“Dr.Dad,” I respond as well.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be on a Friday night than with my two lovely ladies. I appreciate both of your patience as I spent painstaking weeks putting this summer’s bingo challenge together. In years past we were limited by the distances our princess was willing to travel on her skateboard and what we could do with our busy schedules, but she passed that driving test, baby. Proved she can be trusted with a new whip, so this summer the world, or Los Angeles County, is your oyster.”
I hold out my hand for the tablet. “Can I please see, Dad?”
He scoffs. “I’m not done with my speech.”
I roll my eyes and sit back in the booth.
“This year I’ve incorporated some of your favorite things, arts as well as crafts. Two museum visits because I thought three might be overdoing it. A few adventures on the road to destinations of your choice, some adventures close to home, opportunities to try some music that might be new to you, and because of your recent conversions with Miss Kelly, two opportunities to work on your gift of gab with some local strangers.”
“I was with you until that last part,” I say, my face getting hot as Mom squeezes my hand.
“It’ll be fine, honey,” she says.
“It’ll be great!” Dad says, and then he finally hands me the tablet. I look at the bingo board filling the screen,Heaven’s Summertime Bingo Challengesplashed across the top in a graffiti font. Some people might think a lot of the squares are filled with childish stuff, but I’m looking forward to Tie-Dye Fun, Land a New Skate Trick, and a Backyard Campout. I smile at the Draw a Picture for Your Mom. A picture is all she’s ever asked me for every holiday and birthday since I could hold a pencil. The other squares, though, Interview a Small Business Owner and Interview Miss Anita, our postal carrier, make my stomach turn. Miss Anita is nice, but I have no idea what I’d even say to her. And a small business owner?
“Can I interview Mom? She owns her own business.”
“No,” both my parents say at the same time.
“You’re seventeen now, baby girl,” Dad says. “You gotta start getting that confidence up and I know you can do it.”
I look over as Mom gives me a nod of encouragement. And what can I say to that? Oh no, my parents believe in me? How awful! I know they are just trying to help me, and I likely won’t die if I talk to two adults I don’t know very well, but we don’t know that for sure. What if I burst into flames the minute I see Miss Anita? Stranger things have happened.
I swallow and try to push down my rising panic. Luckily, our server shows up with our waters and my strawberry lemonade. I take a sip and try to figure out how I’m going to pull this all off. It’s gonna be a long summer.
6
Saylor
I wouldn’t recommend breaking your arm because it absolutely sucks. I also don’t recommend having an influencer for a mother. The last two days have been a mixed bag of emotions I never wanted to experience. My friends are all gone and I miss them like crazy. People keep tagging my private accounts and sending me the video Mom made about me being gay, giving me crap for it, making fun of my mom for crying and putting my business out there, asking if I’m really gay or if my mom just said that for views.
Personally, I want to have my mom arrested for emotional distress, but then she made me my favorite low-budget mac and cheese and helped me shower and wash my hair, so I can’t really call CPS on her, but boy do I want to.
Dad keeps reassuring me in his monotone way that I’m just lucky the injury was a clean break and not a compound fracture. I mean I guess, but some of Mom’s followers seem to think that I broke my arm because I’m gay so maybe things are bad enough right now.
Did I mention how much I miss my friends?? They’ve called and texted me. Glory and our other bestie-bestie Tatum had flowers sent to the house, which was supersweet. Tatum’s girlfriend Emily sent me a cute video from her grandparents’ RV telling me to rest up so we can crush it come soccer season. And Bethany sent her moms over to check on me. Melissa and Teresa spent most of their time talking to Mom about what the doctors said and the rest of the time catching up on their mom gossip, but it was still nice to see them.
Heck, I even miss my sisters. Scarlett and Stella are pains in my butt, but they are usually nice to me when I’m sick, and I’m sure I could make them wait on me a little while also distracting Mom. They’ve called me once from camp to see if I’m okay, but I have almost a month before they get back. Until then—at least during the day—it’s me, Mom, and all the content creation.
I’m trying to get comfortable on the couch so I can catch up onLove Island USAand UK when Mom comes strolling in. Luckily, she already made a video this morning and has to spend the rest of the day editing, so she’s just been popping in to check on me and ask forty questions about which Islander is which.
“I’m going to the store, come with me. You can pick out some snacks,” Mom says.
She’s dressed in an artfully baggy linen shirt and khaki shorts. Her makeup is still done from filming earlier. I look down at my Bee & Bonnet pajama set, #Ad. It’s cute, but I can’t step out into the world like this. Sad, broken, and in my jammies. On the screen, two girls are on the daybeds, arguing over the most unfortunate looking boy. It seems like a good time to take a Love Island break.
“Just give me two hours to change.” I groan as I sit up.
“Do you need help?”
“No, I think I can manage it. I’ll yell if I need a hand.”
I make my way upstairs and successfully change into a T-shirt and some shorts. Getting the top button done with my cast on takes some finesse and deep breathing, but I get it done. I do need Mom to help fix my hair that’s been smushed by a few hours of couch lounging, but then we’re off.
“Have you heard from Rhys?” Mom asks as we make our way down the hill toward Overland.
“No. Why?” Rhys took our breakup well, but my parents loved him, and he loved my parents. He didn’t mind partaking in all my mom’s reaction videos and photoshoots. But we aren’t together anymore for one very obvious reason.