Sierra squeals and claps her hands. “Oh, yes! You totally should! Give us your handle. Our followers will love you. You’re totally Posh Spice.” She giggles. “I’m Baby Spice, and Luce is the sexy one, even though she has black hair instead of red. I love Y2K-era girl bands, don’t you? I wish music were that awesome now.”
“Um, yeah, they were fun,” I say, not quite ready to confess that I was in middle school when The Spice Girls were big.
Or that I wasn’t really a fan. Even in seventh grade, I was suspect of anyone marketing “girl power” in a short skirt and a baby tee. But my mother was an advertising major with a minor in gender studies. I was raised to be suspicious of advertising and wary of supporting any cause that I didn’t fully understand.
“But I’ll just go sit on the other side and stay out of your way,” I say, gathering my purse and pendant.
“Why?” Sierra asks, looking truly stumped.
“I’m not really active on my personal account,” I explain.
“Then use your biz account,” Luce says, with a shrug. “That’s fine.”
Sierra brightens. “Yeah! We have a huge local following, and a lot of them love to party. I bet you’ll get loads of new followers and new business, too.”
“It’s really okay,” I say, standing with a wince of apology. “I don’t do this kind of social media. I hate it, honestly. For me!”I hurry to emphasize. “I totally respect and admire what you’re doing, I just…can’t. I don’t have the patience for it.”
The temperature in the box drops twenty degrees.
Sierra and Luce exchange a look.
“That must be nice,” Luce says, her voice going silky-sweet in a way that makes it clear I have stepped in it. Royally. “To have the luxury of not having ‘the patience.’ For some of us, this is our livelihood. How we take care of ourselves. We have to keep posting, even on days when we hate it.”
“I’m sorry, that didn’t come out—” I start.
“And it’s not cringe. It’s really not,” Sierra chimes in, her golden retriever enthusiasm taking on a sharper, slightly manic edge. “And even if it were, sometimes you have to be cringe to succeed and like, escape the trap of late-stage capitalism and stuff.”
I nod, feeling worse with every word out of her trembling lips. “You’re so right. I didn’t mean to diminish you, Sierra. I promise.”
But she’s clearly past being able to hear me. Unshed tears shine in her eyes as she says, “I used to work fifty hours a week bartending and barely made enough to pay rent. I went home every night exhausted and cried myself to sleep. And then I got sick with this horrible cold and got pneumonia, and they fired me. Fired me! Just because I was too sick to come in. If my mom hadn’t floated my rent until I got better, I would have ended up living in my car. And if I hadn’t built this platform, I’d still be living like that, and it sucked. It really sucked.”
My throat squeezes tight. “I know. It’s awful. People shouldn’t be allowed to treat their employees that way. I’m so sorry.”
“Do you know?” Luce challenges, her hard smile fixed in place. “If Sierra or I take a day off to just enjoy life and watch our boyfriends play, our engagement drops. Our value drops. Andwe don’t have a brick-and-mortar business. Weareour business and our product and everything else. And we were offering you our trust and a draft from our social capital, and you just…sneered at it. Like, what the hell?”
I lift my hands in surrender. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I clearly need to be more thoughtful. I understand where you’re coming from, I really do, and…I’ll just be over there. Please, do what you need to do, with my full admiration and support.”
They turn back to their phones, and I slink away, cheeks burning.
None of the other women are looking my way, but I can’t fight the sense that they heard everything. And that they’ll be gossiping about it at their earliest convenience…
My phone buzzes. I grab it like a lifeline.
Makena: Update: Raccoon is now giving birth on the counter.
Makena: Elly is crying because she feels bad that it’s becoming a mom without a raccoon midwife to hold its hand.
Makena: I’m crying because birth is gross and scary, and I’m once again pretty sure I never want children.
Makena: ETA to the stadium: Never. This is where we live now. In this parking lot. With the moaning raccoon and her afterbirth and her slimy little babies. Waiting for the animal control guy. From now until the end of time. Again, I am so sorry. How are you? Have you made friends? Frederica is really nice. She’s the one with the really curly brown hair and fantastic laugh.
As I slide into a seat not far from the older woman clique, I type back—Everything’s good here. I’m so sorry to hear you’re still in the thick of it, but don’t worry about me. I’m fine.
I’m not fine.
My throat is tight. My insides are in knots. And I’m not sure if I should be ashamed of myself for being a jerk, who doesn’t appreciate her privilege, or if Sierra and Luce were just looking for a reason to attack.
I’m still wrestling with that as the game starts. I focus on Nix as he takes the ice, willing myself to shift into “supportive girlfriend” mode. The less I think about my own drama right now, the better. And Idowant Nix to have a great season opener. I may not be a huge hockey fan, but I am a huge fan of wanting good things for my friends in all aspects of their lives.
