By the end of the day, everyone at school has lost interest in the blog post, and I’m off the hook for another week. I walk home slowly, too exhausted to be embarrassed anymore. When I see Mom, I’ll pretend that everything’s fine, because if I don’t, she’ll blog about my “attitude” and how I don’t appreciate the difficulties she faces.
Which is just so wrong. I kick hard at a rock in my way. I’m proud of Mom and what she’s achieved. In less than three years, she’s well on her way to becoming a really successful “Mommy Blogger.” Each week, her followers log in to read her posts about the trials and tribulations of raising two children as a single mother after her husband ran off with his personal trainer. We hardly ever see Dad nowadays, and Mom refused to take any of his money from the moment he left—not even for me and Kelsie. She started her blog to support us. Which she’s done.
Her proudest moment, at least as far as her followers are concerned, was when Dad came limping back a year or so ago, asking for a share of her blog money. She told him where to go in a vlog that went viral.
Now she writes her weekly post, and in between she has a lot of guest bloggers posting on her site, and a “Rant Page” for anyone to anonymously post on if they want to complain about their kids, husbands or partners, friends, work, mother-in-laws—whatever. She’s got lots of advertisers and is even working on a deal with Superdrug, a drugstore chain, to make a Mom Survival Kit that they’ll sell in all their stores.
So, it’s cool she’s an online celebrity, and while we’re not rich or anything, she’s made enough money for us to move into a three-bedroom house where I get my own room and don’t have to share with my sister. But there’s one big problem: Her trials and tribulations, rants, and things she has to “survive” mostly involve me, and sometimes Kelsie. I know she loves us, but sometimes I think she must really hate being a mom.
I walk slower and slower the closer I get to home. The thought of another evening spent watching Full House reruns with Kelsie makes me feel like a rag doll with the stuffing knocked out. I wonder what Violet is doing tonight. Probably spending a nice evening with her parents, telling them about her first day at school and the cool new friends she’s made, then settling down to play a board game or practice piano or learn Chinese or something—
As I turn down my street, my heart jumps to my throat. An ambulance with flashing lights is parked at the end of the block, right in front of our house. Two paramedics are loading a stretcher inside. Mom once told me that “it’s a bad day for somebody” whenever there’s an ambulance or the police come over.
I start to run, my backpack banging up and down on my back. Is it Mom? Kelsie? As the red and white lights blink on and off, all the mean thoughts I’ve ever had about them flash before my eyes. I wish I could unthink them.
The paramedic shuts the ambulance door. I realize they’re actually in front of the house next door. An old woman named Mrs. Simpson lives there. I’ve never met her, and I only know her name because a deliveryman who was looking for her house came to ours by mistake. Her house is kind of spooky—the curtains are always closed and I’ve never seen a light on. When we moved here a few months ago, Mom talked about inviting her over for coffee, but surprise, surprise, it never happened.
I walk up to the paramedic. “Is Mrs. Simpson okay?”
“She’ll be fine. She had a little fall,” he says. “Got a bump on the head. She managed to dial nine-one-one, otherwise…” He shakes his head. “You a relative?”
“No. I don’t really know her.”
He climbs into the passenger seat. “Okay, well, she’s in good hands now; we’ll take it from here.”
The ambulance pulls away, and the siren begins to wail. I stand alone on the sidewalk, watching until it disappears around the corner. In the other houses down the street, there’s not even a curtain twitching in a downstairs window. No one seems to have noticed anything.
Inside our house, Kelsie’s watching TV in the living room. I plunk down my bag and go to the kitchen. The door to Mom’s office—the “Mom Cave”—is open.
“Scarlett? Is that you?” she calls out.
“Yeah,” I say. Anger simmers in my chest. Mom has so many thousands of online “friends,” but has never paid the slightest bit of attention to the old woman next door. Not that I have either. And now it might be too late.
“Guess what?” Mom rushes out of her office like a slightly wrinkled tornado. She embraces me in a hug. For a second I almost give in to the comforting feeling and hug her back. But all too quickly, the other stuff comes rushing too. I pull away.
“What?” I say cautiously.
“I’m in Superdrug! They signed the contract today. They’re going to stock the survival kit in two hundred stores to start with. Isn’t that fantastic?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Here, let me show you the prototype.” She goes to the counter and picks up a little box printed with purple and pink. “We’ve got some hand lotion and sanitizer, a gel face mask, earplugs, lip balm, jelly beans, and a hollow chocolate egg with a Mom Survival Tip inside.”
“Oh.”
“They wouldn’t let me include the caffeine pills, but we’re going to add a coffee sachet. You know, like a tea bag?”
“Great. Didn’t you hear the ambulance?”
“What ambulance? Anyway, I’ve still got to choose the jelly bean colors. What do you think about pink?”
“Pink’s good.” Or scarlet…I don’t add.
“Terrific. Pink it is. I’ll email them now.” She heads for the door of her office.
“Mrs. Simpson had a fall,” I say. “They took her to the hospital.”
“Who?” She barely pauses.
“The neighbor next door. The old woman.”
“Oh, is that her name?”
“Yeah.”
“Well…too bad.” She gives a little shrug. “Oh, and Scarlett, would you mind getting Kelsie her juice? I’ve got to prepare for tonight’s online chat. It’s on how to talk to your teenager.”
“Sure,” I say through my teeth.
“Thanks. Oh, and one more thing…”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for being such a big help.”
She closes the door, and I stare for a moment at the MOM CAVE sign swinging on its hook. Part of me wants to throw open the door and demand that she “talk to her teenager” for real. I’d tell her exactly how I feel, tell her exactly how bad my day has been thanks to her, and tell her exactly where she, her two hundred Superdrug stores, and her thousands of online followers can go. But to be honest, it’s just not worth it. Much better to simply check off my tasks one by one—dinner, homework, watching TV, shower—and go to bed.
Which is exactly what I do. By the end of the evening, my anger has dulled, and I start to feel numb. I collapse on my bed more tired from doing nothing than if I’d run a marathon. And then I can’t sleep. I think about Mrs. Simpson. It’s been a bad day for her—much worse than for me. I hope she’s okay. I close my eyes and try to think good thoughts for her, but my mind keeps wandering. And then, just as I’m finally starting to drift off, I’m startled awake by an earsplitting screech.