My mom hands me the sunscreen from my dresser. “Put this on,” she instructs. “It’s going to be hot in the swamp. And please, Imogene, try talking to her. It’s not easy for Ms. Carter having to deal with Sage all on her own.”
I want to tell my mom that it’s not easy for Sage to deal with Ms. Carter on her own either, but instead I say, “I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t post anything else on your blog about the Pirate’s Booty Ball, I promise you that I’ll talk to Sage.”
“Are you bargaining with me right now?” my mom asks, her eyes wide. “This is about your best friend and her welfare, honey.”
I zip my bag up. “Deal or no deal?”
If I’m going to be brave enough to talk to Sage, I better get something out of it.
My mom sighs. “Deal, but I still get the photo rights to the actual dance.”
“Fine,” I concede.
I gag a little bit over what’s just transpired. Photo rights? Who is she? TMZ? Us Weekly?
I don’t mention that I probably won’t even go to the dance anyway, since I’m both friendless and dateless. My mom can have the photo rights to me moping on the couch.
I try to slip past my mom, but she demands a hug. She wouldn’t want one if she only knew what I was planning for BlogHer. I move away from her grasp and quickly head down the stairs.
From behind me, I can hear my mom scampering toward her bedroom. “Imogene, you are not permitted to leave before I get a photo. You will look so cute in your swamp clothes!” she calls. “Most of my readers don’t live in Florida. They’re going to eat this swamp thing right up.”
Quickly, I race out the door and to the bus stop. While I might have made a barter with my mom to talk to Sage, I’m still not consenting to have my picture taken in sweatpants I wore four years ago.
When you attend a school with uniforms, any day that you don’t have to wear a uniform feels like a party, even if you’re all just wearing swamp clothes to go investigate the Everglades for biology class.
The entire ninth grade has congregated in the cafeteria, where the teachers are taking attendance. Everyone’s talking loudly, and you can see bits of everyone’s personality popping out from his or her clothes. For once, we look like individuals rather than a mob of polyester-wearing teenagers.
I spot Sage and Andrew sitting on top of a lunch table in the corner.
I guess now is not the best time to make good on my promise to talk to Sage.
Despite giving up the piano and being in a fight with her best friend, Sage looks pretty happy and is laughing loudly at everything Andrew says. She’s also tossing her curls at a rate of five times for every ten seconds. That’s a lot of curl tossing.
Then it dawns on me that I have no one to sit with on the bus. I’ve sat with Sage for all our field trips, like the one to SeaWorld in third grade. I try to tell myself that it’s ninth grade and I shouldn’t care who I sit with on the bus, but I’m lying to myself—because I do care.
“Imogene Luden?” Ms. Swenson calls out.
“Here,” I reply. “I’m here,” I repeat. I feel lost even though I’m in the same cafeteria I’ve eaten in daily for the past ten years.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to find Dylan.
“No need to be nervous,” he says. “The chance of being attacked by an alligator is only one in twenty-four million. It’s true we have the worst odds living in Florida, but you are still more likely to be struck by lightning.”
I see Sage peering over at us, so I put on my best fake smile, the one where you can see nearly all my teeth, and turn to Dylan.
“The zigzag thing is a lie, by the way. If an alligator is chasing you, you should run straight. You’re more likely to fall if you run in a zigzag pattern. If you run straight ahead, the alligator will probably tire out before you do. They’re not very good long-distance runners.”
“I guess you Googled all this too,” Dylan says with laugh.
I laugh too, because I’m very happy to have company, especially Dylan’s company.
“The internet’s got to be good for something, even if it’s only keeping us safe from alligators.”
“I read your last post,” Dylan says. “I liked it. I like your blog. Mine is so lame. Anyway, I’ll see you later—alligator.”
“Very funny. Bye, Dylan,” I say. I use two fingers and point at his face. “Remember to go for the eyes if you get attacked.”
I ended up sitting alone on the bus. It isn’t the worse thing ever.
But it’s pretty bad.
I pick out a seat in the very front and eavesdrop on the teachers’ debate over the quality of the coffee selection in the teacher’ lounge.
Sage and Andrew walked right past me when they boarded. I hope Sage finally realizes that my blog definitely hasn’t made me popular.
I’m down a friend because of it.
As our bus makes its way down Interstate 75, I think about how much has happened in the last few months. I could’ve never guessed any of this back on the first day of school. I had hoped for change, but I guess change doesn’t always create the picture you designed in your head.
Finally, after driving on a desolate highway and passing a few Seminole reservations, we arrive at the Clyde Butcher Gallery. Clyde Butcher is a famous local photographer, well known for his black-and-white photographs of the Everglades. (He also looks like a lot like Santa Claus.) We studied him in art class, and I think he’s a total badass. In order to get his famous shots, he becomes part of the swamp, often wading out in the pitch-black of night and waiting for the first light.
His gallery and home are here, right in the middle of the Everglades. October through March, when alligators aren’t nesting, you can take a swamp walk of the property. It’s perfect for the ninth grade because we just finished a unit on the Everglades.
When we get off the bus, someone immediately spots a baby alligator swimming around in the water under a small bridge. If you’re from Florida and you’re over the age of eight, you’ve probably seen an alligator before, but it’s still exciting each time.
After that enthusiasm dies down, the teachers round us up. Ms. Herring announces that she’ll stay at the gallery and watch an educational DVD with anyone who feels uncomfortable with the swamp walk, which makes me wish there had been an option like that for the blog project.
If we had just opted out, Sage and I wouldn’t be in this fight.
And she’d still be playing the piano.
But I would’ve never told my mom how I felt. Yes, even though she’s still blogging about me, I’m glad that I’ve finally started to tell her how I feel. Even if it hasn’t really made a difference to her yet, it’s made a difference to me.
Also, without the blog project, Dylan would’ve never talked to me about my blog either.
I guess I’ll admit that the blog thing hasn’t been all terrible. It’s funny how you want to separate events in your life into either good or bad piles, but sometimes, the same thing fits into both categories.
Mr. Swenson lists off the names in each group. Of course, I’m in the same small group with Ardsley, Sage, and Dylan. The teachers probably thought they were being nice by putting me with Sage. Little do they know . . .
Our leader is Mr. Johnson, our algebra teacher. Everyday, he carries a protractor in his pocket, and today’s no exception—despite the fact we’re dredging through a swamp. Unless the ability to measure a right angle is going to save us from the alligators, Mr. Johnson’s not going to be much help in an emergency.
We walk closer to the swamp’s perimeter to meet our tour guide.
Dylan points at me. “Remember your promise,” he says. “You’re going to save me if I get attacked.”
Sage rolls her eyes at me and makes a gagging motion.
I guess that means we’re definitely still in a fight.
“Hello!” a young woman, probably in her twenties, dressed in head-to-toe khaki says, greeting our group. “Welcome to the Everglades! I
’m Raine, and I’ll be your leader for the day. We’re going on a swamp walk, which is also called a muck-about. I’ve been a national park guide for several years, so please trust that I know what I’m doing. We’ll be walking through water that can reach as high as your waist, so it can be hard to see what’s going on down there. I’m going to pass out walking sticks to everyone, and you’re going to use those to feel out any roots that might be in your way. If you’re leading the group, and everyone will get a chance to lead, you’ll need to make sure you call out ‘root’ to the group, so that no one trips over one.” Raine looks around and gives a smile that only a tour guide could muster. “I can already tell this is going to be an awesome time!”
Mr. Johnson nods, but he doesn’t look so certain. I think he rather be teaching the quadratic formula for the fortieth year than going into this swamp.
“Are we going to see an adult alligator?” Ardsley asks.
Raine shakes her head. “Doubtful,” she replies. “We take great care to avoid them and their areas. We also have a tacit agreement with their king to keep to our side of the swamp. Just kidding!”
We don’t laugh.
“But truthfully, we do try to avoid them. In my four years of doing this, I’ve seen only one alligator while on a swamp walk, and it was a teeny tiny one—probably only six feet.”
“Six feet is teeny tiny?” Ardsley has turned alligator-green. “Can I go back? I’m not sure this is for me.”
“Go right ahead,” Mr. Johnson says, pointing toward the way we came. “It’s your choice.”
Quickly, Ardsley hightails it back to the gallery. Mr. Johnson looks like he wants to follow her.
Now my small group consists of Raine, Sage, Dylan, Mr. Johnson, and me. Awkward.com.
“Who wants to lead?”
Sage raises my hand for me. “Imogene does,” she says. “She’s a leader and she just loves coming up with great ideas.”
I pull my arm down. Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes at Sage.
Dylan takes a step forward. “I’ll lead,” he says. “I want to be the first one to see an alligator.”
Raine shakes her head and frowns. “Hey, guys, we’ll be seeing lots of cool birds and plants, but no alligators. There’s so much more to the Everglades than alligators, and by the end of this walk, you’ll think so too. Tour Guide Promise.”
As we approach the edge of the swamp, Dylan, along with his wooden walking stick, takes the lead. I follow Mr. Johnson and Raine, and Sage take up the rear.
“Halt!” Raine calls out to the group. “Over here!”
All of us gather around Raine, who asks us if we see anything. She’s pointing at a bare bush, so all of us shake our heads.
“Keep looking,” she says to encourage us.
Sage points at any minuscule yellow blossom on a branch. “Is that it?”
“Yes!” Raine exclaims. “That’s a jingle bell orchid. The smallest orchid in Florida. Usually, I stump students with that. You must have a good eye for detail.”
I want to tell Sage that the orchid reminds me of her because it’s so tiny, but then I remember—we’re not speaking.
We continue on, and the landscape changes from barren to very lush with tons of green ferns and orange-and-red plants everywhere.
Raine makes a sweeping gesture with her free hand. “We’re entering a new biosphere now. Do you see how everything has changed in an instant? The trees are different. The colors are different. The temperature has even dropped.”
I look back, and I can see the line that divides this new biosphere from the old one. I see Sage staring at me and think how my life feels like two biospheres, the one before the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters and the one after. If I had to choose between the two, I’m not sure which one I would pick.
“Go ahead,” I say, motioning for Mr. Johnson to walk in front of me. “I’m going to hang out in the back with Sage.”
Maybe this can finally be the time for Sage and me to talk—and not just because I bartered with my mom.
It’s because I miss Sage. And if she’s actually giving up the piano to make a point, I’m worried about her.
“Why aren’t you up there working on your Pirate’s Booty Ball date?” Sage asks me when she catches up.
It feels nice to hear her voice, even if she’s being mean.
I put my finger to my lips. “Sage,” I whisper. “Please be quiet. This place echoes and Dylan might hear you. And speaking of that, what about your Pirate’s Booty Ball date? I guess I should say congratulations. After all, I only told you that Andrew wanted you, like, two million times.”
Sage shakes her head. “I’m not going.”
“Root,” I call back to her. “Big root.” I climb over a fallen log. “Why aren’t you going?” I ask, looking back.
Sage hurdles over the log. “Duh! Because I’m grounded,” she says. “Do you have amnesia or something? That would actually explain a lot. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I don’t have amnesia, Sage. I thought maybe that something had changed, and we haven’t exactly talked much lately.”
Especially not after you said I was just like my mom.
Sage is following so close to me that it feels as if she’s going to take my shoe off.
“Don’t you read my blog?” she asks. She sounds totally serious.
I speed up and ignore her question. “Why did you quit the piano?” I call back.
Sage dredges up and stands by me. “If you read my blog, you would know,” she says.
She cuts ahead of me and tries to speed up, but the water is getting deeper so she can’t move as quickly.
I maneuver around some serious cypress roots and catch up to Sage again.
“I’ve heard you quit in some sort of moral protest against blogging.”
Sage turns and gives me a thumbs-up. “You’ve got it,” she says. “I’m still completely committed to getting my mom to quit blogging about me, even if you’re not. I figure that if I quit the piano, she’ll have to see how serious I am—it will have taken only fifteen years.”
I wonder if maybe Sage is right—maybe the only way to get through to our moms is to take a drastic measure. After all, isn’t that what I’m going to do with the Plan?
“Has it changed anything?” I ask, trying to walk side by side with Sage.
“No, she hasn’t gotten it,” Sage admits as she steps in front of me. “Or not yet, at least. She just thinks I’m being rebellious and trying to hurt her.”
“I got my mom to stop blogging about the Pirate’s Booty Ball,” I say. Even though Sage and I are in a fight, I’m still happy to be talking to her.
She looks back. “How?”
I stop and pause. “I told her I’d talk to you about the piano,” I answer softly.
Sage laughs. “That was actually pretty smart, Imogene. This blog thing is changing you. You’ve finally figured out how to work your mom.”
She picks up her speed.
“Thanks, I guess,” I mutter, trying to keep up. A week ago, I would’ve been so excited to tell Sage about the Plan, but not anymore.
I look down and notice that the water keeps rising. I’m trying not to freak out because it’s now up to my knees. “What are you going to do if your mom doesn’t stop blogging? Are you going to risk your future over it?”
But the piano’s more than just Sage’s future, it’s also what makes Sage Sage.
She stops. The gap between the rest of the group and us widens.
Sage digs her walking stick into the ground. “I’m more worried about the here and now,” she says. “I’m sick of being my mom’s organic guinea pig. Eat this, not that. And I’m sick of hearing about her blog. If she says, ‘I should blog this’ one more time, I’ll scream. Barely anyone even reads her blog, by the way—I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse. I’m more than willing to give up the piano for as long as it takes. I know that you’ve given up on the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters, but I haven’t. I believe in it
, and I’m going to follow through.”
The way Sage says that, I know that we’re far from being friends again. I don’t think that I’ve given up on the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters, but I also don’t think it’s worth arguing over—at least not in a swamp.
At a minimum, being out in nature has given Sage and me a chance to start talking again. I bet if we hadn’t gotten away from school or technology, we would’ve never had the chance to. And you can’t always let your blog talk for you.
“C’mon, stragglers,” Raine calls back to us. “Keep up with the group. I have lots of interesting tidbits to tell you about this magical place.”
Sage yanks her walking stick out of the water and sets off at a record pace.
“Wait!” I call to Sage. “Are we okay?”
Sage turns around. “Imogene, I get it. You want to do things your way, and I want to do things my way. It’s not written in stone that we have to be the same,” she says.
“But, Sage, this is about more than the blog,” I say. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you. The Sage I know wouldn’t quit the piano. The Sage I know told me her whole life changed the day she learned to play Chopsticks.”
Sage pauses. “Have you ever thought that maybe we don’t know each other as well you thought we did?” she asks.
She starts trekking back toward the group. I try to keep up, but I trip over a root. I almost fall into the muddy swamp, but I grab onto a strong branch at the very last second.
Sage doesn’t look back, not even when I yelp.
Maybe Sage’s right about not knowing each other. The Sage I knew would’ve called out “root.”
Mommylicious
“Free Fallin’”
Dear Readerlicious,
It’s Big Question Day, and this one is final Jeopardy! hard. At what point do you give up trying to control your kids? Is it when your kids leave the house? Is it when you stop paying for your kids? Is it when they get married?
Or as the parents, are you always the ones in control? Like my mom, Hope, always says, “As long as I’m alive, you’re always be my child.” But if we are always someone’s child, as long one of our parents is still alive, when do we grow up?
Don't Call Me Baby Page 11
