1/2
Mom says keeping journals is dangerous. I think she’s just worried about what I might say when she’s not watching. Add it to the list of stuff she won’t let me do. No video games. No unapproved labels. No junk food. No free time.
That’s like a million nos, in case you’re keeping track, and I didn’t even get to the big stuff.
I never ask for anything. But the one time I tell her I don’t want her to post pictures of me on the blog—the ONE time—you’d think I stole a car or something. Big mad. Raging. Spit flew out of her mouth and landed on my forehead, it was so gross.
“You have no idea the repercussions of what you’re saying!” Throwing around dictionary words like I’ll be more scared because they’re bigger. “Think of what you’d be doing to us—to me!”
Always about her.
Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. We should have a “proper” intro. My name is Chloe Cates, also known as CC Spectacular. Chloe because of my grandmother, Dad’s mom. I never met her, but I’ve seen pictures. Pretty in that sepia-filter way. She lives somewhere in Florida with my grandfather George. Dad says they like the heat and the politics, and idk what most of that means, but they didn’t even try to see us that one time we went to Disney.
But that’s a whole other story.
So, Chloe from my grandmother. Cates because, well, this part is sad. Mom’s obsessed with this old movie Gremlins. From like the ’80s. Anyway, the woman who starred in that movie was named Phoebe Cates. Mom says I have the same wavy brown hair as her, so we ran with it.
Of course, Chloe Cates isn’t my real name. My real name is Abby Scarborough. It feels good to write it down. Good, but super weird. Everybody knows CC Spectacular, but Abby Scarborough doesn’t exist, not on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat—nowhere that counts. Why would she? Who cares about me when Chloe is the star?
I don’t go anywhere without my trusty Chloe Cates cape. I’m positively sparkling! That’s my catchphrase. One of them anyway.
“SIGH.” I miss friends. I thought Willa Forest from around the corner was going to be my BFF but she stopped calling for no reason. So really, I haven’t made a real friend since I was like 4. Sucks. Eating popcorn in pajamas under a pillow fort at a sleepover. Four-year-old me didn’t know how good she had it.
Then all of this started.
I was 4 when Mom started her blog. “CC and Me,” it’s called. Quick, cute, and best of all, catchy. When someone asks her what it’s about, she tells them *clears throat and uses best Meryl impression* a mother’s personal reflection on parenting and what it means to be a good mom. What she should say is A MOTHER TRYING TO CONTROL HER DAUGHTER’S LIFE!!
Four years old. Almost 10 years I’ve been on camera.
I liked it, at first. The attention and happiness. So many smiles. It was like a game. Mom bought crazy photo props. She set up shoots for whatever she was writing about that week. I remember the first one best. “A Mother’s Galaxy,” was the title. She made her own backdrop. Took her 2 days to finish. She painted it black and added like 4 layers of sparkle. Dad was so mad she got glitter everywhere. He calls glitter a virus because it spreads and sticks to everything. He’s not wrong, but Chloe is basically made of glitter so
Then she glued on papier-mâché planets and comets and finished with a glossy topcoat. I got to help with that part. I remember being so happy she let me use the big girl paintbrush.
And the cherry on the sundae was me. I was the sun. The biggest star of all.
Dressed in a tutu made of gold tulle and bedazzled with cosmic gems. The leotard was gold, too, custom made by an Etsy shop. I loved that outfit. I wanted to spin and twirl and never take it off. But I couldn’t get it dirty. Couldn’t rip it. Everything had to be perfect for our debut.
Mom did my hair, straightening it in sections until it fell to my hips. Curling the ends like birthday ribbons and dousing me with gallons of hairspray. SO bad for the environment, tbh, but it was cute.
She did my makeup too. Not the kid stuff. Real makeup. Eyeshadow, mascara, lipstick. A little pink blush on my cheeks. “You’re ready,” she said with one last dab of color. I didn’t know what I was ready for, though, only that I had to smile pretty and give attitude.
“People like attitude when it comes from toddlers,” she said. “It’s sassy and cute and guaranteed to get traffic.”
I remember being confused b/c I thought traffic was bad. Funny how many different meanings there are for words. Dad’s always pointing out bad drivers when we’re stuck in traffic. I know for a fact anyone driving a Subaru is going to be a bad driver. When I get my license in a few years, we won’t be shopping for one of those. I pay attention.
JJ might, though. He’s def gonna be a bad driver. He’d rather ride around on his dumb scooter or whatever he does with his friends when he’s not here. And he’s *never* here.
Anyway.
Mom showed me every time someone liked her posts or subscribed. “It’s so good!” she said. “We want that number to keep getting higher. Sponsors will come in droves, Abby-girl!”
Abby-girl. Who I used to be before the blog went viral.
“It sounds better, right?” Mom said. “Someone might call you Abby Scabby or Abby Dabby Doo. We don’t want that. Chloe Cates is magical. Like a princess name. Think of it as part of your costumes. When we do our skits, you’ll pretend you’re Chloe Cates and all your heebie-jeebie jitters will float away.” She swooshed her hand like rainbow. “To the sky, Abby-girl. When you’re CC, send those nervous bubbles to their castles in the clouds.”
I never got nervous. I never had a choice. What if I don’t want to have a brand? What if I don’t care that other kids could make fun of me? Some days, I’d rather be Abby Scabby than the fake me she wants me to be.
My life isn’t mine. It’s not real. I just act out a bunch of stories to make our subscribers happy.
I’m tired of being make-believe.