up thinking about what to vlog about next, while on other nights, I lie awake smiling at the fact that I have, like, real subscribers—the one constant in my life nowadays.
I wish I could say vlogging is my whole life, but it’s not. It’s my safe zone, though—the one thing I can escape to when everything else seems to be falling apart.
As far as I know, no one from my tiny high school, not even Cat Davenport, my best friend, knows about my vlog At least, I have yet to be approached or made fun of for my “loser vlog series,” so that’s a plus. I vlog under the pseudonym Sam Green for a reason, as this vlog is where I open myself up, and I want it to remain a secret. The only ones who know about it are my mom and me—and that’s it. It’s weird, how I’m more comfortable being who I really am to complete strangers than to the people I’ve known all my life. But all the same, it’s the truth.
I film my vlogs with the same ritual over and over: I drink a glass of water, take a deep breath, and stare straight into the camera. You’re just talking to Mom, I remind myself, because I know I can’t talk to her any more outside of this, because this vlog is the only way I can feel close to her again. Then, I click play, smile, and begin.
Mom died six months ago, far enough into the past that I should be able to talk about her with a smile, with the months of pain turned to fond memories and rainbows, and her death just another memory.
Keyword: should.
But every morning when I wake to find her gone from the house, it feels like I’m reliving that first day without her over and over again, like I’m trapped in this sub-reality of tears and death and so, so much emptiness. The worst part is I’m not sure I want to leave it, leave her.
I’m not sure I want to let go.
The therapists say it’s because of Dad. After all, her whole death was his fault. He was wasted one night and decided it was a brilliant idea to drive her home and then… nope. According to the police he was speeding and ran a red light when another car slammed into the passenger door, killing Mom instantly. Dad survived it, even though I wish he hadn’t. I mean, I’ve always hated him, but now? Now he’s dead to me. The way I see it, if I can’t have Mom, then he can’t have me, either.
“West.” Cat puts a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“I…” I look up. Her blue eyes lock with mine. “Yeah. I’m okay, I guess,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”
I force a laugh, but it’s weighted down by sadness. “Dude, I know.”
It’s Saturday, and we stand in front of the shopping mall Cat dragged me to (she bribed me with ice cream, naturally) so she could buy what she calls her “new Hogwarts wardrobe,” an idea I was immediately intrigued by. I only saw her pick out a wizarding cape of some sort, though, because I was busy hiding in the back of the building behind the sports bras so I wouldn’t be seen in a girly clothing store, in a valiant attempt to defend my manhood.
People rush all around here, gossiping and laughing and swinging their shopping bags like weapons in a game of Shopper vs. Shopper. Others shove past us, giving us annoyed looks like we’re somehow the cause of their own recklessness. The sun is out, and it’s times like these where I’m reminded why a) I hate shopping and b) shopping on a sunny Saturday is the worst idea in the history of ever.
God, that ice cream bribe better be worth it.
“We going?” Cat asks me.
“To get the ice cream?”
Cat nods.
“Hell yes,” I say, grinning. “I call a vanilla ice cream with whipped-cream, rainbow sprinkles, chocolate fudge, and a cherry on top.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh god, you’re such a four-year-old.”
“I believe the appropriate term here is ‘hipster.’”
“No. No it isn’t.”
“Hater.”
“Freak.”
“Alien child.”
She stifles a laugh. “You are also so weird.”
“Thank you.”
“I meant it as a compliment!”
“Oh,” I say, waggling my eyebrow at her. “I know.”
She just shakes her head and smiles.
We start walking down the sidewalk, Cat holding her shopping bag full of Harry Potter nerdness and me with my short sleeves and