Even though our dad was in full support of the idea, it was around then, I think, that Paige conflated everything that happened with BLB with the divorce and started blaming Mom. And for a little while, when Paige wanted me to be on her side about that, I wondered if I should too. After all, she seemed to be the one in motion, instigating the change.
But it wasn’t her so much as it was BLB itself. I think it honestly shocked my dad, how fast we grew. Mom embraced it, pushing outward to the wind, and Dad seemed to cave in on it, becoming more and more invested in the goings-on of our original locations, as if he could just put up blinders and pretend the world ended right there.
So really, it’s not fair to blame one of them. I think, in the end, it punctuated something they knew all along, but the day-to-day of our old lives always shielded them from. Mom is someone who likes adventure, and taking chances, and asking questions. Dad is someone who is perfectly content with what he has and where he is, and doesn’t especially love change. And Big League Burger was nothing if not changing.
And so were we. Mom asked me to come to New York with her, and I couldn’t imagine saying no. I was always her mini-me, always nipping at her heels. She made it sound like an adventure — and maybe it would have been, if Paige hadn’t decided at the last minute that she was coming too.
Enter the So Sorry Blondies. It was a few weeks after we’d moved here, and the first of Paige’s many blowups with Mom, accusing her of all kinds of things — saying she didn’t love Dad at all, that she’d ruined everything, yelling loud enough that it’s a miracle our neighbors’ ears didn’t bleed. Once it was over, Mom left to run in the park, and Paige left to go to the grocery store down the street, and I stayed in the too-big, too-unfamiliar apartment, wrestling with the strange feeling I had to take sides and not knowing which side to take.
Once she’d calmed down, Paige employed my help in making the So Sorry Blondies. We even Skyped in Dad, who didn’t have very strong dessert opinions, other than to make sure the edges were crispy. Mom accepted them with a conciliatory smile, and that night, we all ate them for dinner. It was one of those bright spots that punctuated a grim year; a weird little pocket in the timestream I remember with an equal amount of affection and regret. It hurts to remember, but sometimes I have to, or I’ll forget the way we used to be all together. Like the blondies themselves — the bitter and the sweet.
All this is to say, I know these blondies aren’t magic. It’s not going to make some bridge between me and Jack for all the water to go under. But I can’t think of anything else I can do.
“They’re for — a classmate,” I tell him, just barely stopping myself from saying they’re for a boy.
Mom’s key turns in the door.
“A classmate, huh?” my dad asks. I can hear the relief in his voice. The last thing either of us wants is another family feud. “What kind of teenage drama merits the full blondie?”
Mom waves as she comes in, dropping her briefcase on one of the kitchen stools and offering me a weary smile as she pulls off her sunglasses.
“It’s Dad,” I tell her.
She perks up. “Ask him how the new menu has been doing.” Even though we’re sprouting new locations every other week, she still loves to hear Dad’s day-to-day at the original spot.
“Tell her it’s going well,” says Dad, hearing her from the other end. “The Twitter, though — well, I’m at the front of the line, so I gotta order now. I’ll call you both back in a jif.”
“Chocolate pudding,” I remind him.
“On it, hon. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up and see my mom looking at the So Sorry Blondies, a wistful expression on her face. It makes my throat ache, like the space in the room where Paige should be has never been quite as big.
“Everything okay, Pep?”
No. And I’m not even really sure why. Only a few days ago I was about as attached to Jack as I am to the guy who delivers our mail.
I tuck my bangs behind my ear. If I get into it like I almost did with Dad, I’ll have to tell her about Jack, and given the circumstances, I don’t especially want her to know. “Yeah, just … doing a post for the blog.”
“Paige is still posting too?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. It’s weird that most of the information Mom gets about Paige these days comes from me or from Dad.
“Yeah.”
She closes the fridge and leans there against the door for a moment, biting her cheek the same way I am. No matter what evolution of my mom I’m looking at — the barefoot, back-porch-singing Nashville one, or the high-heeled, power-walking one — there are always these uncanny moments when we’re both thinking the same thing or feeling the same way, and our bodies seem to mirror each other’s, like two halves of a coin.
She blows out a breath, reopening the fridge to grab the jar of tomatoes she’s always snacking out of, and then props herself on the other kitchen stool. “Taffy had trouble reaching you toward the end of the day.”
“I had practice. And homework.” And apparently two hours of guilt-induced baking, although that goes without saying.
My mom nods. “There are a lot of eyes and ears on that Twitter feed, you know. I know you’re juggling a lot right now, but we could really use your help.”
“I did.” Not necessarily on purpose; after I ghosted on her, Taffy must have sent out the GIF of the cat herself. It had ten thousand retweets last I checked. “And now that the whole thing with that deli is winding down—”
“Winding down?” My mom laughs. “It’s just getting started.”
“What do you mean?”
She pulls out her phone and opens Twitter, where there’s a new tweet from the Girl Cheesing account. 
Girl Cheesing @GCheesing
Anyone who unfollows Big League Burger on Twitter gets 50 percent off their next grilled cheese! And, y’know, the relative comfort of knowing they’re eating something that doesn’t suck
6:48 PM · 21 Oct 2020
“So? Got any ideas cooking?”
The thing is, I always do. Within seconds, usually. Sometimes before I even finish reading a tweet. But right now, my mind just draws a giant blank. Right now, I’m looking at this tweet, but the only words I’m really hearing are Jack’s on his way out the door: Don’t you dare stand there and tell me it isn’t personal.
“Actually, I was thinking — I had some other ideas for things we could post, memes or some funny quote retweets we could do—”
“Sure, of course, we can do those later. But how are we going to respond to this?”
I’ve been smiling this uneasy smile, but I can feel it starting to tilt on my face. And that’s not the only thing tilting. Something is off here, something I don’t fully understand.
“Should we?” I ask. I keep my voice bright and noncombative. “I mean, they’re such small potatoes. We can do better than that, right? The McDonald’s Twitter account posted some promotion about their new McCafé flavor this morning, and I bet I could—”
“Maybe you could sleep on it? We can loop in Taffy in the morning.”
She pops another tomato into her mouth.
“Actually, Mom, um — I’m really busy this week, and I don’t think I should tweet at that Girl Cheesing account anymore.”
She shrugs. “So give Taffy some jumping-off points.”
I turn my back on her, pretending to wipe some crumbs off the counter so I can pinch my eyes shut for a moment and brace myself. Unlike Paige, I’m not so good on the whole rebellion front.