Don't Read the Comments

by Eric Smith

  “You ask your dad what it was like for him back home. Ask him,” she says, pointing at me. “You ask him about his old jobs before we got together. The restaurants. The manual labor. All that stuff he hated. I don’t want that for you. And I know he doesn’t want that for you, either. That’s...that’s all parents want. Something better for their children.”

  My phone buzzes in my hand, and I hold it up.

  “I’m not going to stop talking to her,” I say.

  “And I’m not going to stop pushing you toward a better career,” my mom fires back, a watery little smile starting to trickle in at the edge of her mouth.

  “I’m not going to stop telling you I won’t do it, though,” I counter. “It’s not what I want for my life.”

  “That’s fine.” She shrugs. “You’ve still got your senior year to figure out, and for me to keep convincing you.”

  I glance back over at the desk and huff. The PC, all of Dad’s secrets, barely hidden there, a tiny corner of a folder on the desktop. Mom could easily find that, if she wasn’t so busy. Catch the odd pixel out of place down there. A secret agent hiding secrets my dad is not.

  The door into the office from the house swings open, and my dad peeks in, as if he’s been summoned by my thoughts. His eyes dart between the two of us, his face awash in concern. I have to struggle to not glare at him as I glance back at the computer, filled with evidence.

  I need to read those other letters. I need to find out who he’s talking to. Or has been talking to, all this time.

  He steps in and closes the door.

  “Mira and I can hear you all way across the house,” he says quietly. “Everything okay? Need me to come back and fill in? I can—”

  “You shouldn’t have to—” my mom starts.

  “I want to,” my dad insists. “It’s okay.” He turns to me, a small smile on his face. “There’s only a couple patients on the schedule. Go. Enjoy your summer.”

  I lower my head, forcing myself to unclench my jaw. He keeps smiling back, oblivious to what I’ve found. A number of emotions swirl around inside me—relief that I can escape all of this, but so furious at what I’ve discovered.

  I have to turn away, back to my mom. I give her a hug.

  “I’m... I’m sorry,” I say. I’ve been so hard on her, and she doesn’t deserve any of this.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Get going.”

  And I’m out the door. I don’t look back.

  12

  DIVYA

  There’s a package on my doorstep.

  It’s day three...maybe four? Whatever the case, it’s been a minute since I’ve actually ventured outside, or turned on my computer, or bothered with anything. And now, there’s this.

  It’s ridiculous. This shouldn’t be the place I’m in right now, in my life. Glaring at packages like they’re something out of a New Jersey Transit public service announcement poster about mysterious, unmarked bags in a train car.

  But here we are.

  Whatever it is, it’s upside down. I look down the street from my apartment building, one way, and then the other, and then across for any odd cars. No one with tinted windows. No one sitting by and waiting to see the results.

  “Ah, fuck it,” I huff, and kick the box over.

  My name and address are written on the front, in neat, lovely handwriting. And the return address... I squint for a moment, then squat down to read it. I don’t recognize the address—it’s from out in California someplace—but the last name...

  Siddiqui. I know that name, but I can’t quite place it.

  I scoop the box up and head inside. Once I’m back in my living room, I carefully open it, peeling away the brown paper wrapped around the box. After the second or third tear, I gasp, realizing what’s inside, and shred the rest of the paper off it. I hold the box up, staring at the packaging, the photos depicting what’s inside.

  It’s the latest VR headset from Oculus, which is being released after the giant GamesCon convention. They’re supposed to be doing some presentations with these there, but it’s not supposed to hit actual retailers for another month or so.

  And it’s here. In my living room.

  I flip the box over and see a little card attached to the back. Not a folder, though, or some hurriedly folded bundle of press releases stuffed by a frustrated intern. A personal note in a small light blue envelope.

  I open it and pull out a card. There’s a pattern of pixels on the front of it, forming something not quite recognizable, something artsy. Inside, though, written quickly and in the same neat, elegant handwriting...

  Log on. Fight back.

  H. Siddiqui

  Oculus, PR

  ...and now I recognize the name. The publicist over at Oculus who sent me my first headset, the one I’ve been using to explore in Reclaim the Sun. She’d reached out a while ago, and her email is sitting in my inbox unanswered. I strangle back a sob and inhale sharply, trying not to cry.

  She doesn’t have to say anything else. I know she understands.

  I grab the headset and the card and race into my room. My desk is still a wreck from the other day, from what happened to Mom. I see my beat-up webcam, dangling haphazardly from the desk, and wince. I realign my computer on the desk, positioning the monitor flush with the straight line of the edge, and scoop my keyboard and mouse off the floor.

  My other Oculus headset is also sitting on the floor, upside down, tossed aside carelessly, just like the keyboard, webcam, and everything else was. I grab it, inspecting the sides. It looks fine, and when I glance over at my new one, an idea bubbles up in my mind. I know I could sell the old one, head to the used-gadgets place downtown. I could maybe get $400, without a doubt.

  But...

  I place the old headset on my bed and grab the new one, fussing with the plastic bags holding the new HDMI cords and the like, to get it all hooked up to my computer.

  And then I see it. My little slogan, on my desk.

  I stare at the Don’t Read the Comments sign, then back at the note from Oculus. Without a moment’s hesitation, I fold the note in half and place it over my old motto, the notecard covering the frame like a tent. The PR representative’s note stares back at me.

  I turn my computer on. The PC hums to life, the sound encouraging.

  Log on. Fight back.

  That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  13

  AARON

  Ryan lives just a few blocks away, and since we’ve been inseparable since forever, I know, I just know, that if he got the news around the same time I did, he’ll be out on his front porch waiting for me. It’s that best friend ESP you get after over a decade of hanging out with the same person almost every day.

  My phone buzzes while I’m walking toward his house, and I load up the chat client.

  RECLAIM THE SUN: CHAT APPLICATION

  D1V: Hey so, bit of an odd question for you here.

  D1V: But your mom’s practice, it’s the one on 9th and Pine, right? In Philadelphia?

  D1V: Don’t be weirded out.

  I stop walking and stare at my phone for a beat, then turn back to my house, hurriedly hustling down the sidewalk. I peer around the corner, as if D1V is going to be right there, sitting on my doorstep or something. A ridiculous romantic comedyesque moment flashes through my head, her waiting on my step, the two of us running toward each other in slow motion—

  I groan, feeling foolish. Of course she’s not there.

  I shake my head and continue toward Ryan’s.

  AARON: Hey! Um. Yes? Why? How do you know that?

  D1V: Well, I mean, Aaron.

  D1V: You aren’t exactly a case study in how to prevent someone from looking you up.

  D1V: Your last name is in your profile, and so is the city you live in.

  D1V: Also, you told me
your mom is a doctor, and there’s only one Dr. Jericho in Philly.

  AARON: Ah.

  D1V: You even said you didn’t want to be the “next Dr. Jericho” once.

  AARON: So, I should be a little more careful, is what you’re saying.

  D1V: Maybe. You’re a dude. You have it easier on the Internet.

  AARON: Hey, I don’t know about all that.

  D1V: How many people have come after you, while gaming with me and being in those articles?

  I don’t even have to think, really. The whole thing with Jason and ManaPunk—that’s different. It’s not someone threatening my life, my safety, my family. It’s someone worried about... I don’t know, potential consequences? Not upset at me for just, you know, existing.

  AARON: You’re right, I see what you’re saying. I’m sorry.

  D1V: It’s fine, just, pointing that out, is all.

  D1V: I’m um... I’m sending you something.

  AARON: What?

  AARON: Like, in the mail?

  D1V: No by drone YES IN THE MAIL. I hope you like it, and that it um.

  D1V: Uh.

  D1V: Brings us closer.

  D1V: Or something.

  D1V: OKAY I FEEL AWKWARD NOW BYYYYYE.

  Closer? I feel like I’m sweating, and I stop walking and sit down on the curb, my feet on the cobblestone streets that line Ryan’s and my neighborhood. I have no idea what to say, and I just stare at the phone for a beat, the chat client window open. It buzzes again, and I refocus, shaking the haze away from staring too long.

  D1V: Everything okay over there?

  AARON: Yeah, yeah. It’s fine, I’m just...flustered.

  D1V: Good kind, or bad kind?

  AARON: Can it be both?

  D1V: Oh.

  AARON: Oh God, not because of you. Good kind because of you. Always good.

  AARON: Bad because of my summer job. ManaPunk let me go.

  AARON: Apparently I’m too controversial.

  D1V: Oh shit.

  D1V: Aaron, I’m sorry. That’s my fault, isn’t it?

  AARON: Nope, not your fault. Those guys who keep harassing you. Them. Never you.

  D1V: Still.

  AARON: Still nothing.

  I stare at the little message box and can feel myself breathing heavily. I know what I want to say here. I think over the sentence in my head. The benefit of talking to someone via text and online, I suppose. Though if we were to ever meet up in person, I worry that I’ll never find the right words.

  AARON: I’d pick you over that summer job, any day, any time.

  D1V:

  AARON: You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? It’s not your fault. I’ll find something else.

  D1V: That’s just it though, isn’t it?

  D1V: I’m not doing anything, and I’m still somehow hurting the people I care about.

  D1V: Rebekah. My mom. You.

  I exhale and stand up again, heading in the direction of Ryan’s once more. It normally takes me about five minutes to walk over there, but D1V’s chats are slowing me down. I’m not the best text-and-walker even under the best of circumstances, but seeing the word “care” so close to D1V saying “you” adds to the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside my chest. That, plus the heart emoji, her mailing me something...

  AARON: I’ll be fine. Really. You should focus on yourself.

  D1V: That’s not something I’m good at.

  D1V: Hell, I only do the streaming to help my mom. I’m using what I make to help pay for her school.

  D1V: Heh, and the rent. And the groceries.

  AARON: Oh wow. I didn’t know it was that intense. I’m sorry.

  AARON: You can make that much streaming though? That’s kind of amazing.

  D1V: Some people can. I don’t. I mean, some of it is from that, but most of it is sponsorships.

  D1V: Mentioning this or that. And then sometimes I sell stuff that I get sent.

  D1V: I usually make more from that than anything else.

  AARON: This is blowing my mind. It sounds so hard though.

  AARON: I’m sorry that something that’s such a big part of your life makes you so sad.

  D1V: It’s okay, she only has a few summer classes left.

  D1V: And after all this, I might be done. I’m not sure yet.

  AARON: Yeah, I can understand that.

  “Aaron!” I hear Ryan shout. I look up from my phone and realize I’m two houses away from his. As in, past his. I walked right by him, staring at my phone and talking to D1V. I spin around, and he’s sitting on the stoop of his porch, waving at me, a sketchbook in his hands. I start walking back, and he shakes his head, his shoulders bouncing in a chuckle as he returns to his drawing.

  “Hey.” I lift my chin at him and sit down on the old wood steps. His parents’ house has this quirky shabby-chic look that Ryan’s mom says is on purpose, but Ryan swears is just his parents being lazy. The painted brick siding is peeling, an off-white color. And then there’s the door, an eye-popping bright red against the dull paint everywhere else. The little window boxes that dot the front two windows are meticulously maintained, though, and it does make the home look like something out of an old postcard. His house pops up on Instagram all the time.

  Still, when paint chips fall in your drinks every summer, the charm starts to fade as quickly as the color.

  “You’re gonna get yourself run over by a car or something,” Ryan says, nodding at my phone. “He called you, too, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I look down at my hands. “I’m sorry he let you go. Sucks to be my friend.”

  “It sure does, but not for that reason.” He nudges his shoulder against mine, so I know he’s joking. “I seriously don’t care. I’m not mentioned in any of those articles, just you. Why not also fire Laura? Anyone associated with you? It makes no sense, so fuck him and his contracts and stuff.”

  “Wait, you didn’t sign it?” I ask. “He said you were going to—”

  “Hell, no,” Ryan fumes, closing his notebook. “I’m not going to give him my art with the promise of maybe I’ll get paid. ‘Oh, but what about all the exposure?’ People die from exposure. Don’t try using that line on me. Let him stew over how he’ll get a working demo of his game out in the next two weeks without any art and without a story. All because he’s afraid of some jerks on the Internet? Fuck that.”

  I want to hug Ryan.

  So I do.

  “Come on, man,” Ryan groans, squirming away. “How’s your girlfriend?” He smirks. “You know, the one ruining your career, my career, and sending everything in our little world into a tailspin?”

  “Hey, none of this is her fault—”

  “Dude, I’m kidding,” he says, pulling out his sketch pad again. “She okay? Any updates?”

  “Nothing really,” I say. “Not since...well, everything. I just feel so bad. Her mom. Those people. And it’s not like I can track them down or anything. The police can’t even figure it out. They all use anonymous names, and it’s all just...very soul-crushing.”

  “I think if you’re going to be a monster, you should at least have the courage to tell the world that you are one,” Ryan comments, scratching away at something with a pencil. I look over his arm and notice that he’s working on some kind of dragon-type creature. “If you’re so proud to have twisted views that you go out and act on them in public, against people, you should show your face.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Or at least have your face shown to people.” Ryan makes a disgusted noise. “Sorry you couldn’t find anything.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Is it weird that I’m having like, anxiety attacks over the fact that I don’t know what I’ll do for the rest of my summer?” He lets out a short laugh. “I kinda had all this—” he slaps his sketchbook
“—planned out. Do art for the game. Build my portfolio. Have something truly kickass to showcase for colleges.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault, again.” Ryan gives me a quick look. “Maybe I’ll get a part-time job at the art store at the end of Market Street. Down in Old City? Get some discount supplies for the summer. Or start doing art commissions on Tumblr. That could be fun.” He smiles at me, and I smile back. Endlessly positive, that Ryan. “What are you going to do?”

  “Not sure. Play more games, scour the Internet for internships? Write short stories?”

  “Good plans.” His expression turns sly. “You could always go meet your girlfriend.”

  “Damn it, Ryan.” I shove him lightly. He laughs, and then laughs even harder when my phone buzzes again. “Shut up.”

  RECLAIM THE SUN: CHAT APPLICATION

  D1V: What are your plans today, anyway?

  D1V: We could explore a little or something.

  AARON: Sure, that’d be great. I could use a day in a virtual world to forget the one I live in.

  D1V: Same, except I need that virtual world to live in my current one, which still kinda sucks.

  AARON: I don’t even know what to say.

  D1V: Seriously, the sarcasm does not land in here. Or with you. You do not do well with jokes.

  AARON: You are correct. Talk to you online in a bit. Ryan says hi.

  “One, I didn’t say hi.” I look up to find Ryan peering over my shoulder. “And two, you are not going to sit on my stoop and text and not talk to me.” He scoots up two steps and then starts pushing me off the stairs with his feet against my back.

  I laugh and stand up, brushing away whatever dirt he got on my back.

  “Go on, get outta here,” he says, waving me off with his sketch pad.

  Reclaim the Sun: Chat Application

  D1V: Is it there yet?

  D1V: Is it?

  D1V: Did you check your mail?

  AARON: Hahah, oh my God it’s only been a day. What did you even send me?

  D1V: You’ll see.

  D1V: Also, I sent it overnight.

  D1V: ...is it there now?

  AARON: Fine, I’ll go check.