I just need to find Will. He’s the one who screwed me over for the pure fun of it, he’s the one who made me embarrass myself with the producers, and he’s the one who used me to impress his friends. He’s got to be my sole target. I don’t need to get revenge on anyone but him. And once I get it, everything will be fine.
As I reach for the computer to start searching for him again, my phone rings. I answer, then roll my eyes and hang up on the recording telling me that I’ve won a cruise and all I have to pay is one low registration fee.
Then I stare at the phone.
I’ve tried everything I can think of, online, to find him. I’ve done everything Sam came up with and everything shown on “Stalk This Way”, even the things they called too invasive, to no avail. But the one thing I haven’t done is sit down with the phone book and try every last Smith.
I don’t have a phone book, and I’m not actually sure they still print them, but a search online finds me the Portland phone listings and the shockingly high number of Smiths here. Who’d have thought there’d be 5,500-odd people named Smith? ‘Only’ 180 of those are W or Will or William, which isn’t quite as bad, and though making that many calls to total strangers freaks me out the idea of leaving any stones unturned in my hunt for Will freaks me out even more. I won’t quit until I find him. I can’t. I print out my first 180 targets and get started.
The first Smith I call says, “I’m not buying anything,” and hangs up before I can tell her what I want. Wishing I could have wine for strength, I call again, and by immediately blurting out, “Is Will there?” I manage to get her attention before she hangs up a second time. Unfortunately, she claims not to know anyone named Will.
I cross her off, hoping I can trust that people will actually tell me the truth, and call the second listing.
“Hi, I’m looking for Will Smith,” I say, trying to sound cool and professional. “Is he there?”
“No,” the guy says, and I can almost see him rolling his eyes, “he’s off getting jiggy with it somewhere.”
I blink. “Pardon?”
“You damn kids need to get a hobby and quit calling. I am William Smith, not Will. Will-ee-am.”
William’s a possibility. He sounds decades older than my Will, but I have to check. “Sir, were you on a plane from Vegas to Portland back in November?”
“I wasn’t. Hate planes. You’re not crank calling?”
“No,” I say, feeling my heart sink at the thought of explaining that to everyone I’ll be calling. “I’m really not.”
“Can’t help you, missy. Good luck.”
He hangs up.
Unfortunately, he’s the only remotely nice person I speak to over the rest of the afternoon. I only manage to call twelve people before dinner, because I have to gear myself up after each call to be ready to try again, and three of those twelve hang up the moment I mention Will Smith and another five swear at me first and then hang up. The worst is the guy who says while breathing hard that he can’t help me but I can help him out by telling him what I’m wearing. I blurt out, “A muumuu,” then hang up, and it takes me a long time to get ready to make another call after him.
Might as well not have bothered. None of the people I call are or admit to knowing Will.
When I’m too hungry and dispirited to go on, I slump on the couch feeling sick and miserable and desperate for some wine. But despite my despair I feel a hint of hope. Faint hope, but hope nonetheless. I’m trying, at least. I don’t feel so useless when I have a plan.
I have a bowl of cereal for dinner, with a glass of wine because the painkillers have long worn off, and I’m working at getting myself back to calling when my phone rings.
“Hey, Sam, what’s up?”
“Your numbers.”
“Pardon?”
He chuckles. “Checked your view count and followers yet today?”
“No, I’ve been busy...” I know he won’t approve of what I’m doing, so I just say, “I’ll check now.”
I do, then gasp.
“Right? Nice job, Ashley. Congrats.”
“You did it,” I say vaguely, staring at the screen showing that I’ve now got nearly two thousand followers instead of the handful I had before. My view count is way up too. “You and your amazing promo plans.”
“No, you did. I just sat and drank coffee.”
I laugh. “Hardly. More like the other way around.”
“Nope. How was work today?”
“What? Oh, right, you don’t know.” I grimace and tell him how it came about that I’m unemployed. When I finish, he says, “Well, that stinks. But at least you have the money from MC and Kent, right?” He clears his throat. “And if you don’t and need help, I’m here.”
“I haven’t spent a cent of it,” I say, trying to hide my shock that he’d consider giving me money, “so I’ll be fine.”
“Good,” he says, at the same time as I add, “Thanks, though.”
We laugh and he says, “So what are you going to do now?”
“Beats me.” Other than hunt Will, but there’s no money in that. “Make videos for a living? Except I don’t think I can live on even two thousand fans. Especially when I don’t charge for the videos.”
“Good point. I’ve got a ton of school work to do tonight but when I’m done I can research how to make money from your videos if you’d like.”
“You’d do that for me?” He shouldn’t bother with me, but I do need to spend my time calling Smiths so I say, “That’d be great. Thanks. You’re the best.”
I can almost see him blushing when he says, “If you say so.”
I get off the phone, smiling, but I’m not smiling for long. Every phone call I make seems to push Will further away, and as call after call goes by with nothing to show for it but a steadily emptier bottle of wine I begin to wonder if I’ll ever find him.
I know I can’t think that way, because staying focused is a lot harder when I let myself admit the possibility of defeat, but I can’t help it. I’ve failed at everything else; why will finding Will be any different?
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning I have to admit that my tooth isn’t getting any better, so I call the dentist and after some begging get his receptionist to give me an emergency appointment at seven o’clock tonight.
I get through the day by searching for Will and half-heartedly doing my course work and wondering whether I should quit the course now that I don’t need it for my job, then drag myself to the dentist.
“It’s infected, all right,” he says, poking at it for longer than seems necessary. “Antibiotic time. Allergic to anything?”
I press my hand to my cheek, hoping my own warmth will soothe the additional pain he’d caused. I guess he had to, but I’m still annoyed over it. “Nope.”
“Three a day for ten days. And no alcohol.” He scribbles on his prescription pad. “Okay?”
“Got it,” I say, trying to sound like my heart didn’t sink at his words. I had hoped he’d be able to fix the problem right away and I’d be able to make lots of Will-related phone calls tonight armed with a glass of red courage.
As I sit at McDonald’s having dinner and waiting for the prescription to be filled at the nearby pharmacy, I check my email and almost pass out.
Dear Ashley,
We LOVE your videos! Thanks so much for choosing Videvideoo as your host site. Sorry for the short notice, but we’re running a contest to pick ‘the next big thing in video’, and with how quickly your following is going up we’d love to have you enter.
All you have to do is post a never-before-seen video by Tuesday at midnight then reply to this and let me know where to find it. If you win the contest you’ll be a featured columnist on the site with your video channel accessible right from our home page. It’d be awesomesauce!
Good luck!
Jimmy, Videoo Promo Dude
Promo Dude? That’s pathetic enough without the addition of “awesomesauce”. But though the guy’s cheesy
he’s also right: this is a huge opportunity. I’d have tons of visibility for the videos if I somehow happened to win.
I forward the message to Sam, and as I eat my nuggets and fries, I flip through my notebook looking for the perfect braid to use for my video. The more I flip, though, the more frustrated I get.
My first boyfriend’s favorite joke was, “I don’t have a drinking problem. As long as I have a drink, there’s no problem.” I’d always agreed with that statement but now I’m doubting it, because I can’t have a drink and the depth of how much I want one feels like a problem indeed. I’ve always assumed that I didn’t need alcohol, but my inability to pick a braid to use makes me wonder if I’m wrong. I can’t seem to do anything tonight with just fast food in my system.
After I get the prescription I go home and try for nearly two hours, forcing myself to sit in front of my computer and record video after video which I delete because they’re terrible, then fury overtakes me and I rip four pages out of my notebook and shred them before I can stop myself.
Great job, stupid. Not like you have enough good ideas that you can afford to throw them away.
Leaving the paper bits where they fell across my table and floor, I stalk off to bed and lie there in the dark with my eyes wide open and my shoulders so tense my head’s barely touching the pillow.
If I can’t make one damn video, how will I ever handle being a featured columnist if I win? Which I won’t.
Sam’s face floats in my frantic mind and I take a deep breath and feel my body relax the tiniest bit. I might. It’s not impossible that I’d win. Someday things have to go my way, so maybe that day is today.
Tomorrow, actually. I’ll spend the day making my video and then send it in. I’ll put myself out there, give it my best shot. For the first time since I lost Brett I’ll go for something other than revenge.
Tomorrow.
*****
It takes me forever to get to sleep because my mind’s so busy with thoughts of how important it is to make the perfect video, and I don’t wake up until ten because I forgot to set my alarm. Once I’ve had a shower and dressed myself, I spend what’s left of the morning reorganizing the files and programs on my computer. I’d always just used the computer’s search to find what I needed before, but when I woke up I knew Sam was right before: I shouldn’t waste so much time looking for things as I work. I need to make everything run more efficiently before I can create my video.
Once that’s done, it’s lunch time, so I pull out the bread recipe Grandmother gave me a year ago, which I’ve never touched but have always meant to try, and set to work. Since I have no idea what I’m doing, it takes me half an hour to get the dough together and ready to rise, and by the time I’ve cleaned up the kitchen and scrubbed the floor it’s time to punch the dough down again. I do that, then manage to sit at the computer while the bread bakes, but I’ve done nothing but tweak my newly organized file system by the time it’s done.
Then I have to wait for the bread to cool a bit, and I pass that chunk of time by studying other videos on the site to see what my competition is like. Thoroughly demoralized after half an hour of that, I eat bread until I feel stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey then have to lie down for a while because I feel too sick to work.
And that’s the most productive part of my day. After that things really fall apart.
I watch some TV episodes, a “Stalk This Way” and a “Celebrity Lifestyles” and two old “Sex and the City” ones I’d forgotten to delete from the recorder, then fall into a cycle of spending at most five minutes at the computer then getting up and doing something, anything, else.
At six o’clock, I’m so angry and frustrated with myself that I go out and have a huge burger and fries with a sundae for dessert, the kind of food I never ate while I was training with Brett, in a desperate attempt to make myself feel better.
It doesn’t work, of course, so I watch a few more TV shows until I feel less like throwing up then start calling Smiths so I can at least say I’ve accomplished something. Seven calls, and nobody’s home. I don’t leave messages because I know nobody will call me back, and after gearing myself up and being disappointed seven times I’m utterly exhausted.
So I go to bed.
As I lie there, hating myself, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I never would have won the contest. My competition’s videos are spectacular. Me? I’ve made some videos that a few people liked and one person actually called “a boil on the ass of the Internet”.
One person said it, but lots more probably think it. So what would trying, getting my hopes up, have accomplished? Nothing but making me miserable.
More miserable.
No point in bothering.
Chapter Twenty
I don’t answer Sam’s two text messages on Wednesday, because I know he wants to know how my video turned out, but eventually he calls me and I can’t bring myself to ignore him any longer.
Once I admit that I didn’t enter the contest, he says, “I’m sorry. Did I push you too hard?”
“No,” I say at once. “No, you were great. It’s all me.” The old familiar sickness and rage and despair sweep over me. Why did I push myself out of my comfort zone? Yet again, I get to feel how awful it is to fail when all I want is to succeed.
“Do, um, do you maybe want to talk about it?”
For a moment I don’t, then I know I do. “Have you had dinner?”
“Not really,” he says. “Just a protein shake. Can I take you out?”
“Nope, but I can take you,” I said, feeling happy for the first time since I came home from uploading videos with him. “It’s my turn.”
He protests a bit then gives way, and we’re soon sitting together at a great salad place near my house with huge plates in front of us.
“I came here all the time with Brett,” I say, looking around at the gorgeous pictures of fresh vegetables on the walls. “I haven’t since he...” I have to clear my throat, and Sam reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. With his support I’m able to go on and say, “Well, you know. And I can’t come with my friends. It’s too healthy for them.” For me too, these days, but I don’t want to admit that I’ve been eating nothing but junk food.
He smiles. “Nothing’s too healthy for me.” Leaning forward, he adds, “Now, I thought you were feeling ready to go ahead, video-wise. No?”
I wrinkle my nose and take a bite of my salad to give myself time to think. Once it’s gone, I say, “I thought I was. I was. For a second, anyhow. But then the people started showing up and following me and I started freaking out.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why.”
He gives me a consoling smile. “I do. It’s a big deal. And it’s tough that not everyone liked them.” He clears his throat. “You didn’t... did you read all the comments?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, because I’m an idiot. Some of them were pretty cruel.”
“And gross, if we’re thinking of the same one.”
Our eyes meet and we chuckle, knowing we are. “‘Boil on the ass of the internet’,” I say. “I didn’t think I was that bad.”
He swallows his mouthful of salad, shaking his head, and when he can speak he says, “Of course you’re not. People are jerks sometimes. You have to ignore that and put your work out your way.”
I find myself thinking about his ex-wife, to whom he’d probably said exactly the same thing. I don’t like it. “I guess I’m just not good at that. People say horrible things and I get angry and then I get paralyzed.”
“Then don’t,” he says, as I wonder why I said that. I don’t get paralyzed, not at all. I turn my fury into action, like how I’m working to find Will. Sam’s still talking, though, so I have to put my thoughts aside and listen. “Whenever you start, remember how much you like braiding and focus on that instead. And maybe even think about the good things that could come out of it. You’ll definitely help people do their hair well, and maybe you could even become the official hair braider of a movie star o
r a singer.”
“Or both, like that Angel Dove one.”
He laughs then freezes. “Do you like her?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
His shoulders relax. “Good. I was about to say she was neither and then figured I should check.”
I smile at him, then it fades as frustration fills me. “But how do I do that? Just sit around picturing a bunch of great stuff that’ll never happen?”
“Might never happen. And isn’t that better than picturing a bunch of bad stuff that’ll never happen?”
“Might never happen,” I echo. “Although in my experience it usually does.”
He rolls his eyes but gives me a smile. “Seriously, though. I’ve been spending fifteen minutes a night since the day I decided on my squat goal imagining how good it’ll feel when they put twice my weight on the bar and I squat the stuffing out of it.”
He takes a breath to continue, then burps.
I giggle, and he blushes and says, “Sorry. Better out than in, I guess, but still rude.”
“Nah, it’s just your salad talking.” I lean forward, not wanting to talk about burps any more. “Do you really do that? Imagine that?”
He nods. “Every night. Even on the show. Well, I think I missed the night they airlifted me off the island after I broke my ankle. But every other night.”
“That’s a fair reason for missing one.”
He smiles and says he hopes so, but I don’t answer because I’m thinking. I have been doing something similar to what he’s saying, with the way I think of Will and imagine getting my revenge as I fall asleep, but I’d assumed it was a bad thing. Foolishness, as Grandmother would say. Is it actually a good idea?
Something slides across the table and bounces off my hand, startling me, and I look up to see Sam grinning at me. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I chuckle. “Not sure they’re worth it,” I say, “but thanks. I didn’t mean to wander off like that. I was just thinking about something I hope for.”
Bad Will Hunting Page 14
