I’m much happier with Dylan witnessing my real life rather than just reading about me on a blog.
After a few dozen pictures in several different configurations, my mom finally says, “It’s a wrap.”
We’re nearly to the door when my dad calls out, “Wait!”
“What, Dad?” I say. “We’ve got to go! We don’t want to miss the boat.”
After my dad laughs at my corny joke (I guess it runs in the family), he goes to a corner of the living room where there’s a tarp laid over something. He takes it off and reveals a piece of driftwood. “I wanted to show this to you both.” He holds it up. He’s removed all the barnacles and, in tiny seashells, it spells out “Imogene.”
“It’s for your room,” my dad says, holding it up like a trophy. “I’m thinking about selling my woodwork on that Etsy website. I like doing this nearly as much as I like doing my work for my job,” he says.
I walk over to inspect Dad’s piece. It really is beautiful. “Thanks, Dad. I love it.”
“That’s so cool,” Dylan says, coming over next to me to look. “Maybe I’ll order one. It’s very surfer, and my mom’s been asking me if I want to redo my room.”
My dad nods toward my mom. “See, honey, I’ve already got my first customer. We’ll be rich in no time.”
I give my family a last smile, thinking how these milestones mean just as much to your family as they do to you. And even though it’s annoying that they take a million pictures, they’re usually just doing it because they love you.
* * *
“Dylan, over here!” I hear a man’s voice say. We’re just about to enter the school gym, where the dance is being held.
Dylan and I turn toward the sound and a flash nearly blinds us.
“Mom? Dad?” Dylan says, rubbing his eyes.
“Surprise! We’re chaperones for the night,” Dylan’s mom says, holding up a very fancy camera. She’s wearing a Lilly Pulitzer maxi dress, but she’s also wearing an eye patch. She points at it. “I even dressed up for the party!”
Dylan’s dad is wearing a linen suit. He’s just as handsome as Dylan, but in an old-man way. “I came from work,” he says, looking down as his clothes. “But I used to be the master of a costume party.”
I look at Dylan, and he starts laughing, which makes me start laughing.
“Thanks for coming,” he says. “Maybe next time give me a heads-up.”
“We wanted to surprise you,” his mom says, snapping another photo. “Imogene, pose with your pirate,” she says.
I stand arm in arm with Dylan, thinking how it’s not only famous bloggers who embarrass their kids. It’s all parents.
“Okay, we’re heading for punch bowl duty,” Dylan’s dad says. He does a few disco moves through the doors and Dylan covers his face.
“Totally embarrassing,” he mutters, but then he smiles a bit.
He must have talked to them, I think, but I don’t say anything. I just smile back.
Even though the doors are closed, I can still hear the Carly Rae Jepsen lyrics blasting through them.
“Are you ready for me to embarrass you on the dance floor?” Dylan asks.
I hesitate.
“Imogene, I’m just joking. I’m not as bad as my dad,” Dylan says. He does a little amateur moonwalking to prove his point. He dances forward and stops at my toes. He looks into my eyes.
“Something’s wrong,” he says. “I can tell.”
“It’s just . . . ,” I start to say.
“Sage isn’t here,” Dylan answers for me.
I nod.
“Wait here, Imogene,” Dylan says, and then walks into the gym.
Ardsley and Tara strut toward the gym’s doors. They’re dressed identically, both wearing pirate costumes that look more runway couture than Halloween surplus store.
“I like your costumes,” I say.
They smile at me and strike a pose. And then another pose. And another.
“You’re going to get tons of blog action when you post photos of this, Ardsley,” I add.
“Imogene!” Ardsley squeals. “Do you really think so? I spent a lifetime designing them. And guess what? I got three emails from these, like, real fashion bloggers saying that they love my blog, so an epic thank-you for helping me. And double guess what? Someone from Indonesia looked at my site. I don’t even know where that is, but I’m going totally global. Next stop, Paris!” she says in a French accent.
I smile at Ardsley. Even though I’m technically against blogging everything, I realize now that it’s not one of those black-and-white deals. For some people, blogging is like medicine. I prefer ice cream, but it’s all personal taste—unless your blog is about someone else, who doesn’t want to be written about. Then you should re-read my speech.
“Imogene, can you take our photo for my blog?” Ardsley asks, passing me her cell phone.
Tara and Ardsley start posing like runway models again. I’ve snapped about a dozen shots. I’m handing Ardsley her camera back when Dylan and Andrew return from the gym.
“Toodles!” Ardsley calls as she heads through the open doors. “See you in there!”
“Toodles!” I say back. Maybe it’s not such a terrible word, after all. It’s got a certain charm to it.
“I’ve got a thought,” Andrew says. He points toward the school’s front entrance.
“I think I’ve got the same one,” I say, and lead the way out.
It’s Halloween night, so there’s some major pedestrian traffic.
A few parents walking around with their kids give us serious “Aren’t you too old for trick-or-treating?” looks, but we just march onward. Three pirates on a mission.
Once we’re finally at Sage’s door, I say, “Here’s hoping.”
Andrew rings the bell.
A guy with a black goatee answers the door. He must be the orange farmer.
He holds up a bowl of plastic bags with dried fruit in front of us. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘trick or treat’?” he asks. “I’m pretty sure that’s part of the getting candy deal.”
“That’s not candy, and we’re not here to trick-or-treat,” I answer. “May we speak to Sage?”
“Sure,” he says with a smile. “Come on in.”
The three of us walk into Sage’s apartment. The kitchen counter is filled with tons of jars, and it smells sweet and fruity. It must be one of Ms. Carter’s vegan projects.
Sage and her mom are sitting on the couch, watching It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown on TV. When the door shuts, Sage turns around and sees us—an awkward trio of pirates in her living room.
“Why aren’t you guys at the dance?” she asks. She’s dressed in a pair of leggings and a purple tunic.
“Because you weren’t,” I answer.
I turn to Ms. Carter. “I know you aren’t happy that Sage still isn’t playing the piano and that you two are working on some things, but please let Sage come to the dance. It doesn’t feel right for her not to be there.”
“I concur with everything Imogene is saying,” Andrew says.
“Whatever they say,” Dylan agrees.
Ms. Carter balls her fists. “Sage is just too good to just quit.” She shakes her head. I can’t stand by and watch that.”
I give Ms. Carter a small—but real—smile. I do think most moms do mean well, but I also think moms often mix up what’s best for them and what’s best for us.
Mrs. Carter sighs. “All right, I guess it’s up to Sage. She can go to the dance if she wants to, but she’s technically still grounded until she starts playing the piano again.”
“Sage?” I ask. I know that I’m asking more than just if she wants to come to the dance. I’m asking her if she wants to be best friends again. We’ve both changed a lot this year, but I still need her as my best friend. She’s a classic—just like my mom said.
“Yes, I’ll come!” she squeals without missing a beat.
Andrew takes his pirate’s hat off his head and places it on Sag
e’s. “Insta-costume,” he says.
I can see why Sage likes him—he’s a sweetheart.
Then we all race for the door, as if, at any moment, we’ll turn into pumpkins. Maybe that’s what being a teenager feels like . . . a race to live before you turn into a pumpkin.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Twenty-Two
BACK ON THE BOARD
WHILE ANDREW AND DYLAN ARE DOING THE “GANGNAM STYLE” dance, which I’m shocked is still popular, Sage and I sit on a long board decorated to look like a gangplank on a pirate’s ship.
The whole gym looks amazing. There’s a half dozen plastic treasure chests coolers, some with cold sodas in them, others with ice cream treats. There’s even a butcher’s paper pirate’s ship complete with cutout portholes taped to the back wall. It looks almost real if you stand, like, twenty feet away.
I walk over to a chest. “Do you want something cold?” I ask Sage. I open one up. “They have chocolate Drumsticks . . . your favorite.”
Sage sighs. “I’m actually trying to be better about eating junk food,” she says. Her eyes wander over to the chest. She shakes her head. “I’ll resist and make my mom proud.”
“That might be the first time you’ve ever said no to sugar,” I say.
“This is a year of firsts,” Sage says. She scoots over, so I can sit next to her.
I look out to the dance floor where Ardsley and Tara are performing a synchronized dance. Everyone’s watching. They’re back in the spotlight, and Sage and I are on the sidelines. I like it this way.
I pull at a tear in my fishnet. “I guess I won’t be wearing these to school.”
Sage snaps her fingers. I notice that Sage’s fingers are healing, and that makes me happy. “Shucks. They’d match our uniform perfectly.”
I decide that now is a good time to let her know how much I’ve missed her.
“I’m really happy that you’re here,” I say. “I’ve missed you.” I breathe in, trying to prepare myself to ask Sage something that’s been bothering me for a long time. “I know the whole piano thing is a sensitive subject, but can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Sage answers.
“Why did you quit?”
Sage takes off her pirate’s hat and fiddles with the string. “If I didn’t stop, I would’ve never had to deal with anything else. When I played four hours a day, it was super-easy to ignore things that I shouldn’t ignore. It was, like, I was playing to get the tough stuff out of my head, but it shouldn’t really work that way.”
I sigh with relief. I think part of me always worried that it was my fault Sage quit. “So it wasn’t completely about your mom’s blog? Or my blog?” My stomach feels sick thinking back to the fight Sage and I had in the Everglades.
“Imogene, not everything is about blogging,” Sage says, putting her hat back on.
I cover my mouth in fake astonishment. “Just almost everything, right?”
“According to our moms, yes,” Sage says. “But not to us. I was a little upset with you, because I thought you were pulling away. First you changed the rules of the blog and then you didn’t tell me about Dylan or Ardsley.”
Even though it pains to hear that I hurt Sage, I’m also happy that she’s willing to tell me that I did. That’s a sign of a true friendship.
I put my hand on Sage’s back. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realized that I was hurting you. I also should’ve tried harder to listen to you and figured out what was going on. I didn’t mean to abandon you and the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters; I just didn’t think it was working anymore.”
Sage puts her hand on mine. “It’s okay, Imogene. It wasn’t working. And I was ninety-nine percent mad at my mom and only one percent mad at you. My mom’s blog was the thing, and it wasn’t the only thing. I felt like my mom wanted to control me—but that she didn’t really want to know me for real.”
I nod. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in something—or someone—and forget all about anything else. “I know what you mean. Sometimes I felt like my mom just saw me as Babylicious, not Imogene, and I think I even started to see her only as Mommylicious instead of my mom. It’s been much better lately, though.”
Sage smiles, and I think how I hope she never changes the gap in her teeth. It’s so Sage.
“Things are getting much better between my mom and me too. Who knew that BlogHer, our most dreaded weekend, would end up leading to small miracles? Talking also helped. So did realizing Ed isn’t going to take away my mom.”
“Ed’s the orange farmer?”
Sage holds up her hand. “Organic orange farmer. And he’s actually okay once you get beyond that goatee.”
Sage snaps. “I forgot to tell you that my mom and I are also working on something together. This is the first time we’ve been on the same page about anything. My mom says our chakras are finally aligning—whatever that means.”
“What are you guys working on?” I ask.
Sage leans over and whispers in my ear. “It’s a secret,” she says. “But you can find out if you come to the farmers’ market tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there then,” I whisper back. It reminds of me of when Sage and I were little and would play telephone. I watch as Andrew and Dylan make their way toward us.
“Isn’t it funny how it seems like nothing happens . . . ,” Sage starts.
“And then everything happens,” I finish for her.
“That’s good,” Sage says. “Very bloggable.”
“I think I’m done blogging,” I say.
Just then Dylan and Andrew make their way to the gangplank.
Dylan points to the dance floor. “You girls do realize that this is a party, right?”
“We might need to make you ladies walk the plank,” Andrew adds, high-fiving Dylan.
“I’ll be happy to never hear another pirate pun again after tonight,” I say.
Sage holds up her index finger. “How about just one more?” Sage asks.
“Fine,” I say. I hop off the plank.
“Why do pirates have such bad breath?”
I smile because I know the answer. “Because they eat gARRRRlic.”
We all laugh even though it’s stupid—just like all the other pirate jokes.
I notice Sage tapping on the plank with her fingers, and it gives me a great idea.
I whisper to Dylan when Sage’s looking away. “I need your help with something.”
He gives me a curious look but nods.
“Be right back guys,” I say. Sage raises her eyebrows, but I just grab Dylan’s hand and pull him out of the gym.
“Hold the doors,” I tell Dylan.
Dylan does just as I ask. Grandma’s right; I really do have good taste.
People think that pianos are heavy, but they’re actually pretty easy to move when they are on wheels, like the one from the band room is.
As I wheel the piano into a padded corner of the gym, I get a few looks from some of the teachers. Mr. Anderson starts to walk over toward the piano and me, but Ms. Herring whispers something into his ear and he stops.
Maybe you do learn something about someone from reading their blog. I give Ms. Herring a grateful smile. Maybe she actually did know what she was doing with the whole blog project after all, although it certainly caused some drama.
After a minute or two, everyone, including Sage and Andrew, have turned around and seen the piano in the room. It’s like an elephant; it’s pretty tough to miss.
I head toward the DJ, who is actually Tara’s older brother.
I ask to borrow the microphone and he obliges.
But once I’m holding it, I freeze.
I look at the mob of pirates and my palms start to sweat. Then I look over to Sage. She shrugs and smiles at me. This gives me the courage I need. I tighten my grip, so my hands don’t slip.
“Hi, everyone,” I s
ay, trying to be careful not to talk too close to the microphone. “For one night only, our Sage is coming out of retirement, and she’s going to play a song for us tonight. Ninth graders, please give Sage your warm welcome. Because one day, you’ll be saying you knew her when.”
Everyone claps. Except Sage doesn’t budge an inch. I’m worried that I made a huge mistake. But then Andrew whispers something into Sage’s ear and gives her a small hug. Then Sage slowly walks over to the piano.
I realize that I’m not everything to Sage anymore, and that’s okay. I guess part of growing up is accepting more people into your life—and into your friends’ lives.
Dylan stands next to me and nudges me. “Nice one.”
Sage sits at the piano and places her fingers above the keys, and it looks like she hasn’t been away from it for a single day. In fact, she looks more confident than I’ve ever seen her before.
Then she starts to play her Philip Glass piece from last year’s recital—it’s called “Metamorphosis.” I know this because Sage talked about it for nearly all of eighth grade—it was her spring recital piece. I also had to listen to her practice it more times than I like to remember.
But it sounds amazing. Sage has always been technically good, yet it seems like there’s a new life and energy to the way she plays.
But after about thirty seconds, some jerk—I am not sure who—yells out, “Play something you can actually dance to!” Everyone scatters from the dance floor.
My heart thumps and I turn to catch Sage’s reaction.
But without missing a beat, Sage transitions into this awesome ballad by Rihanna. Sage is not only playing it perfectly, but she’s also smiling. It’s the first time I’ve seen her play the piano and look happy at the same time. It’s also the first time I’ve heard her play a piece that’s fun and contemporary.
I look around and people seem impressed with it, but nobody’s dancing. Everyone’s just watching Sage.
I take my sweaty palm and I grab Dylan’s hand. I can’t leave Sage out there alone. I lead him to the center of the dance floor. And one by one, guys unglue themselves from the wall and start asking girls to dance.
Don't Call Me Baby Page 17
