano.”

  “Sage is quitting piano?” I feel as if I’ve been knocked down by a wave and don’t know which way is up anymore.

  “Didn’t you read her latest blog post?” my mom asks. Her face looks like I’ve committed a cardinal sin.

  The truth is I’ve been afraid to read Sage’s blog lately because I’m afraid she’ll write about me—and our fight.

  “Why would she ever quit?” I ask. “That’s plain stupid.”

  My mom shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess she’s doing it as a protest against blogging. I’m not sure how that even makes sense, but that’s what Ms. Carter told me on the phone.”

  “But Sage loves the piano,” I say. “And she doesn’t just love the piano. It’s her dream. It’s what she does.”

  Ever since I’ve known her, Sage has always played the piano. It’s an extension of who she is.

  “Ms. Carter is under the impression that you two might be in a fight, but she’s still hoping that you can try to talk some sense into Sage since you’re her best friend.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not so sure that she’ll listen,” I say.