“I don’t think so. I’ll take a zit for this one.” I’m peeling a sticker off a sheet when I hear the unmistakable sound of a Facetime call being made. “What are you doing? No! Hang it up!”
Joe’s handsome, five o’clock shadowed face fills the screen. There’s a headboard behind him and his hair is extra rumpled.Is it getting hotterin this van?
“Evening, ladies.” His tone says he expected this. “How can I help you?”
“I’m not doing this—” I shout, and a zit sticker flutters off my face and onto my leg.
Sunny cuts me off, “You’re in for a special treat. Indie’s going to sing a little number for you.” She points the camera in my direction.
“No, I am not.” What would they do if I pushed them out of this van and drove away?
There’s a shuffling sound on Joe’s end like he’s sitting up straighter and he says, “Please, Indie. It would make me so happy.” His puppy dog eyes stare straight through the screen and into mine, “I love your singing.”
That’s right. He’s already heard my horrible singing, and that was when I didn’t think I had an audience, so it was extra awful. I’ve got nowhere to go but up. I can do this. “You asked for it, Obbs.” I clear my throat and sing the opening lines of “Fantasy” since it’s the song du jour: “When you walk by ev’ry night, talking sweet and looking fine, I get kinda hectic inside!”Oh, that was so, so bad.I let my voice trail off.
Mercer cackles and crows, “Keep going!” More laughter. Sunny is laughing now, too. It gives me the motivation I need to keep going and I realize that I love making my friends laugh. I finish the first verse with gusto and start on the chorus. Mercer is singing with me now. Her voice is shockingly pitch perfect, which only makes mine sound worse, but it's fine because I'm giggling as much as I'm singing at this point. Sunny points the camera at us, swinging her other arm in the air like she’s at a concert. I think I hear Joe laughing.Wait. is Joe singing, too?!
We're alternating laughter and singing now—if you can call it singing. It’s more like sustained yelling. We wrap up the chorus and I bow for the camera to applause from all of my new friends.
A few hours later I jolt awake.I forgot to brainstorm for my mother!
I scramble out of my sleeping bag and to the front of the van to grab my phone out of the glove box, stumbling over the girls. They stir in their sleep, and I notice that Mercer is drooling on Sunny’s pillow, her mouth wide open like a fish. Sunny is using one tiny corner, but Mercer’s wild blonde hair covers the entire pillow and part of Sunny’s face.
I turn on my phone, lowering my screen brightness so I don’t wake them up. It’s 4:42 a.m. The van is stuffy with all of these bodies, so I slide into my flip flops and open the door as quietly as I can. I press it shut and use my phone as a flashlight to make my way through the quiet desert to the Pratt’s back deck. I lower myself into a patio chair in the darkness, sitting in silence for a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the dark. Best to make sure there are no prowlers waiting to attack me.
It’s brainstorm time.
And… my brain is blank.
I’m still feeling foggy headed, what with it being pre-dawn and all. I think through our partnerships and brands that I’ve wanted to work with. Nothing. Maybe I should open my social media to spark my creative brain? I feel queasy at the thought. Thus far on this vacation I’ve let my mother and her team handle my accounts. I haven’t looked at anything beyond what she showed me on her first day here.
I’ll just browse. I don’t have to dive all the way in. I can just dip a toe. I promise myself I won’t look at comments or numbers. I swipe to open my phone and my heart pounds at the sight of my notifications. There are so many. Those numbers used to give me a littleboost of dopamine, but now it feels more like adrenaline. And not in a good way. Well, at least I’m awake now.
I scroll through my social media accounts, noticing that “I” had posted a teaser photo from our Skinnybee shoot tonight. It’s one of the photos taken from behind, where my mother and I appear to be staring deep into the desert searching for life’s meaning in our cute activewear. I’m relieved to see that my cheeks appear normal. No flabbiness or unaccounted for clenching. The amount of engagement that teaser is getting is unlike anything I’ve had in the history of this job. I’m trying to turn a blind eye to comments, even though I’m dying to know what people are saying. I literally have one eye closed and one eye open, like that will work.Don’t click, Indie. Be strong.
I go to my lists of followers and following accounts and gawk at the increase in my follower count over the past week. My mother wasn’t kidding. There must be a lot of people who want to champion body positivity or whatever it was she said. Either that, or they’re eager to witness a train wreck. Maybe the comments aren’t so bad? Maybe I can peek. Maybe someone will have an idea for this supposed brainstorm session I’m doing. There’s a tiny voice in the back of my mind telling me no, but there’s a louder voice at the front of my mind telling me I need ideas for my mother and the clock is ticking. So, I click.
The top three comments have thousands of likes each. The first comment reads, “Something ain’t right. Something is off and weird. WE ALL SEE IT.” Okay, that’s not so bad. They can tell my mother is posting for me. They’ve spotted it in the past. Moving on.
The next comment says, “Has anyone done a wellness check on Indie? Look at them thick thighs. No way her momma letting that happen.”
My first response is shock that for once my mother’s people didn’t edit down my thighs in this picture. My second response is to look down at my real life thighs.No one’s thighs look good squishedagainst a patio chair, Indie.I stand up and look down at my thighs in the dark. Maybe they are less toned than they were a week ago. There are dozens of responses to that comment, most of which agree that my thighs are indeed thick. Some are vulgar. A few commenters disagree. I’ll get back on the workout wagon next week. Moving on.
Another comment that has been liked and commented on by actual thousands says, “Honestly, so tired of them. Indie acts like a psyco and disappears. She’s either mentally unwell or Attention Seeking. Unfollowing.”
Spelling and grammar issues aside, this one stings. Thousands of people read that comment and liked it. My eyes start to burn as I reread it. A heavy teardrop plops on my phone screen.
Comments like these aren’t unusual, so I don’t know why I’m crying. But they don’t usually get this much attention, and my other followers usually come to my defense without me having to respond. I want to crawl into my sleeping bag and take a long nap until I forget this. Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of a pity partyorsleep because I still need to brainstorm. Another fat teardrop hits the screen.
I turn off the phone and wipe the screen with the hem of my shirt. I’m sniffling now. I didn’t expect that to hurt so much. Maybe my time off has made me soft. I usually have thicker skin than this. I usually stiffen my spine and scroll past the hateful remarks of these strangers, but this time they’re replaying in my head on a loop.
"What's wrong?"
I scream, jolting backwards. My chair tips out of balance and both the chair and I hit the wooden deck with a loud crash. "Joe!" I whisper shout at him, as if my scream and crash haven't already woken up the neighborhood. My whole upper body is feeling that landing.
He rushes over and gently pulls me to my feet, his big arm wrapping around my shoulders. "I didn't mean to scare you, I promise."His dark eyes look me over in the dim moonlight and he whispers, "I'm sorry I made you fall. Anything broken?"
I shake my head, swiping my phone off the deck. "I'm okay. I don't know how that happened. Chalk it up to trainwreck Indie, I guess." I laugh it off, but I sniffle at the same time, undermining my laughter. I also notice that my phone screen is cracked. It must've landed exactly wrong.Great.
