“That’s what I was going for,” Heaven says, and then she smiles. It’s not a big smile, just this sort of lopsided grin, but it’s there. I know I have to get over this crush, but if Heaven Goo-Campbell keeps doing things like taking me on spontaneous cake adventures, I might fall in love with her.
10
Heaven
We finish our cake, and after I toss the containers, Saylor and I climb back in my car and I blast the AC. I never regret a cake run. If you’re queer, you deserve cake. I feel like that should be a rule, but none of that do-gooding on my part explains why in the world I asked Saylor if she had a crush on anyone, or why I was so relieved when she said no.
Saylor and I have our plans for the summer, even if I’m still not sure it’s a good idea. We do the bingo. I save her from her mom, and she…she saves me from the bizarre, crippling low self-esteem that only seems to come for me when I think people are watching. That’s it. And maybe some more cake, but we don’t need to talk about crushes and liking people. Nope, we sure don’t.
I turn the volume down a little on this old song coming through the speakers. I should probably take Saylor home. Even if she helps me create and manage my accounts, I still need to go through all my pieces and start on the flash assignments that Miss Kelly gave me. I should definitely take Saylor home, but I just sit there, not putting the car in reverse. Saylor turns to me, in this bouncy kind of way shehas, and smiles at me. She’s always like this, with everyone, but still it’s a lot of energy to handle when it’s just the two of us in the tight space of my car.
“How’s your arm doing?” I ask.
“Oh. It’s okay. It aches sometimes, but nothing like the pain the first day. It just makes everything so much harder. Like not being able to drive sucks, but my mom’s had to wash my hair and stuff since I can’t get it soaked. It took me like ten minutes just to get my shorts on this morning.”
I make the mistake of glancing over at the shorts she just mentioned. They are very short shorts, showing off what feels like miles of tanned brown skin. I don’t need this right now. I don’t need to start puberty phase four where I become a complete perv over Saylor Ford’s thighs.
“Aren’t you hot?” she asks as she flicks the reinforced seam on my pants.
“I mean, I guess. It’s Southern California. It’s always hot.”
“I know, but I mean these pants look thick.”
“Try wiping out in thin pants or shorts,” I say. “My knees would look much worse than your face.”
“Wow. Thanks!” She laughs. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“That’s not what I meant. There’s nothing wrong with your face. Scars are cool and you’re still pretty or whatever. You could become like an ointment model or something.”
She flips the visor down and looks at herself in the car mirror. “I guess it’s not so bad. It doesn’t hurt much either. Some lady in my mom’s comments said she couldn’t believe I would let this happen to my face. That I ruined my natural beauty.”
“The people in your mom’s comments sound like they suck.”
“They do, but she eats it up. Nice comments keep her young and fresh, she says. The negative ones spawn some sort of vengeance that gives her room to prove herself or something. She deletes the real crazy ones. Blocks people who are like extra racist, but she will argue about her parenting skills or how perfect my sisters and I are any day of the week.”
I feel myself frowning. “Perfect?” My parents love me a lot, but I don’t think they would describe me or themselves as perfect.
“She’s—how do I say this without—” Saylor laughs. “You’re so right ’cause calling my sisters and I perfect does sound a certain kind of unhinged. My grandma is, like, super hung up on looks. She used to tell my mom she wasn’t pretty enough all the time and it kinda messed with her head for a while.
“When we were little, Mom made it her gentle parenting crusade to let me know that I was beautiful, but then she started getting so much feedback and attention on our early hair videos, likeomg you’re white and you’re doing such a good job with her mixed hair, stuff like that. It definitely went to her head. And then she had twins? Forget it. She has three almost identical daughters withperfectdark blond curls andperfecthazel eyes. People get real creepy in the comments, but she eats it up.”
“Yeah, I can see that kind of attention going wrong.”
“Millions and millions of followers and lots of paidcontent later it’s hard for her not to get wrapped up in it all. And how ‘perfect’ we are is kind of the driving force behind it all. Still, I don’t need comments from random strangers thinking that I ran into a fence for attention. Especially when they all thought my face was so perfect before.”
“The before and after of your face are perfectly acceptable,” I tell her.
“Thanks.” Saylor snorts. I sit back and let out a sigh, a little louder than I mean to. “See, you’re not even involved with my mom’s content and it’s stressing you out.”
“No, it’s a lot. I can definitely see why you want to get away from that.”
“So,” she says, jutting out her bottom lip in this ridiculous pout. “You have to help me.”
“Jesus. I should make you walk home. Never make that face again.”
Saylor just laughs and I hate that I like the sound of it. I hate that I feel bad for her. I knew Saylor and her sisters were a part the online content machine, but I never really thought of it being that bad for them. I swallow and think about how people are going to react to my art.
I look over at Saylor’s sun-kissed knees and back at my own thick khakis. “I wear dresses sometimes.”