Chapter 11
Maple
I stare into the fitting room mirror. How can I look this normal? It makes no sense when my heart is bouncing out of my chest and my stomach is twisting like a pretzel.
Dylan Dope is coming to stay with us. To hang out with me. What the actual fuck?
No. I need to get Mom to change her mind.
But Mom never changes her mind. Whatever I say, however hard I might beg. At first, she’ll try to convince me that it’s the best idea ever. And if I manage to swerve that, then she’ll remind me whose house it is. And that I’m a child who doesn’t get to make decisions.
There’s nothing I can do about it. Dylan Dope is coming to stay in my house.
Oh God.
I’m itching to check out his socials, to see if there’s anything I can pick up that might make this nightmare just one percent easier, but I’m not doing it with Mom around. Looking over my shoulder, giving me advice. I’m stressed out enough as it is.
How do I even act around him? It takes me ages to figure out what to say to Theo, and that’s on Snap where he can’t even see me. I’m going to have to think of funny, or cool, or clever things to say to Dylan in real time, and look good while I’m doing it.
I grab my hair from behind, bunch it on my head, and pout into the fitting room mirror like those OnlyFans models do on Instagram. Then I lean forward, let my hair fall loose, watch my cleavage deepen. But it looks weird, not hot. Embarrassing, not cool. I’m not ready for all that stuff yet.
Especially when I have weirdos staring at me.
Like that freak in Vegas, or the creep outside school a few weeks ago.
That’s what I hate most about being famous on YouTube.
The gross, old Stans who watch me. Mom blocks the ones who give themselves away, but I know there are others. Sick pedos who just lurk like ghosts.
I straighten up.
‘How are you doing in there?’ Mom calls out, her voice floating over the curtain. ‘Do you need any help?’
‘No, I’m good.’ I quickly pull on one of the tops she picked out for me.
It’s embarrassing that Mom still chooses my clothes, even worse that she’s better at it than me.
My girlfriends are always falling out with their moms over what they wear – their skirts are too short; tops too low, or too high, or too tight or too something. But my mom never raises an eyebrow.
‘I think that baby-blue gingham crop top is super cute,’ she continues.
‘Those puffed off-the-shoulder sleeves are gorgeous. And wow, that red halter-neck top.’ She attempts a chef’s kiss.
‘And after yesterday’s paycheck, you’ve earned them both, honey.
And the denim miniskirt; that’s one hundred percent you. ’
I pull on the skirt with the red top and assess myself in the mirror. ‘Do you think the buttons down the front of the skirt give me bop girl vibes?’ I ask, while wondering why I can’t tell if clothes make me look hot or trashy.
‘Wow, Maple, there is nothing sleazy about you!’ Mom exclaims, her volume making me cringe.
‘That’s why people love you, because you’re so wholesome and pure.
As soon as I saw that skirt on the rack, I knew it was perfect.
Like everything else I found for you. You know what, let’s stop talking and take it all to the cash register. ’
I take one last look in the mirror – maybe it does hit right after all – then wriggle back into the clothes I arrived in. In truth, I way prefer shorts and T-shirts to skirts and fitted tops, but I keep quiet about that. I mean, what woman got famous wearing comfortable clothes?
With my new purchases folded inside an Urban Outfitters bag, we head back to the parking lot and climb into Mom’s new car. It’s a big, boujee SUV and judging by Dad’s face when Mom came home in it last month, it probably cost a heap of money we can’t afford.
‘Hey, how about we stop at Swig on the way home for a dirty soda?’ Mom asks.
I turn to look at her. I’m still lowkey mad that she invited Dylan without asking, but she has just spent two hundred dollars on new clothes for me.
And the thing is, Dylan Dope is crazy popular right now, so maybe – even though it makes me feel sick to think about it – him coming to stay is good for me, like Mom says. I find half a smile. ‘Yeah, sure.’
A trip to Swig is always weird because Mom hates soda, but she pretends to love it.
I used to think it was because dirty sodas are a Utah thing, and filming us drinking them strengthened my brand.
But my grandma told me that Mom’s been this way since she was a little girl.
Like she’s been trying to fit in here her whole life – and just because Grandma and Gramps moved here from Chicago.
We park outside the soda shop and head inside. I order a Raspberry Rodeo and Mom chooses an Eagle, probably because its blue color complements her nails. But as soon as we sit down, Mom’s phone rings and Dad’s face lights up on her screen.
‘Hey,’ she says, answering it while gesturing for me to film our sodas. I’m still not really in the mood, but I pick up my phone anyway. I try to film Mom too – she usually loves being part of my videos – but she backhands the air and twists away from me.
‘Jesus, Garrett, you had one job,’ she mutters into the handset, and I feel my shoulders tense. I hate it when my parents fight, and it seems to be happening a lot lately.
‘I don’t care that Aspen didn’t want to do it,’ she goes on.
‘She’s eight. She doesn’t get to decide.
And of course Ash wouldn’t know to wait for you to set up the camera.
But you’re their father, Garrett. You’re supposed to be the one in charge.
’ She lets out a long sigh. ‘Look, it’s fine.
I get that gutting fish isn’t so fun for eight-year-olds. But we need something.’
She looks at me over her shoulder, like she’s just remembered I’m here. ‘Actually, hold on.’ Then she covers the mouthpiece. ‘I’m going to take this outside,’ she tells me. ‘Come meet me in five minutes by the car and we’ll head home?’
‘Sure,’ I say nodding. ‘Hey, do you want to take your soda with you?’ But she’s already walked out.