Don't Call Me Baby Read online

  Writing about my mom online didn’t make me feel better, but getting away from everything did.

  “Sage, I have a great idea,” I say with as much cheer as I can muster, after some of the insults she hurled at me. “A really great idea this time. I promise.”

  “I’m done with your ideas,” Sage says. “I bet that you didn’t want to be grounded anymore. You’re all about the cause . . . until you’re grounded. And your grounded does not look like my grounded.”

  “That’s not true,” I argue, although it was nice to write a post that I knew wouldn’t rock the boat too much. I’m sure my mom’s already writing some chipper blog post and thinking that this is all over.

  But that’s still not why I wrote that post. I wrote it because I believed in it.

  Sage pushes her tongue against the gap in her teeth. “Are you currently grounded?” Sage accuses.

  I pause. My mom ungrounded me this morning after reading my most recent post. She didn’t even annoy me about deleting my old posts. She was nearly glowing after reading it, even though she told me that philosophically she disagreed with it, and that having a part of your life online is just as valid as living entirely offline. I think that my mom was just happy the post didn’t mention her.

  I understand the feeling. I would love not to be on my mom’s blog for a day.

  “I can get my mom to talk to your mom,” I promise Sage. “I bet your mom will unground you, too.”

  Sage stomps her foot on the ground. “Imogene, it’s not about being ungrounded,” she says. “It is about my mom listening. It’s about our moms listening. It’s about us accomplishing what we said we would,” she says loudly enough that other people in the hall look toward us. “We said that this year would be different.”

  I look at Sage, unsure of what to say. This year has already been different for me.

  From over my shoulder, I hear a voice.

  “Hi, Sage. Hi, Imogene,” Dylan says as he spins his lock about ten feet away.

  “Imogene, do you and your family go beachcombing a lot?” he asks. “Your dad seemed pretty stoked about it—like, ‘maybe he should get a cable TV show about it’ stoked.”

  Sage looks at me as if I’m a stranger and she turns and walks away. Her locker is still wide open.

  I breathe in and shut Sage’s locker for her.

  “My dad’s a big nerd,” I say to Dylan, trying to regain my composure as I watch Sage stalk off. “He loves making things from what he finds beachcombing.”

  “I think that it’s cool,” Dylan says. “My dad can’t even fix a rusty door hinge. Well, not that our door hinges are rusty, but you know what I mean.” Dylan grabs another book out of his locker. “By the way, I liked your post about going unplugged. I wish I could convince my family to have a weekend like that, but I’m pretty sure that my parents’ fingers are superglued to their BlackBerries. We live three blocks from the beach, and they haven’t touched the sand in months.”

  I stand there, not knowing what to say. Dylan Mulberry, the Dylan, thinks my family is sort of cool and he’s admitting that he reads my blog.

  Reading someone’s blog is like online crushing, right?

  What alternate universe am I living in?

  Oh yeah, one where my best friend is mad at me. But also one where I’m not grounded and where some guy—who I really like—might actually like me back.

  Sage doesn’t show up to lunch, so I sit with Mackenzie and Anne. I’m hoping that this all will all blow over soon, but I’m not so sure. Sage seemed so angry with me, and is definitely not going to be onboard for going unplugged. She seems intent on taking the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters Version One across the finish line.

  During lunch Anne splits her veggie and California rolls with me. Her parents own Sushi-Thai Too, a local Asian fusion restaurant on Fifth Avenue.

  “Imogene,” Mackenzie says, “your unplugged post was cool. I’m going to show it to my mom. She’s, like, ruining my younger sister’s life by documenting every second of it. Last summer she posted a video of my sister’s recital online for the world to see . . . except my sister is the worst dancer ever. How is that helping her to have that online? She’s going to be totally haunted. Hello, Mom, not all kid pictures are cute, and nobody wants to see a million of them.”

  Anne nods. “That’s brutal,” she says. “At my cousins’ Little League games, none of the parents—minus one crazy, obsessed guy who the refs always end up kicking out—actually watch the game. Everyone is on their phones the entire time. My cousin hit a home run and there was, like, delayed applause. She was on second base before the parents caught on. It was hilarious, but sad, too.”

  Mackenzie nods. “I know! Then adults go all pyscho on us for spending too much time online. Hello, you all do it too. And my parents are making me update their website. Ugh! I’m sick of computers and htm— Whatever you call it.”

  I shrug. “I could help you,” I say. Despite disliking my mom’s blog, I’ve definitely picked up a few things about html code over the years. My mom has always told me that it’s going to get me places in the work world, but until now, I’ve ignored her. Even though it pays the bills, I still hate to think of my mom’s job as work. Isn’t it illegal to make money off your kid? Isn’t that why child stars sue their own parents?

  As we’re gathering up our trash, Ardsley and Tara approach our table. She usually sits with Tara and some other girls, right near Dylan and his guy friends’ table.

  I think she spends more of lunchtime posing than eating.

  “Hi, Mackenzie. Hi, Anne,” she says flatly.

  I expect Ardsley to ignore me, which is what she usually does if she’s not harassing me about my mom’s blog.

  “Imogene,” she coos instead, surprising me. “Can I speed-dial in a favor? I need some help with my blog. And I thought, who better than you—Babylicious?”

  “Are you serious?” I ask before I can think twice.

  Ardsley nods. “I’m trying hard to keep my grades up this year since they, like, count now, and I definitely want to go to a fashion college in New York City. And I happen to have this totally visionary idea for a fashion blog, but I need some help. I could do something for you in return,” she says. She looks me up and down as if I need a lot of her help.

  Mackenzie and Anne stare at me and wait for my answer. As much as I love Sage, I’m glad that she’s not here. She would make this into a total scene and rattle off the top twenty-five reasons why I shouldn’t help Ardsley.

  This year is about being different, I remind myself.

  So I say yes before I can change my mind.

  “Perfect, we’ll figure it all out in English class. Toodles, ladies,” Ardsley says before she swaggers off. Tara follows in her shadow.

  I’m hoping it really is a better life philosophy to say, “Why not?” than to ask, “Why?”

  “Stop packing up, guys,” Ms. Herring admonishes us. “I’m not done with you yet. I still have one hundred and twenty seconds of your time and I’m using every one.”

  Teachers, especially during our last period, hate it when we start putting our books away early, but we always do it anyway.

  “Before you all go, I just wanted to say that I’ve been very impressed with some of your blogs lately. A lot of you are taking the big step from private to public. But even more than that, I’m ecstatic that some of you are writing about your interests and beliefs. I think when you blog about something you love, something special happens on the internet. I know that sounds hokey, but I think positive things can happen from sharing your passions online. That’s all. You can go now.”

  Sage rolls her eyes. “She’s wrong. Nothing special happens,” she says in a soft voice.

  I lean in close, happy that Sage’s actually talking to me. “People write about their interests on the internet, so that random strangers will stop by and give them an ego boost. Blogging is the same as fishing for compliments. It’s all about trying to find strangers to pump you up since no
one in your real life cares.”

  “But what about the people who disagree with you? Both our moms definitely have their share of haters,” I say.

  My mom has even had to block some people’s IP addresses after they’ve left mean or creepy comments.

  “Just because people don’t like what you blog about doesn’t mean that they’re haters, Imogene. They’re just trying to start a dialogue, but most of the time bloggers just ignore them and call them trolls. Our moms are treating us like trolls right now. They don’t care what we think, even if we are right. We’re their daughters and they should have to listen to us.”

  Trolls are people who write mean things on the internet. In my mom’s office, there’s a giant poster with a photo of a Troll droll with an X through it.

  Sage doesn’t make a move to leave, so I try get up the courage to bring up this morning.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” I say. “It sucks that you had a tough weekend. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings with my post at all. I’m still for trying to get our moms to stop blogging about us. I really do hate being Babylicious. I just want to figure out the best way to stop them.”

  Sage turns to make sure the classroom is empty. “How come you didn’t tell me about seeing Dylan at the beach?”

  “I just told you. I wanted a weekend away from technology, and I was grounded, so I couldn’t go tell you in person, “ I say. I’m trying not to get frustrated with Sage. “I said I was sorry.”

  Sage gets up and grabs her bag. “Did you want a weekend away from technology or a weekend away from me?”

  I stand up just as quickly. “What are you talking about?” I ask. “You’re my best friend. You’ve always been my best friend.”

  Sage is losing it, I think.

  Just then, Ardsley peers into the classroom.

  “Oh, good! You’re still here, Imogene. I’m almost forgot about our blog date. Let’s do tomorrow at six at my house,” Ardsley says. “Toodles.”

  Sage throws up her hands. “Excuse me?” she says after Ardsley bops off.

  “I know,” I say, and shake my head. “Who says ‘toodles’?”

  Sage picks up her foot as if she’s going to stomp again. Her foots hovers in midair for a moment before she gently sets it down. She points at me. “You know that’s not what I meant, Imogene. I want to know why you are going to Ardsley’s house,” she says. She barges through the classroom toward the door.

  “I told her that I’d help her with her blog,” I admit, and I can almost feel the sparks flying from Sage’s green eyes. She’s actually named for the color, not the seasoning. Her mom has the same eyes. They both breathe green fire when they’re mad.

  I wait for Sage’s wrath, but she doesn’t say anything.

  I feel relieved, even though I know that this is far from over.

  Just as we reach the doorway, Sage turns to me and lowers her voice.

  “Ardsley’s blog is called ‘Mermaids, Manicures, and Macaroons.’ Does that even make sense? I thought we’re trying to get people to realize that blogs, especially our moms’ blogs, are annoying and pointless. But all of a sudden, you’re now helping Ardsley with her stupid blog while also going around preaching for people to get offline? Hypocrite, lately? I feel like I don’t even know you.”

  I don’t even know to defend myself. Sage has gone totally militant. It’s like I can’t do anything right.

  “What’s this all about?” I ask her. “Why are you so mad at me?”

  Sage bites her lip. “I’m mad because you were so not actually grounded this weekend like me. I’m mad because you didn’t tell me about Dylan or about Ardsley. I’m mad because you’re too wrapped up in the fact your blog is getting you attention, and you don’t care about the real purpose of our blogs anymore. You’re probably too blind to see it, but you’re just like your mom now.”

  I take a step back into the hallway. “That’s not fair,” I say. “Yes, my mom’s totally annoying, but it’s not your place to insult her. Maybe if you spent less time playing the piano and less time being all agro, you’d have more friends too, Sage. Have you ever thought that I’m making friends because people like me, not because of some blog?”

  I pivot in the hallway and walk away from Sage. I’m unsure—for the first time ever—if we are still best friends.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Chapter Eleven

  I’VE ALREADY SAID YES

  SAGE’S WORDS YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR MOM REPEAT IN MY HEAD over and over during swim practice. No matter how much I speed up or how many flip turns I do, I can still hear them. Nothing—not even two hours of swimming—can drown them out.

  Sage knows that I’m nothing like my mom, so why would she say that? Every single person in our class has a blog, so it’s ridiculous that she thinks I’m using mine as leverage for anything, especially popularity. Yes, my blog has gotten attention, but so has Sage’s. Why is she suddenly treating me like the enemy? And why did it hurt so badly when she insulted my mom?

  As I shake the water out my ears after practice, I decide two things: 1) I’m definitely not like my mom, and 2) Sage is acting ridiculous.

  When I get home, my grandma notices right away that I’m out of sorts.

  “I know what puppy love looks like, and that’s not your face. What’s going on, Georgia?” she asks as I help her carry kabobs from the grill. Earlier, Grandma Hope told me that she decided to stop feeling sorry for herself and start doing some more one-armed cooking.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” I insist.

  “Meg!” Grandma Hope calls out toward my mom’s office. “Dinner!”

  “I’m working on something for the blog,” my mom calls out.

  “Even God took a day to rest,” my grandma calls back.

  “God didn’t have a blog,” my mom says. “I’ll be there in one minute!”

  “I’m not smelling like charcoal instead of my Charlemagne perfume for you to make us wait!” my grandma yells.

  My dad looks up from the table where he’s going over some blueprints, and grins. “You tell her!” he teases with a wink.

  “I just think that we need to put some more family back into this place. A house is just a house, but a home is where family is. We need to work to make this place a home,” Grandma Hope says with a scoff. “I had such a nice weekend, and I figure we might as well enjoy one another before I go back to my birdies and eagles.”

  Birdies and eagles are more Golf-speak.

  “I had a great time too,” my dad says, standing up and going over to the sink to wash his hands. “Thanks for distracting me from all this.” He nods back toward his blueprints.

  Like always, my dad has a bit of ink on his hands and his clothes. Even though most architects now work only on computers, my dad always starts his designs the old-fashioned way, by hand. He’s retro like that. He and my mom are classic examples of opposites attracting.

  Grandma Hope steps into the hallway. “Meg! Now!” she shouts.

  My mom sheepishly emerges from her office and sits down at the table.

  She looks down at a coffee stain on her blouse. “I feel fourteen,” my mom says. “My mom’s cooking for me. My mom’s bossing me around. It’s like I’m still a little kid.”

  “I can get that stain out for you. And, Meg, you’ll always be my child,” Grandma Hope says. “Speaking of your child, something’s wrong with yours. Georgia’s got this sad look on her face. For Pete’s sake, it’s even worse than Rory McIlroy’s face when he four-putted in the Masters. No matter what he does from here on out, that’s how he’s going to be remembered.”

  I pull a shrimp off my kabob. “Grandma Hope!” I say. “I’m completely fine.” I add a smile for effect. I grind my teeth.

  My dad puts his blueprints back into his briefcase and snaps it shut.

  “Is Hope right, Imogene? Is somethi
ng wrong?”

  I shake my head and grind through another smile.

  My mom reaches over me for an ear of grilled corn. “Imogene seems A-Okay to me.”

  Despite the fact that my mom has blogged about me every single day of my life, she still doesn’t really know me as well as Grandma Hope does. She can’t even tell that I’m sad right now. Like, I’m probably as upset as I was when my grandpa died. Maybe my mom’s so used to my fake smile that she can’t even differentiate it from my real smile. That makes me even sadder.

  “I have big news everyone,” my mom says, changing the subject. “I didn’t want to say anything in case it fell through, but Imogene and I were selected for a panel at BlogHer! Isn’t that great? We’ll be speaking about moms and daughters who blog. Super-great, huh? The panels are a major big deal, so this is going to be dynamite for readership, not to mention sponsors. Maybe it’ll help you funnel some traffic to your site, Imogene, but of course, you’ll need to get rid of some of your early posts first.”

  Wait. My mom—who threatened to ground me over my blog— is now using it for publicity for her blog?

  Actually, this is so not shocking.

  I focus on my kabob. “I don’t want to do the panel,” I say. “You know that I hate public speaking,” I add, which is true.

  “It’s in less than three weeks,” my mom says, “and I already told them yes—”

  “Hold on,” my dad interrupts from the sink, where he’s washing his hands.

  “End of the conversation. Period,” my mom says, dismissing my dad with a wave.

  Grandma Hope raises her eyebrows, and my dad looks down at his plate.

  I start to argue more, but then I have a flash of genius. If my mom is going to make me do this panel, I’ll make sure she regrets it. And I’ve just thought of the perfect plan to make sure that happens.

  We eat the rest of our meal silently, aside from the constant chime of my mom’s phone.

  After everyone’s finished, my mom stands up, takes a few steps and holds her phone away at an arm’s length.

  Click goes the phone, but my mom’s the only one who’s smiling.