Gram was truly a relic from another era.
The Bees went back to sorting through their quilting patterns, trying to come up with a new design to account for Iris’s untimely absence. Gram probably thought I’d wormed my way out of work because I was tired from the game. Which was fine. She could think whatever she wanted, as long as I had a full day to process how I’d break the news of my sudden notoriety. I needed to protect the good memories of the game for Mom, while keeping Gram’s already less-than-warm feelings about the Internet in check. If I had a Magic 8 Ball, I was pretty sure it’d tell me Outlook not so good.
“If you’re done giving her the third degree”—Donna nudged Gram, a sparkling laugh quirking the corners of her full mouth—“I’d like to hear more about this boy from the game.”
Just the mention of Eric made me seethe. The way he was preening away on Twitter, acting like he’d caught the fly ball and given it to me. And for what? What did he stand to gain from all this? I had no doubt this was all some kind of grand ruse. Either to stretch out the fifteen minutes of fame he seemed to bask in, or because the pull of approval was too strong.
I understood that pull. That spark I’d get in my chest whenever I got a thumbs-up on one of my reviews. The way it felt to see my number of views steadily rising. The want and need to be successful, to earn a proper income stream from YouTube. To get out of Honeyfield. Maybe Eric had similar dreams. Maybe he was just making the best of a shitty situation.
“Don’t bother.” Peg gave me a wink. “Macy didn’t even get his number.”
I hunched my shoulders. “Thanks for the reminder.” If I had gotten his number, I’d be using it right now to call him up and ask for an explanation. “If you’re all done picking over my non-love life, am I excused?”
Gram waved me away. “Fine. Go on out back with the other layabout.”
I ground my teeth. One weekend. Mom takes one weekend off in two years, and Gram was suddenly acting like she’d been freeloading since I was born. Never mind that we all pitched in to keep our heads above water. Gram’s social security checks barely covered the taxes on the house, her smokes, medical insurance, and quilting supplies for the Bees.
Mom and I took care of the rest.
I pushed open the screen door on the porch to find Mom laid out on an old beach recliner. Strips of the plastic had broken away and they dragged along the near-dead lawn. She had one foot dipped in the kiddie pool beside her with a glass of lemonade in one hand and a worn copy of a Nora Roberts novel in the other. She looked up from her book and smiled, and I wanted to keep that image forever. She looked so relaxed. Happy. I made the right call on putting off telling her about Eric and Jessica Banks.
“Permission to enter the Hamptons?” I asked.
Mom stood and gave me a grandiose bow. “Permission granted.”
I kicked off my shoes and stepped into the kiddie pool. The cool water lapped at my ankles, taking off some of the burn still rolling around inside me. “Butch let me take today off work too, so now Gram thinks we’re both sponges on society.”
Mom splashed a little water at me with her foot. “She’s just mad because I won’t let her into the Hamptons with that gnarly toe of hers.”
Raptor foot. Gram had an enormous toenail that had gone bad, and instead of having it removed like a normal person, she’d let that hard, crusty thing grow. Sometimes clicking it on the kitchen floor at us whenever she wanted to be truly evil. Nothing got us to clear a room faster than the sound of that nail on linoleum.
I made a retching noise. “Please don’t make me vomit. I didn’t even eat lunch yet.”
“I was just about to go over to Fanny’s for some eggs.” Mom pointed to the basket of cucumbers she’d picked from our garden to barter. In the summer, most of our food came from trading with others in town. It’s how we all got by. “Do you want to come?”
“Nah, someone needs to keep an eye on the Bees during their time of need.” I’d no sooner said the words when a shriek came from the dining room, then all four voices raised at once. Getting them to agree on the theme for their most important quilt of the year hadn’t yet ended in bloodshed, but it had come close.
Mom left with her cucumbers to trade for eggs, and loaded up last year’s winning Bees quilt to trade for a half a cow at the Jackson farm, which would pack our garage freezer and give us enough beef until next summer. It was the way we’d always done things, and likely always would, unless I got my YouTube channel off the ground.
That wide-open pit of fear, of never having enough, opened before me again. Things had been going along fine until Jessica Banks. Even if she had boosted my views and likely thought she’d done me a favor, I didn’t want this. Not this way. R3ntal Wor1d was supposed to be my way out. Something I could build and call my own without having to give away pieces of myself just to survive.
Even though Gram never said it, I knew it killed her to trade those quilts for beef. Just like it killed Mom to wait on those people she went to high school with, who only came back to town to visit family, and who smirked at the sorry life of the pregnant cheerleader. Gram and Mom did what they had to do, and I was proud of where I came from, but I wanted options. The chance to fail or succeed outside of what this town expected of an Evans. I’d created Misty Morning to keep my real life separate. I’d never given anything away, never mentioned my real name on R3ntal Wor1d, but with one series of misconstrued events, Jessica Banks had torn the doors off everything I’d wanted to keep locked away.
I thumbed open YouTube. My phone took a sizable chunk of the two hundred dollars a month I’d been earning from my reviews, but I’d told myself it had been worth it, it would all be worth it. Someday. I again swore at the cracked screen I’d eventually have to pull together enough money to replace, and flipped over to my channel to see if I could deal with what strangers were saying about me—not Misty, but Macy Evans and who I was as a person. The one thing I swore I’d never barter or trade.
GinaLaCross: How can you talk about feminism in your videos and then let some guy treat you like a truck stop glory hole? Hypocrite.
Nope. Too soon. I closed YouTube and opened Twitter. Eric had finally followed me back, and I had a new DM in my inbox. It could only be from him. I’d long ago set options to only allow those I followed to DM me, thanks to one too many dick pics sent by random sickos. As much as I wanted to figure out what kind of game he was playing, I didn’t click on the message right away. DMing him put me at risk of screenshots. It would be so easy to twist my words with a well-placed photo chop. I knew how Twitter worked. I’d seen both the rise and fallout of viral fame, with popcorn in hand, for years. Never thinking I’d one day be weighing my every word and wondering which ones could be used against me.
The preview of his message showed: We should talk. My finger shook as I moved to tap the message. I desperately needed answers, and this was the only way I’d get them. Sucking in a deep breath, I clicked.
Eric (Baseball Babe) Dufrane: We should talk. I think this situation could benefit us both. Feel free to FaceTime me.
I stared at his phone number. Talking face-to-face made me more comfortable than DMing. I wouldn’t have the time or space to weigh my words properly, but at least I could avoid the threat of screenshots. I started typing, deleted, typed again, still unsure of how I’d answer him. His profile picture appeared in a little bubble in the DM with three dots.