The thing I can’t stop thinking about after my cousin’s last sleepover
Lila’s 11, and she stayed with me three nights last week while my aunt pulled double shifts at the hospital. She brought her sour gummy worms that leave neon pink sugar everywhere, and that old one-eyed stuffed rabbit I gave her when I was 18 and she was 5, the one she still swears she doesn’t sleep with but always brings anyway. I work closing shift at the coffee shop down the street from my apartment, so I left her with the code to get in, told her order whatever pizza she wanted off my app. When I got home at 10, she was curled up on my couch doing her makeup for a reel, phone propped up on my coffee table, volume turned all the way up. I didn’t mean to look, but I couldn’t not.
She’s got 9,800 something followers on TikTok, almost all of them grown men. I know because I counted, sort of, when she fell asleep that night. Her phone was on the nightstand, didn’t lock it, never locks it around me. A notification popped up from some guy with a profile pic of a beat-up pickup truck, username jake_m28, that said “You look way too good for that school uniform, baby.” I stood there by the bed for a full minute, holding my dirty laundry basket, just staring at it. My chest got all tight, like I was the one who’d done something wrong.
I remember when I was 11. I spent all my time climbing the gnarled oak tree in my parents’ backyard, stealing my mom’s cherry lip gloss, writing terrible poetry in a spiral notebook I hid under my mattress. The only people who saw me awkwardly figuring out being a preteen were my best friend and my parents, who’d yell at me for tracking mud in the house. It’s so different now. Lila posts three reels a day, most of them are those transition trends: she starts in an oversized hoodie, no makeup, hair pulled back in a messy scrunchie, text that says “when you show up to class vs when you see the cute 8th grader” then cut to her with all this contour and lip gloss, hair done, a cropped tank top that’s just a little too tight, pouting at the camera. She’s 11. She just got her first training bra last Christmas.
I get it, though. That’s the messy part I don’t tell most people. Her dad left three years ago, hasn’t called once. My aunt works two jobs just to pay rent for their tiny apartment, so Lila’s alone a lot more than she should be. All her friends went to that fancy soccer camp this summer that cost $800 a week, so Lila stayed home, spent all her time building her account. Those followers comment on every post, tell her she’s beautiful, tell her she’s gonna be famous. When’s the last time someone tells her that that much, you know? My aunt’s tired when she gets home, she’s usually just folding laundry or falling asleep on the couch before dinner. I see her once or twice a week, that’s it. Of course she likes the attention. It’s not her fault she’s craving it so bad.
I tried bringing it up once, a couple months ago when we went to the mall. She stopped in every fast fashion changing room to film reels, tried on this low-cut crop top that was clearly made for a grown woman, her chest was almost spilling out the top. The middle-aged sales lady kept side-eyeing us the whole time we were in the fitting room area, and I pulled Lila aside after, quiet, so no one else could hear, and said “Hey, maybe that one’s a little too small, want me to help you find another one that fits better?” She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck, told me I was just a boomer hater who was jealous because I don’t have 10k followers. She said all her friends post stuff like that, that three different small clothing brands have already DMed her asking about collabs when she hits 10k. When I asked her if she knew how old most of her followers are, she said “Who cares? They’re fans.” I dropped it. I didn’t want to fight, I didn’t want her to stop wanting to hang out with me.
When she hit 10k yesterday, she texted me a screenshot, all excited, three exclamation points, said “I TOLD YOU I COULD DO IT!!!!” I texted back that I was so proud of her, that’s so amazing, I always knew you could. I didn’t say what I was thinking. What I was thinking was that half of those 10k people are grown men who are into little kids, and one of these days one of them is gonna ask her to meet up at the mall or something, and she’s gonna go because she thinks he’s just a fan who wants to take a picture. I’ve read enough stories, I see the stuff that pops up on my own feed sometimes. I know how this goes.
Everyone says I should talk to my aunt more seriously. I did, sort of, a month ago. She just sighed, rubbed her temples, said “Kids these days grow up so fast, what am I supposed to do? Take her phone away completely? She’ll just hate me, and I’m already never home. I don’t have time to check every comment, I’m working 12 hour days most of the week.” My mom said “Just keep an eye on her, you’re closer to her age than we are, she’ll listen to you.” But what does keeping an eye even mean? I’m not her mom. I can’t control what she does when she’s at home alone all afternoon. I feel guilty even thinking about it this much, like I’m overreacting. Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe all kids do this now.
Last week, when she left to go home, she left one of her gummy worms under my couch. I found it this morning, all sticky, covered in couch fuzz. I threw it away, and I just stood there by the trash can for a minute, thinking about her. I don’t have a solution. I don’t know if I should confront her, if I should report all those weird accounts, if I should just keep deleting creepy comments when she falls asleep and doesn’t see. I don’t want to ruin the one thing that makes her feel special right now. I just… I worry. That’s all. I worry that one day something bad is gonna happen, and I could’ve stopped it, and I didn’t. That’s the thing I can’t stop thinking about.
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