Don't Read the Comments

by Eric Smith

  “Aaron,” my dad says, taking a step into the kitchen, his feet heavy against the floor. He pauses. “I know. I know that you know, that is.”

  I whirl around, my heart pounding, suds flying off my hands. Dad wrings his wrists, his cheeks flushing. He looks...embarrassed. Caught.

  I clear my throat. “How long has it been going on?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter. The sharp edge digs into my back as I quietly add, “Does Mom know?”

  “Your mom?!” My dad scoffs, and then laughs. “God, no. No, no way. And it’s been...ten years, maybe? Twelve?”

  “Twelve—” I start, then cut myself off, my lips trembling with fury. How can he laugh about this? Act like...like it’s nothing? “Dad, you need to talk to her about this. You need to do it before I do.”

  “Please, Aaron, she wouldn’t understand.” He shakes his head. “You see how she is with you.”

  “Me?” I ask, completely dumbfounded. “What do I have to do with it?”

  “I just...” He takes a breath. “I always saw myself doing something more. Having something a little more for myself, not just working with food, and now, this.” He looks off to the side, toward the door that leads into mom’s practice. “Ever since it started, it was sort of my thing. My secret.”

  “It’s not fair to Mom. To the family.”

  “It’s really not that big a deal, Aaron,” my dad says dismissively.

  “Not that... Dad, you’re having an affair!” I spit out, anger brewing up in my chest. “You can’t just expect me to—”

  “A what?!”

  I look beyond my dad, through the door frame, and into the dining room. There, looking totally stunned, is my mother. She walks over, slowly, her eyes wide, the way people in a horror movie do when they’re approaching something terrifying. My dad turns to her and then back to me, his expression morphing from carefully awkward to utter bewilderment.

  “Aaron, what the hell?” he pleads, rubbing his forehead.

  “What is he talking about?” Mom asks him, her voice trembling.

  “Damn it.” He exhales. “I am not having an affair.”

  “Then explain all those letters on the—” I start.

  “Oh my God, I’ve been writing fan fiction!” Dad bursts out. His face turns bright red as I stare at him, and he laughs awkwardly. “I saw that someone had opened a bunch of my old Word documents on the office computer, and since your mother hadn’t brought it up, I figured it was probably you.”

  My stomach drops.

  The overdone letters, with all that flowery language—they weren’t actually for anyone?

  “Fan what?” my mom asks. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve been...trying to write a fantasy novel,” my dad says, sounding terribly embarrassed. “Some of my old coworkers...old friends, from the restaurant, they all play this online game. Ultima. It’s old, but it has these chat room clients, and we catch up sometimes in there. And I write stories set in the world we play in.”

  While my dad seems to have a good sense of humor about all of this, the swirl of guilt inside me feels awful. I’ve spent so much time feeling angry at him. Feeling so disappointed, all over nothing. “So those letters—”

  “Epistolary works for me,” Dad says, shrugging. He glances at Mom. “Sometimes I write on the office computer. Or play the game with my pals.”

  My mom continues to stare at him for a beat, then looks at me.

  And then, suddenly, she can’t stop laughing.

  “I feel like I should be mad at one of you, or maybe both, but I’m not quite sure where to start,” she says, still chuckling. “Do I get to read this novel?”

  “Well, I mean, it’s not a novel yet...” My dad shrugs. “I’m just sort of practicing.” He glares at me. “I wasn’t really ready to talk about it yet.”

  “I’m...sorry?” I say, wincing, unsure of what to say here. I feel terrible.

  “An affair. Honestly, Aaron.” My dad laughs, but then his eyes narrow, and he studies me, his expression curious. “So, wait. You believed the letters?”

  “Well, yeah,” I mutter.

  “Hmm.” He touches his beard thoughtfully. “Maybe I’m not too bad.”

  “Letters?” my mom asks.

  “Yes. There’s a character in the game that my character is married to.” Dad grins. “Inspired by you.”

  “Oh great,” I groan.

  “Do you want...” He tilts his head at the door to the office. “Do you want to read them?”

  My mom smiles softly. “I would love to.”

  Dad gives her a goofy grin, and the silence stretches just long enough to start feeling super awkward.

  “Still here, guys,” I say, waving an arm around, feeling flustered.

  Mom laughs and walks over to give me a hug. “When you get back from your convention, I want to read your story,” she murmurs. “If that’s okay.”

  “Mom—”

  “No, let me finish. I’ve been...tough on you about that,” she admits, pulling back and biting her lip. “I know I have been. I just... I don’t want your passion to be what wears you down, Aaron. That’s the quickest way to stop loving what makes you happy.”

  I nod jerkily, feeling a little teary. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “That story.” She points at me, then takes Dad’s hand. “Don’t forget.”

  The two of them disappear into the office, and I return to scrubbing the plates. I can’t help but think how lucky I am right now. This silly, quirky situation with my mom and dad felt like it was on its way to going someplace way darker, and I’m so grateful it didn’t.

  My mind drifts to D1V, and all the stories we haven’t shared yet. I don’t know nearly as much about her as I’d like to. About her life, her family.

  I want to tell her this story.

  I want to make her laugh.

  I want to be the person who writes long, overly flowery letters about her, using fan fiction as an excuse.

  I drop the final plate into the sink and grit my teeth against the storm brewing in my chest.

  I need to do something. Help her somehow.

  So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  21

  DIVYA

  Mana Punk Newsletter

  Catch up at GamesCon, demoing our latest

  9:44 p.m.

  Microsoft Home

  Xbox Deals This Weekend, GamesCon Special

  7:43 p.m.

  Det. Nikki Watts

  Tomorrow.

  4:30 p.m.

  The Vox Populi

  You are NOT welcome.

  2:42 p.m.

  The Vox Populi

  Show your face. See what happens.

  1:08 p.m.

  Lee Lamar

  Time to talk with Engadget?

  9:36 a.m.

  I close my phone. I’ve got access to my email account again, but catching up on yesterday’s emails isn’t exactly helping to get me excited for today’s trip to GamesCon.

  Not at all.

  I’m fussing with my hair and makeup in the bathroom, when my mom peeks in, the door creaking open slowly.

  “Divya, I really wish you’d reconsider going,” she says with a heartbreaking look at me. “And your hair. All that beautiful hair. The last time you cut it was—”

 
“Freshman year,” I interrupt, meeting her gaze in the mirror for a moment. “I know.”

  I cut off most of my hair last night with Rebekah. My shoulder-length dark locks are now all short and pixie-like, styled a lot like hers, but with less of a giant swoop on the side. I’ve got it dyed a blood orange with shocks of red and yellow throughout, which make the fake yellow-framed glasses I’m wearing as a disguise look even more fierce and intense. I blink a few times, my face awash in color. Bright hair, pastel glasses, green eyes.

  It’s hard to recognize the person in front of me now. I love the glasses, the hair is fun, and I feel like a character out of a fantasy novel, ready to do battle.

  Final Fantasy (D)1V.

  Come at me, bros.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” my mom presses, following me out of the bathroom and into our living room. She flops down on the old couch, the one that sinks and hurts my entire body. I think about how, after the panel, I’ll have just enough to help pay for her last class and maybe find some used furniture. I’ve still got my savings, and while the speaking fee isn’t exactly a wild amount of money, it’s enough to get us right over the edge with what I’ve already got saved. She fidgets about, trying to get comfortable, and I shake my head.

  “What?” she asks, leaning back into the cushions.

  “Nothing,” I say with a huff. “I need to do this, Mom. Not just for the speaker fee, which will put an end to all of this.” I point over in the direction of my bedroom, toward the computer. “But for you and for myself. All the blogs are talking. No one thinks I’m going to show up. Everyone thinks I’ve disappeared. They’ll see. They’re all gonna see. And then they won’t. ’Cause then I will disappear.”

  “Your friend is going with you, yes?” she asks, struggling back to her feet. “Rebekah? The one with the hair—you know, I can’t even call her that anymore, because now you’re also the-one-with-the-hair to somebody.” She grins, and I hug her.

  “Yes, she’s coming,” I say, letting her go. “I’m meeting her at the convention. She went early to get the table set up, and to...” I chuckle, thinking about Rebekah waiting in line at the crack of dawn to meet some of those comic book heroes of hers, like Kate Leth and Delilah S. Dawson and Fiona Staples. The perks of being an exhibitor. “Get some autographs before the lines start.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful,” my mom insists, grabbing my hands. “Keep a low profile, don’t say anything that’ll get you into trouble.”

  “I will, I promise.” I give her hands a final squeeze, and head toward the door.

  My heart feels a bit heavy. Not because of what I’m about to do, but because of what I’ve already done.

  It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever truly lied to her. I can’t be careful, not today, and I know it.

  I hustle down the stairs of our walk-up, my boots thundering against the old rattling steps, and burst out the front door into the early sunlight. The sun is barely out and about, but people certainly are, bustling down the sidewalks to get to whatever day jobs demand they work such hours. I change out my glasses for my sunglasses, eager to avoid running into anyone who might also be heading to the convention and might somehow recognize me.

  I briskly walk toward the PATH train that’ll eventually take me into New York City, first making its way in the opposite direction toward Hoboken before turning around and heading where I want to go. An annoying delay, but worth it for paying just two dollars to get there.

  My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, peering at the screen from under my sunglasses.

  There are a few messages waiting, but nothing I’m not expecting.

  Detective Watts 6:03 a.m.

  Did you get my email? I’ll be waiting for you at the convention center. At the first sign of trouble, you call me. Text me. Whatever. I’m here.

  Rebekah Cole 7:01 a.m.

  Are you on your way yet?! I’ve got the table set up and I MET KATE LETH OH MY GOD SHE IS SO COOL AND I CAN’T EVEN.

  I smile, a bit of hope fluttering in my chest, and look up at the PATH station just a few blocks down the road. I take a deep breath and keep moving.

  Today’s going to be hard.

  I open my inbox and load yesterday’s message from Detective Watts. I read it quickly, my heart hammering in my chest over every single word. For a minute, I think about emailing Aaron, to tell him about our plan. It’s not too late to make a random account, send him a quick message in the game. But he would just worry, and that wouldn’t help anything. I’ll message him after it’s all over. Besides, I want to keep him safe.

  Because today it’s finally happening.

  I make my way through the PATH station and onto the platform. I take a deep breath and exhale as the train rumbles closer, the station hot and humid, as I try to keep my cool.

  It’s happening.

  And I won’t be stopped.

  22

  AARON

  I plug my phone into the bus’s outlet and lean back in the soft cushioned seat. There’s a weird smell coming off it that I’m trying to ignore.

  “We really should have taken the train,” Ryan grumbles, pushing his seat back and awkwardly squirming about in what I assume is an attempt to get comfortable. “And do you really need to charge your phone already? Don’t you have a power bank with you, too?”

  “Hey, best to play it safe.” I shrug.

  “Or what?” Ryan scoffs, settling in and closing his eyes. “Just take a nap, enjoy our smelly ride, and maybe get off your phone for a minute.” He grins. “How’s your arts and crafts?”

  I glance over at the plastic tube I’ve got leaning against the bus wall, a long clear bright blue thing made for holding posters.

  “It’s not arts—” I start.

  “I still think it’s a bad idea. Getting all theatrical,” he says with a yawn. “I love you, but wake me up when we get there. And set your alarm. I don’t want to end up in Boston or something.”

  The cheap UltraBus we’re on goes from Philadelphia up to New York City, and only charges a whopping five dollars. Plus, you get free Internet and places to charge your gadgets. The downside is that it can be kinda slow, it’s hard to find seats, and sometimes the buses aren’t as clean as they could be. And sometimes the Internet doesn’t work. But I’ll take a five-dollar, slightly uncomfortable bus ride over paying for the pricey train any day. The Amtrak is all kinds of expensive, and even if you do the New Jersey Transit & SEPTA—Philadelphia’s regional train—combo, traveling from Philly to Trenton and then Trenton to New York City, it ends up being almost fifty bucks.

  And besides, since the gig with ManaPunk is officially over—not that Jason had paid us—I’m saving as much as I can until I manage to line something else up. If I blew every dollar on a nice train ride, it’d be a really long summer with absolutely no spending money.

  The bus roars to life just as Ryan starts to snore softly, and I know I should seriously do the same. Catching the 6:00 a.m. ride meant being up at nearly 4:00 a.m., which wasn’t all that difficult, since I couldn’t sleep at all.

  But I keep staring at my phone. And the social media feeds. I wonder if D1V is out there somewhere, looking at the same threads I am. Seeing what I’m seeing. What those Vox Populi idiots are posting about her. The awful photoshopped images, the GIFs that replay her defeat again and again, the terrifying threats that seem to follow every article that hints about her appearance at the convention.

  The video clips of what they did to her mother.

  The attack in the arcade.

  The comments upon comments upon comments.

  I adjust the plastic poster tube and try to get comfortable in my seat.

  She’d once said to me, in our string of texts together, to just ignore the comments. Don’t read them. Don’t pay attention to them. But I can’t do that. Whether it’s these messages ab
out her, or all the positive responses to Jason’s announcement of his game, using our stolen art and words...it’s all I can do. Read comment after comment.

  And that’s what I’m going to do, this entire bus ride.

  Read the comments. And let the frustration consume me.

  23

  DIVYA

  “Sorry, says the pass is invalid.”

  The muscular security guard scanning badges inside the convention center hands me back my pass, and I immediately thrust it back.

  “That’s not possible,” I insist, wiggling the laminated piece of plastic at him, the little red and yellow flags on the end stating “exhibitor” and “speaker” flapping about. “I’m a guest here.”

  “You and everyone else,” he retorts, scanning the badge again and making a face.

  “Come on,” I groan as he hands it back with a shrug. He gestures for me to step aside and starts welcoming in other people. I fuss with my phone as a few other convention goers make their way in, more than a handful casting sideways glances at me. Yes, hi, my pass didn’t work, let’s all stare.

  Finally, the GamesCon website loads. It takes what feels like an eternity, standing here with random eyes on me, and the cell service being absolutely garbage inside the convention center. I swipe along the rotating banner on the home page, and there I am.

  “Hey.” I reach out and tap the security guy’s shoulder, noticing a large, fully detailed and colorful Chrono Trigger tattoo on his biceps featuring the anime figures from the game’s cinematics, as opposed to the classic, old-school Super Nintendo sprites. He barely glances at me as he finishes scanning in someone else.

  “Listen, you can head over to registration when—”

  “Look, okay?” I hold up my phone to show him the landing page on the convention website. Right there in the shuffling banner there’s a big ol’ photo of me. I mean, it’s a picture of me with different hair and another look, but I think it’s still clear it’s me. Maybe?