I head up to my room and dump my clothes in the laundry, trying not to be weird about the fact that my pajamas smell like Heaven’s room. I get changed and wait in my towel for Mom to come help me. I dig up my phone and figure I should watch the video because I know she’ll bug me about it until I do. Plus, I want to see how much Heaven is in it.
I go to Mom’s BeeBop and, ignoring that one of the new pinned videos is about my hair, scroll to the first new video. I click on it and have to give Mom credit—she’s a master when it comes to editing. She shows off the decorations and the stars of the night, my sisters. There are clips of me andDad helping out, the DJ, and of course Heaven. She looks so adorable focusing over Stella’s arm.
It’s a solid three minutes capturing the whole night, set to a cute song. There are forty thousand likes and three thousand comments. I know I shouldn’t look, but I do.
A lot of the comments are nice, praising my mom for going all out just for the fun of it. My mom’s responded to a few people already. Some people think Mom is doing too much. And then, of course, others are mad about the bobs. There’s some racism in there. There always is. And comments about how living through us won’t make Mom feel better. I scroll down and see the first negative comment about the tattoos.
“Kids this young do not need to mark their bodies.”
That got forty responses.
“You can just buy temporary tattoos online. You must love spending money.”
I close BeeBop and go over to Instagram. She’s uploaded it there, and it’s more of the same. Thousands of likes, less comments but more of the same. But this time, she’s tagged Heaven. I can only imagine what her notifications look like. I go to her page and her follower count has doubled. I don’t know what to think. I told her I’d help her with this. I like Heaven so much and I don’t want her sucked up in my mom’s content machine and seeing horrible comments. I have to figure out what to do about it.
33
Heaven
I take the quickest shower of my life and am reminded that blow-drying my hair takes eight freaking years. I get it mostly dry and run to find Dad, who’s fresh out of his own skate park shower. He gives me two braids up the back into two buns on top of my head. If I wrap it right, it should last me another two days. I’m heading out for a long night at the Yeuns’. I’m not staying over, but we’re gonna get pizza and play Gran Turismo into the wee hours. I also need to talk to Miss Kelly.
Saylor and I have been missing each other all day. She texted me when I was at the skate park, and then when I messaged her back, she was out with her family. She told me to let her know when I finally watch her mom’s post about the party, but I haven’t gotten to it yet. I drive over to Jake’s, and as I park, I see another text from Saylor.
Did you watch it yet?
Also, you’re cute.
I almost type something close to “love you too,” but think twice about it. Still, I’m smiling when I message her back.
I’ll watch it now.
And you’re cute.
I leave my car running because it’s still like eighty degrees out as I switch over to Instagram. I did myself a favor and didn’t check it earlier because I wanted to honor the vibes of Skate Church, and I think that was a good idea. I have tons of notifications. Not just from Mrs.Ford, but a bunch of other people. I let the sound play for a second—it’s some poppy song that’s being run into the ground but I’m sure is good for views—then mute it and let the video play. It’s a nice recap of the party. I try not to cringe too hard when I see myself leaning over one of the twin’s arms drawing my little heart out. Still, it’s nice that Mrs.Ford got some close-ups of the kittens in the sand. For my first time doing this, they came out pretty good.
I brave a look at some of the comments. There’s nothing weird, well nothing weird for a Cristine Ford comments section at least. I read one comment about how twelve-year-olds don’t need tattoos, and I think I’m good for now. I text Saylor back.
Your mom missed her calling as a movie producer.
Thank her again for me.
I go back to my Instagram, take a deep breath, and look a little closer at my notifications. I have more followers and a bunch of likes. There’s only a few new comments—all on stuff from a few days ago, and all nice and chill. There’s a handful of direct messages that I’m a little scared to check. After all nothing good goes on in the DMs. Part of me thinks about waiting until I see Saylor again, but I suck it up and click on the first one from this woman who’s apparently friends with Mrs.Ford. She wants to know if I’m willing to do temporary tattoos for her five-year-old’s upcoming party. She knows it’s short notice, but she loves the idea of doing more beach themes. Reading the message again does something weird to my pulse. Something not good.
I don’t respond. I just click to the next message and then the next and the next. It’s all the same. Parents of kids who were at the party or parents who follow Mrs.Ford. There’s a brand that prints temporary tattoos spamming me with discounts to print sheets of my work for the next event. A weird sensation starts thumping in my ears. It’s new but familiar, and I don’t like it at all. I’m about to go back through my likes and new followers when Saylor texts me back.
I’m really sorry about the comments.
Maybe she shouldn’t have tagged you.
I blink and for half a second I don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s still thinking about the madness on her mom’s account. It is a lot, but I’m stuck on the idea of doingthat whole party setup for a five-year-old from a family I don’t know.
Just skimmed the comments.
I think that was part of me working the party
The exposure.
It’s all good.
