Don't Call Me Baby Page 4

  Sage grabs a red tray, moves down the line, and points to a manatee-size slice.

  “Pepperoni pizza,” she says to the Sbarro’s employee. “Stuffed pepperoni pizza, and can I please have that large one over there?”

  As Sage’s paying the cashier, the woman pushing the twin infants stops and gives me the “I know you” stare. It’s a look I know too well.

  “Oh em gee!” she squeals. “We just moved here from Columbus, and I thought that there’d be a chance we’d run into you or your mom, but I wasn’t sure when. Now, on my very first trip to the mall, here you are in the flesh! Wow! And you look so much skinnier in real life, honey. And older, too.”

  She pulls her toddler closer to her and leans over her fancy double stroller. “Bonds, Gardner, and Jack, this is Babylicious. I learned everything about being a good mommy from her mommy, Mommylicious,” she coos in a baby voice.

  The woman doesn’t ask me anything about myself. She doesn’t even introduce herself or her three kids. It’s as if people think that just because they read about me on the internet, they know me, and that through some internet magic, I know them. They also all seem to believe that Mommylicious is some parenting genius/guru/goddess.

  That’s the most insane part of it all.

  I feel like the man behind the curtain in Oz. Should I reveal to her that it’s all fake? Should I tell her Mommylicious and Babylicious only go on “mommy and baby dates” because my mom bribes me? Should I mention that I grind my teeth every time I smile for one of my mom’s photos? Seriously. I’m going to need dentures before I even graduate from college.

  I nearly open my mouth, but Sage balances her tray with one hand and starts to pull me away with her other. But just as I start to follow, she hesitates. This would not be the first time Sage confronted someone who thought they knew either her or me because of our mom’s blogs. She was grounded for two weeks when someone emailed VeggieMom about an uncomfortable encounter with Sage at Quiznos. (And, to make it worse, they ratted her out for eating a cookie that wasn’t made only from quinoa and kale!)

  “Sage, don’t,” I whisper.

  But she’s already letting go of me and setting her tray back down.

  Sage points her finger at me without taking her eyes off the woman. “Just so you know, Imogene the person and Imogene from Mommylicious are actually two entirely separate people.” She makes the number two with her fingers in case the woman was confused.

  Luckily, Sage stops there. The baffled young mother stands frozen in place. I almost feel bad and briefly remember when I actually liked people stopping me about the blog. As a little girl, I thought I was lucky because I was the star of Mommylicious. I’d pose for pictures with my hand on my hip and a big smile across my face. I thought that my mom wrote a blog about me because she loved me so much and because I was special. What was I thinking? And why was I smiling?

  I pull Sage away from the wreckage she’s created.

  She sighs. “Let’s do it.”

  “I’m in,” I say.

  “Class,” Ms. Herring says.

  All the girls look up at her while the boys’ eyes remain firmly on the bit of cleavage that her cardigan reveals.

  “Class!” she repeats. I watch as some of the boys’ eyes rise a tiny bit. Ugh—boys.

  “I know it’s Friday, but please at least pretend to concentrate,” Ms. Herring begs. “For this weekend’s homework, you will be writing your first post on your blog. From now until the end of the year, you will be required to write at least one entry per week. Please, please remember that you shouldn’t write anything on a blog that you wouldn’t tell someone to their face with fifty people watching.”

  Duh. Someone should tell that to the mommy bloggers of the world. Again, my point is made. It’s adults, not teenagers, who need the lessons in social media.

  “If you don’t know what’s appropriate for the public, keep your settings on private,” Ms. Herring repeats for about the five hundredth time since she announced the assignment. Then she reiterates six examples of celebrities who misused social media and got into trouble.

  It’s been a week since I wrote “The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters” rules for me and Sage.

  Rule Number One is that if something happens at home, you must write about it with total honesty.

  Rule Number Two is that when it comes to school matters, particularly matters of the heart, it’s okay to be vague.

  “After all,” I wrote, “we’re trying to prove a point, not commit social suicide before high school even begins.” I specifically wrote this part so I didn’t have to go all “Dear Diary” about my crush on Dylan and how much I want him to ask me to the Pirate’s Booty Ball. I also think that Sage is developing a major crush on another boy in our class, Andrew, so I’m saving her, too.

  Sage walks over to my locker after class. She twirls one her ringlets. “Of course, my mom’s totally stoked for me to have a blog. She even wants me to print up business cards and hand them out at BlogHer. My mom has no idea that she’s definitely not going to want anyone to read my blog. She’s not even going to want to read it. By the way, you are not skipping the conference. I mean, who will I make fun of all the blogsters with if you’re not there?”

  I grab my swim bag from the bottom of my locker and shut the door with a bang.

  “Of course I’ll be going. I have no choice. Didn’t you read parenting rule number two hundred and thirty-two? Mommy does always know best. Her words, not mine. Obvi.”

  Despite trying to get out of BlogHer, I know that I’ll be attending because Mommylicious always wins. BlogHer is like the prom of all blogging events. But I find it totally boring, and I spend most my time dodging crazy readers. Some of them actually ask for our autographs. Mega-weird. Anyone can have a blog, so it’s definitely not special to have one. And why in the world does anyone care about my mom’s life? Or mine? From personal experience, I can tell you that it’s between moderately and extremely boring.

  Sage waves her hand in front of my face. “Hi!” she says, trying to get my attention again. “Imogene, please listen to me! I just said, ‘Guess who’s having a pool party at his house the weekend after this one?’”

  “No way,” I say, and throw my bag over my shoulder. “There’s no way Dylan is having a party. He’s never had a party.”

  Dylan’s always been a bit of mystery. Back when everyone invited the whole class to birthday parties, Dylan never even had one to invite anyone to. His parents are both big-shot business people and travel a lot, so maybe that’s why.

  “Andrew told me that’s what he heard,” Sage says. Andrew plays the violin, so sometimes he and Sage hang out where they take lessons. Sage still won’t publicly—or even privately—admit to crushing on him for years. She’s surprisingly shy like that.

  “Andrew says Dylan’s inviting, like, everyone, so I guess that includes us, too.”

  Between worrying about this whole blog assignment and how hard my dad’s job is right now, this is the best news of the school year so far.

  “Hey, is it weird that I care most about what kind of food is going to be there?” Sage asks.

  “It’s not,” I say, “especially considering what you ate for dinner. Seaweed salad? It looked like food for Flipper the dolphin.”

  I’m happy that my mom relaxed the healthy eating blog angle after I was born. I’m not a big fan of vegetables, especially when they grow on the ocean’s floor.

  When we reach the pool’s entrance, Sage waves good-bye. “I’ll see you next week. This is our weekend to work at the community farm. Isn’t life sweet as a vegan?” She smiles. “I mean, naturally sweet, of course, since sugar is a total no-no. I’m heading out, but I’m very excited to read your first post, Babylicious!”

  “Bye-bye, VeggieBaby,” I call.

  Although I hate it when people call me Babylicious to my face, I don’t mind it when it’s Sage, who does it because she’s the only person I know who actually understands that I’m not Babylic
ious. To Sage, I’m Imogene, her best friend—not just that girl on the blog.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Chapter Five

  “REVENGE,” SHE TYPES

  “IMOGENE!” MY MOM HOLLERS DOWNSTAIRS INTO THE BASEMENT, where I’m hiding out with Grandma Hope.

  “What?” I yell back.

  Grandma Hope turns up volume on the Golf Channel so loud that a golf ball being hit sounds nearly the same as a cannon firing.

  I take the hint and head up the stairs.

  “Honey, in here!” my mom calls from her blogging enclave, a former guestroom that my dad converted into her office.

  Tacked against the wall is a giant printed sign of the Mommylicous logo and URL from last year’s BlogHer booth. My mom’s also blown up and framed a professional headshot. It’s literally larger than life. Her eyes are the same size as clementines, and they’re staring directly at me.

  Yes, it’s very scary.

  There are also coffee cups, baby bottles, sippy cups, stickers, and buttons emblazoned with the Mommylicious logo littered everywhere. The room looks like a campaign office in November right before an election. “The first step of publicity is attaching your image to your message,” as my mom always says.

  I focus on a red beanbag chair that sits to the left of my mom’s desk. I used to call it “my office chair” back when I hung out in here while my mom worked. That was back when I was still all about being Babylicious, before I realized she was a character that my mom invented. She’s the pretty, perfect version of me whose problems always seem to be miraculously solved by Mommylicious’s next post.

  I stand there, waiting, and also wondering why she’s never gotten rid of the beanbag chair, especially since I haven’t sat on it for years. The shape of my ten-year-old butt is probably still imprinted in it.

  My mom’s head is about an inch from the computer screen; she hasn’t even looked my way once since I walked into the room.

  “Mom,” I say loudly.

  She continues to tap away quickly at the computer keys until she finally swivels her chair around and faces me.

  “Imogene, I haven’t seen much of you since school started, and I know that I was pretty upset about the whole ‘after’ picture thing.” She rolls her chair toward me. “Maybe I was a little too upset,” she says.

  Wait—is it possible that my mom is about to apologize? Has my idea somehow begun to work before it even started?

  “So . . . ,” my mom continues, “I have a fabulous idea. How would you like to spend a weekend with me at a four-star resort and spa in Key West soon? They’ve been begging me to review them for years.” My mom clasps her hands in excitement. “Doesn’t that sound awesome? We could catch up and I could hear how your last year before high school is going. . . . I still can’t believe how fast time is flying. And you could try out some of those swimsuits that new company sent you. The readers just love your reviews, honey.”

  Of course this is why she wanted to talk to me.

  I should’ve known better than to think my mom was actually apologizing. She just wants Babylicious content, and I already told her five times I don’t want to review swimsuits or anything else.

  “Mom,” I say, stepping back from her grasp. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go to Key West. I have schoolwork. Swim team. Friends. I can’t just go away for a weekend right now.”

  I want to start in with my speech about privacy and about how it feels as if she doesn’t actually want to spend time with me, that she just wants to get Babylicious posts, but I leave it at that. I’ll let my blog do the talking. That sounds easier.

  “I’m sure Sage wouldn’t miss you for one weekend. She’d understand,” my mom says, and turns back around to face her computer. Within a second, she’s typing again.

  “Yes, Sage does understand,” I say. “She understands exactly what’s like to have no control over your own life,” I add under my breath, way too softly for my mom to hear.

  I back out of her office door. “I have to go do some homework, Mom.”

  After retreating to my room, I text Sage:

  It’s on.

  I open my laptop and start writing.

  The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: The Girl on That Blog

  “Multigenerational Living”

  My grandma Hope, also known as Ace, moved in with my family four years ago when my grandpa Fred passed away. She lives in our basement, but it’s probably not the dark-dungeon type of basement you’re thinking of. My dad’s an architect and he designed our house, so it’s a really nice walk-out basement.

  Mom had me convinced that she knew best before. But once my grandma came to stay, I realized that it was really Grandma Hope who knew what was up.

  Even though my mom pretends that she didn’t exist before she met my dad and started her blog, she actually did exist. My grandma has all the awkward photos in boxes to prove it. I’ll post some later, so stay tuned! Let’s just say the eighties hair is even crazier than it looks in the movies.

  This one is the best: Even though my mom pretends to be a genius about all things mommy, I found out that she actually used to call my grandma every day crying and asking her questions about being a parent. So she isn’t nearly as confident as she makes herself seem on her blog.

  That’s all for now. Any readers out there learn anything from living in a multigenerational family?

  Skulls and Bones,

  Don’t Dare Call Me Babylicious

  The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: Life with VeggieMom

  “What VeggieMom Forgot to Mention”

  My mom runs VeggieMom, which is a blog about being a vegan single mom in Florida. Even though my mom argues for total transparency and honesty on her blog, here are a few things she forgot to mention last year.

  She cried on Valentine’s Day and ate Ben & Jerry’s from the carton, which is something I would be undoubtedly grounded for. Great double standards.

  Her fancy lipstick, which she wears on dates with “winners” is not organic. She buys it at drugstores, and I imagine child workers in China manufacture it. So much for her revolution.

  That’s all for now. Off to work at the farm!

  VeggieBaby Fights Back!

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Chapter Six

  THE FALLOUT

  WHEN I GET TO SCHOOL ON MONDAY, SAGE IS SITTING OUTSIDE on a bench near a fountain adorned with naked cherubs.

  She stands up and starts a slow clap as I approach. “Wow! You have more guts than I thought. Like tons more. I’m super-impressed.”

  I can’t help smiling. Sage has always been the brave, outspoken one, so it’s nice to get courage kudos from her.

  “I learned how to be brave and bold from you,” I say. “But I still never thought you’d bring up Valentine’s Day.”

  “I only added that part after my mom went totally psycho on me because she found a Skittles wrapper in my room. It was only a fun size one too. She’d rather me swim with sharks or do meth than eat processed sugar. She might even believe that if we all didn’t eat sugar, there’d be world peace. She’s delusional.”

  Sage pulls out a Tootsie Roll from a side zipper on her backpack. “Clearly, chocolate is the key to peace,” Sage says with a laugh as she unwraps her candy. “Anyway, we’ll find out this afternoon what we’re in for at home. I’m sure my mom’s going through my computer history right now.”

  “Totally,” I say. “My mom has that software so she knows everything I do on the internet. Like, the program literally records my keystrokes. It’s only a matter of time before she sees my blog and freaks, which I guess is the whole point of all this.”

  As much as I do want my mom to understand how I feel, I’m also scared of what will happen w
hen she does find out.

  “How do you think Ms. Herring will react?” Sage asks as we make our way into school.

  “I think she’s going to want to put the devil back in the box,” I say. “We’re not the only ones who can learn lessons about social media, right? Hopefully, Ms. Herring will cancel this whole stupid project, our moms will wake up, and we can have a great school year and make people realize before high school that there’s more to us than the fact that we’re the subjects of our moms’ blogs.”

  The rest of the day continued like most days. Class, PE, and lunch, during which Sage bartered for other people’s desserts, and then it was time for English.

  Part of me is scared that I had gone too far with my first post, but part of me just thinks I’m doing exactly what my mom’s always done to me.

  There’s something strangely liberating about honesty.

  When I walk into class, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I come face to face with Dylan—the Dylan.

  “Hi!” I say. Oh em gee, why did I say “hi” like that? I said it as if Dylan was the first person I’ve seen in years after being deserted on an island. Talk about desperate.

  I pause and try to stop panting like I just sprinted the fifty-meter freestyle without taking a single breath.

  I’m so hoping that I’m about to get the pool party invite. In the hallway before class, I’m pretty sure that I overheard Ardsley use the words “Dylan” and “party” together in a sentence. I’ll be crushed if she’s invited, and I’m not.

  Dylan smiles at me. He’s one of the few kids who never had braces yet still has a perfect smile. Seriously, it’s such a good smile. “It’s kinda cool that you and your grandma hang out together,” he says.

  Dylan and I have talked about only six times since the second grade when we shared a table for two glorious months. That averages out to speaking roughly once a year. So when I say I like him, I should’ve said that I like him from afar in the hopes of possibly having the chance of liking him up close. I’m really hoping this won’t be our one-and-only talk for this year. I’m so ready to beat last year’s stats.