The smile is completely gone when I click on the link she sent. A link to my mom’s BeeBop.
2
Saylor
My mom is an influencer. She’s been doing something or other online since I was five and she started posting videos about my hair. When the twins were born, looking like mini clones of me with their identical dusty blond curls, things really started taking off. Now you can follow @CristineFord along with twenty million people across a handful of platforms.
I blink as I read the caption on the video:So Proud of SaylorThe video starts to play, but a loud whistle blowing in the halls drowns out the audio. I glance up as Coach Synthia pokes her head in and raps her knuckles hard on our door.
“Get dressed! Get your kicks on! It’s time for street ball, baby!”
“See?!” Laykin says.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m coming.” I grab a pair of shorts out of my bag and start my mom’s video over again, swallowing hard.
“Hey, gang,” Mom says brightly. She’s in her “confessional” chair in her office, where the light and acoustics are just right. Her makeup is also perfect, her blond hair up in amessy bun. “I know we’re halfway through Pride and you guys know all my kids are away, but I was thinking today just how blessed I am. Just how great my relationship is with my kids. And I just wanted to share it with you guys.”
I press the bottom of the screen. The video is ten freaking minutes long. I swallow. This can’t be good. I hold down the corner of the screen and listen at double speed as my mother, Cristine Ford, does a whole storytime about how I came out to her and my dad.
“I was a little shocked when she told us she’d ended things with her boyfriend,” Mom goes on. “We still love Rhys and I was worried something had happened, but instead I feel like she gave me and her dad the greatest gift.”
“What the frick?!” I hiss out loud.
Mom sniffles on the screen and I know exactly what’s coming. I watch her as she goes on, dabbing her under eyes with the backs of her knuckles. Behind me, madness is breaking out in the hallway. It’s time for street ball, but I can’t take my eyes off my phone screen.
My mom didn’t even cry when I came out to her. She was smiling the whole time while my dad just kinda gave me his typicalas long as you’re happy, I’m happyshrug. She hugged me and literally said “Yay, how fun!” And then asked me if I needed anything. I appreciate the acceptance and the support, but where was all this emotion when I told her?
The whole Ford family established Gay Is Good years ago. A bunch of my friends are queer. My mom’s best friends, who happen to be Bethany’s moms (plural) are also gay. I’mhappy my parents are cool with it. I know I’m lucky. But a ten-minute video?!
“Saylor came out to me and her dad a few weeks ago and I’ve just—I mean I’m proud that John and I created a home where they can feel safe. I’m proud to have raised such a beautiful, smart, open, intelligent kid.”
“Saylor, come on!” Laykin says, but her voice sounds muffled. More girls are spilling out into the hall. Someone turns up their music, and one of the coaches starts blowing her whistle to the beat of the song. There’s a whole dance party kicking off. I set the phone down on the edge of my bed and start to get changed. I’ve heard everything I need to hear. My mom is talking about how gay I am to her millions of followers.
No, she’scryingabout how gay I am and how good of a parentsheis to her millions of followers. My mom is embarrassing. It’s, like, her whole adorable brand. Just a cool mom doing the absolute most. Unfortunately, the brand pays her very well, and it pays for things like a summer full of camps and activities for three kids.
There are the occasional perks, like the pajama set I’m shucking off and the sports bra I’m about to put on. #Ad, Thanks, Bandoos. But having to hear from thousands of people how they feel about my looks or when they think my twelve-year-old sisters are being brats, or when she tells millions of people I’m gay and some woman in the comments, @FastLaneJane74, is mad that I won’t be available to marry her son—the nonstop intrusion makes me wish it would all go away.
God, the comments are a mess. My vision actually blurs when I read @AprilAnn_2233’s comment about how my parents really need to consider getting me and the twins to church. I look back up at my mom’s face, her glossy eyes and her perfect makeup, and I feel this awful heat crawl up my neck.
There’s embarrassed, like when she got us a brand deal with a tampon company after I got my first period much later than the rest of my friends, and then there’s this. My mom is talking about how complete our family is because my gayness somehow added a missing piece, and I feel like this is a level of cringe strong enough to restart a dying star.
“My family covers so many intersections now, with race and sexuality,” she goes on, and I think I might die. “And I just see this as an opportunity to grow and to let more love into our hearts.” Yeah, I’m gonna go barf and then I’m gonna die.
“Come on, Ford!” I look up again at Coach Synthia. She stops right in front of our room and gives her whistle two quick but really loud blows. “Can’t ball on the street in a jammy set. Let’s go! Get dressed.”
“Coming.” I text Glory back a quick thanks and tell her I’ll message her later, and then I lock my phone. The sight of my mom’s face is burned into my mind. I have to move. Off earth. I have to go live on another planet. I finish getting dressed and look around the room like I feel like I’m suddenly lost.
“You okay?” Laykin asks. She’s ready to go, sweatbands on and everything.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I force myself to smile before I cross the room and link my arm with hers. Laykin drags me out into the hall and starts dancing to loud music coming from the end of the hall as Coach Synthia counts us off. We make our way outside, high school players from all over the country, laughing and talking, a whole parade of basketball-related excitement. It should be fun, but none of them would be laughing if they knew how melodramatic my mom was and how millions of people were just egging her on.
Holding onto Laykin is the only way I can keep up. She’s talking with this tall white girl, Charlotte, the whole way and I half listen, but mostly I keep thinking about how many more comments will be on that video before we get back to the dorms. I’ve heard about the Witness Protection Program. I wonder if they take unaccompanied minors whose moms just can’t have normal reactions to stuff.
Ten minutes later we arrive at the outdoor courts. I try to pull myself back into the moment and enjoy this. Street ball was so much fun last year. A bunch of guys are already warming up. Some look our age and some are clearly older. Coach Warner, the head of camp, is there too. The place is all lit up, and the stands are half-full with what looks like kids and some parents from the neighborhood.
“Ladies! Welcome to street ball!” Coach Warner waits for us all to gather around before she explains the name of the game. “Tonight, we’ll be playing a quick round robin of mixed three-on-three. We can teach you some of the best technical drills in the game, but some of the best skills,the best lessons, come from a good old-fashioned game of pickup ball.”
Cheers fill the space. This is gonna be fun, if I can just focus on playing and not the sour feelings rolling around in my stomach. We’re quickly split into teams. I get matched with Charlotte and this college guy, Tyson. He’s freaking huge, but he has a warm vibe about him. We don’t go until the second round, which just gives me more time to think.
