"Uh. Eddie?"
My eyes flicked to my roommate in the kitchen. "Yeah?"
"Like, not to sound ... judgy or anything," she began as she shrugged out of the shoulders of her coat, "but it's almost 2 in the afternoon."
"Got a clock on my phone, thanks." I strained to reach a can of Pringles on the edge of the coffee table.
"Okay, let me rephrase that." Heaving a sigh—not just a sigh but the sigh, the kind that said she was getting tired of my shit—she dropped a trio of shopping bags on the island counter and moved to the edge of the livingroom. "It's 2 in the afternoon and you're still in your jammies."
"Please, Alice." I held up a hand. "It's called loungewear."
She stared. "It's a pizza-printed onesie."
The only answer she got was the sound of me dumping chips in my facehole.
"Moving on," she continued, toeing a string cheese wrapper that had joined a graveyard of so many others beside the sofa, "It sort of looks like you robbed a convenience store at gunpoint."
"It was a 7-11, specifically."
"Ah, yeah. The Big Gulp shoulda clued me in." She shifted her retainer with a hard swallow. "Didn't you start a diet last week?"
"'DiDN't You sTarT A dIeT LaSt wEEk?'" I fired back. It had sounded a lot funnier in my head—out loud, there was more than a whiff of defensive-fat-friend about it. My shoulders sank. "I'll start again on Monday."
"Okay. I mean, sure, that's certainly an option," she said, looking away nonchalantly while toying with a long strand of violet-colored hair. "Or you could put on some big girl clothes now and go for a run with—wait."
"What?"
"Did you—did you spike that Slurpee?" She yanked out a pink bottle I had stashed between the couch cushions and brandished it like a weapon. "With moscato?"
Pink liquid swirled through the silly straw, spelling out 'BAD BITCH' in girly cursive as I took a loud, long sip. "Listen, I don't tell you how to live your life."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm sorry. I said I wasn't gonna judge you and—well, listen to me. Might as well call me Judge Judy." The wine bottle clattered to the coffee table as Alice sat down beside me with a crunch. Wincing, she listed to one side and pulled out a half-empty bag of now-flattened cheese curls. "I guess I'm just worried. This isn't like you."
"Everybody needs a self-care day once in a while."
"This isn't a self-care day and you know it," she said."This isn't even one of your garden-variety depressive slumps. I mean, heck, you're watching daytime TV."
Admittedly, I'd tuned out once The Price is Right ended. "So?"
"There's two kinds of people that watch daytime TV." She hit the power button and the screen dimmed to black. "Boomers and kids too sick to go to school."
"Nobody benefits from labels." The straw gurgled against the bottom of the cup.
She shook her head and started to collect trash in an empty box of Ding Dongs, starting with the bag she'd sat on. "Eating trash, watching trash—I bet you haven't even showered today."
"Showers are for winners," I snorted. "C'mon, don't throw away my cheese puffs."
"What, you're not gonna eat 'em, are you?" she asked in disbelief. "They've been contaminated by my butt cheeks."
"You have pants on, and they're in a bag."
"Doesn't matter." She resumed shoving them into the box. "Butt germs don't give a shucky darn about barriers. Those cheesy poofs are practically covered in butt juice now."
I cringed. "Please never say the phrase 'butt juice' again."
"Okay, but only if you tell me what's wrong." Another fistful of plastic and cellophane joined the bag. "There's gotta be a reason why you're punishing yourself like this."
"I don't wanna talk 'bout it." I wiped my chin with a sleeve.
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
"You'll feel better," Alice said in a sing-song voice. "You always feel better."
"Is it really productive to dwell on the past?" I flopped back, arms spread like wings. "All it does is exhume the thing that made me upset in the first place. Metaphorical ghosts. There's no point in being haunted by what we cannot change."
"Pretty philosophic talk for somebody who looks like a slice of Little Caesar's Hot-n-Ready." She got up from the couch, box in tow. "But yeah, that's fair. I won't make you talk about it if you don't want to."
I watched as she threw away the trash and collected her shopping, unsure if the growing feeling in the pit of my stomach was unresolved tension or developing gas pains from too much off-brand beef jerky.
Across the coffee table, my laptop's fan wheezed to life. I took a deep breath.
"The Goodreads page for Ravenna White's Ghosted By The Phantom went live today," I said in the most well-adjusted tone I could muster.
"You ever regret writing under a pseudonym?" she asked.
"Not even once. It helps me disassociate."
She flashed a sympathetic smile. "On a scale of 'one' to 'typical Youtube comment section,' how bad are the reviews?"
"Well, there haven't been any death threats yet." I slid the computer onto my knees and cracked open the lid. As the website loaded, I felt my eyes glaze over reading the newest comment—an unending wall of caps lock and expletives. "Oh, never mind. Hadn't refreshed in a while."
"At least nobody's making lewd comments about your feet?" Alice asked, ever the optimist.
I glanced up between scrolling through one and two star reviews. "Feet guy? I thought you banned him."
"Sure did, but he just made a new account and went right back at it." She shrugged. "On my last upload, he posted an entire erotic fan-fiction in which Gilbert Gottfried licked potato salad off my tootsies. Sensually."
"Wow." I scrolled past that reaction gif of the guy from Indiana Jones having his face melted by the Ark of the Covenant.
"Yeah." She gazed into the middle distance. "Took him 57 comments."
"That's dedication, I'll give him that." A wave of relief hit me as I finally reached the last of the reviews—only to realize that was just page one. Of three. Despite my better judgment, I clicked on the 'next' button. Immediately I was filled with regret. "Ugh, listen to this one."
"Wait, wait, let me get a cuppa tea," she said, dropping her shopping to dart back into the kitchen. Sounds of the Keurig soon filled our apartment. When Alice came back into view, she was clutching a steaming mug with a toothy alligator oven mitt. She sat down in the armchair across from me. "Okay. My body is ready."
I cleared my throat. "'Ravenna White should be so proud—'"
"Aw, see?" Alice's lips briefly stopped contorting in the too-hot-drink-dance to twist into a grin. "That's not so bad—"
"'—Because I'm fairly certain she's the first in her family to walk upright,'" I continued in a flat tone. "'Ghosted By The Phantom should be taught in college campuses, stocked in every book store, nominated for the Library of Congress as a case study in aborted plot points, terrible and inconsistent characterizations, and an author whose thesaurus probably doubles as both bathroom reading and emergency toilet paper.'"
"Oh." The cup moved perilously close to her mouth before she reconsidered. "Gosh, you'd think the book killed their parents in a dark alleyway or something, and now they practice vigilante justice by leaving scathing online reviews."
"People with too much time on their hands, that's what it is," I said, and for my ego's sake I really wanted to believe it. "Bunch of mouth breathers."
Alice blew at her tea. "Betcha they live off Daddy's credit card."
I knew she was humoring me, but at that point I didn't care. "Bet they go speed dating at family reunions."
"Probably thinks Alanis Morrisette's 'Ironic' is actually ironic," she added.
"Probably Febreezes their dirty underwear."
"Yuck." Once again Alice lowered her tea cup, face wrinkling in disgust. "I bet they—uh."
I looked at her expectantly.
"Bet they, um, uh—" She stammered, eyes rolling to the ceiling in thought. "I bet they're—I bet they're just a super really not-nice person, and they know it, and leaving mean reviews is the only way they can feel normal anymore 'cause they've pushed away everyone in their life with their negativity."
"Whoa, Alice, that's um—" I blinked. "—That's harsh."
"And they smell like a sunbaked turd loaf," she finished with a definitive nod.
"Thanks." I gave a guilty laugh. "I know it's kinda petty and a little messed up, but it helps to make fun of the haters sometimes. Really puts things in perspective."
"Yeah, sure, don't mention it." She waved dismissively before finally taking a sip of her tea. "Go on, read the next one—we'll roast them, too."
It wasn't one of the proudest points of my life, but that's exactly how we spent the next two hours; going through the Goodreads page line-by-line, hurling increasingly ridiculous third-grade insults at every one and two star review we came across. I don't know if I felt better per se, but I did feel vindicated. In any case, it was probably a healthier option than numbing the pain by eating my weight in Nutella.
"So, any particular reason why you're wearing a wig?" I asked after witnessing Alice subconsciously scratch her scalp for the thirtieth-something time.
"Oh, haha, to tell you the truth I guess I kinda forgot I was wearing it." With a sheepish grin, she dug her fingers under the long bangs and pulled them back to reveal her natural brown hair beneath. Then she passed the wig over to me. "I just got it in the mail and wanted to try it out before I filmed today's video. You like it?"
Unsure of what to do, I patted the hairpiece like a dog's head. "It's very ... purple."
"Thanks," she beamed. "I'm gonna be Yuri from Doki Doki Literature Club and tap on steak knives for thirty minutes."
"I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: ASMR sure is weird."
"Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it," she said. "I get to play dress up while helping people relax, plus it pays the bills. What else could I ask for?"
Having held the wig for what seemed like a socially acceptable time, I passed it back to her. "Maybe a few less creepy fetishists in your comments."
"Sometimes I think about rubbing my stinky cheese feet against the mic for April Fool's," she sighed. "But I know it'd end up on Pornhub somewhere, and ASMR's already got a reputation for being some kinda kinky sex thing."
"That's cute. Like some sicko hasn't already uploaded half your library there," I said.
She squeezed her eyes shut. "If I haven't seen it, I can pretend it doesn't exist. Just like the rule 34 fanart."
We both shuddered.
"Well, not to change the topic," I said, frantically hammering the refresh button, "but it looks like there's a page four now."
"Oh boy." She jammed the wig back on but it was sideways, long purple tresses shrouding her vision like Cousin It. "Do I need to get more tea?"
"Maybe some popcorn, too." I scrolled down to the newest addition, a one-star review that contained nothing but a single hyperlink. "Somebody made a Youtube video. Candi Critiques?"
Alice flipped the wig around. "Oh gosh, not her."
I raised an eyebrow. "You know her?"
"Sorta. Kinda. In a roundabout way." My roommate migrated from the armchair to the sofa. "Witch stole my goodie bag."
"What?" I brought up the link in another tab. The thumbnail for the video featured a pissy-looking goth girl holding a lighter to a copy of Ghosted By the Phantom. "This her?"
"Yep, that's the one. We were at Vidcon, right? I had to tinkle so I went to the bathroom, and left my goodie bag on the sink," she explained.
I nodded. "Because butt germs."
"See, Eddie, I knew I liked you. You understand me." She looped an arm around my shoulders. "Anyway, when I got back out, it was gone. Later, Sharla, you know the lady who does the Wake, Bake, and Shake channel? She told me she saw Candi take it."
"That sucks."
"Yeah. I mean, I wouldn't get so bent out of shape over some freebies, but there was a Cheshire cat scarf in there a fan had given me that morning," she pouted. "I never get stuff from fans, and it was so nice and so big and so soft and—you got Adblock, right?"
"Uh, yeah?" My finger hovered over the 'play' button.
"You're gonna wanna turn that on," Alice instructed. "Gosh knows she gets enough money from sponsorships anyway."
I did what I was told, but once the video reloaded I was hesitant to start it. Watching the review was only going to send me back into an angry self-loathing spiral but not watching it was infinitely worse—whatever hot takes Candi dished out in the video was nothing compared to the kind of terrible shit my brain could come up with. There was really only one option.
It started with a voice over. "This episode of Candi Critiques was brought to you by—"
"Nope," Alice and I said at the same time.
Skipping about twenty five seconds brought us to the actual video, where that same pissy-looking goth girl sat in front of an obviously green screened spooky library, complete with a definitely-not-photoshopped crow sitting on one of the shelves.
"Welcome to Candi Critiques," the woman deadpanned, at odds with the saccharine-sounding voice she'd used to plug a product just a few seconds before. "Not-so-sweet reviews of the good, the bad, and the ugly of all things paranormal romance. And today we've got something really profoundly ugly, so buckle up, buttercup."
"I think I'm going to need more wine for this," I muttered, reaching for the bottle.
"Ghosted By the Phantom is the latest hot literary dumpster fire from writer Ravenna White, whose exceptional writing skills are only rivaled by her ability to choose pen names." Candi held up a copy of my book, gazing into the camera with half-lidded eyes. "I've already pretty extensively covered Ravenna's earlier 'work,' if you can call it that, so if you're interested in checking that out there's a playlist on my channel. But for new followers, here's a brief catchup: Ravenna is a miserable pile of shit author whose many contributions to the paranormal romance genre are a veritable gold mine of questionable writing and extremely problematic content."
I took a long swig from the bottle.
"She got her start at the tender age of 19, when she scrubbed the names off her wildly successful coffee shop AU fanfic featuring popular lets players as frappucino-sipping vampires. The result was a little piece of hot garbage called Re-Vamped, and against all logic, it sold 90 friggin' million copies." Candi paused for dramatic effect. "Let that sink in a moment."
"Someone's bitter," Alice sang.
"The problems with Re-Vamped could span a whole other video—three, actually; again please check out my playlist," Candi said. "Thankfully, Ravenna's never been able to recapture the lightning in a bottle that was her first book. Or maybe the world just realized what horror it had wrought. Sales have basically never been the same for her and every book she's got has a two-and-a-half star rating on Amazon, is what I'm saying."
I tipped the moscato back and chugged.
Candi continued. "In this thirty-five minute video essay, I will deconstruct Ghosted By the Phantom's terrible Mary Sue characters, toxic masculinity, and lack of female agency—"
Alice snatched the wine away before I could drain it. "Dang, save some for me."
Thankfully, we didn't actually sit through the whole video—after a couple minutes we scrubbed through the timeline looking for the moment from the thumbnail where she sets the book on fire.
It happened at 32:18. I have to admit, I didn't think she'd actually do it. Apparently the smoke was so bad it set off the fire alarms in her apartment.
"Try not to smile so much about somebody almost burning their place down," Alice said, but she was grinning, too.
I leaned back, hands folded behind my head. "Think it was worth it all, just for that."
"Don't—" Candi coughed as she waved away ribbons of black fumes. The fire alarm squealed on and on. "—Don't forget about my upcoming fan meet-and-greets. I'll be visiting tons of cities on the East Coast to promote my new book, Mary Sue Must Die, which is available print-on-demand through—"
"How many things is she gonna shill?" I asked, finally clicking out of the video.
"Be glad you turned on Adblock." Alice took a delicate sip of the wine and made a face. "I'm pretty sure she runs ads every five minutes."
I did the mental math. "That's like—shit, six, seven commercials? And a book plug, and a sponsorship..."
"And a tour."
"And a tour," I repeated. Going back to Candi's Youtube page, I found the playlist labeled 'Ravenna White: A Study in Yikes' and clicked through. My eyebrows raised so hard I thought they'd puncture my hairline and launch into outer space. "She's covered every last one of my books."
Face still puckered, Alice took another drink. "Yeah."
"How much money does she make off of these videos?"
"Oh, that's hard to say." My roommate tapped her chin in thought. "She's got more subs than I do, though, and I'm pulling about 7 grand a month..."
"Seven thousand dollars?" I gaped. "For tapping on steak knives for thirty minutes? That's more money than I usually get for an advance these days."
"Sounds like you need to get into a new line of work," she said with a wink.
"Maybe." I blew out my cheeks, staring at the catalog of videos Candi had made about my books. Re-Vamped. Shamrock My World. Mermaid For Each Other. Fairy Obvious. The more I thought about it, the more exploited I felt. Opening another tab, I pulled up an announcement where she'd posted tour dates and locations. "Wanna crash one of her meet-and-greets with me?"
The bottle rattled to the coffee table as Alice forced down a hard swallow. "What? Eddie, no—that's creepy."
"What's creepy about it? She made this public knowledge. It's not like I'm going to her house. C'mon, there's one at the Hotel Roanoke."
"Oh wow. That close?" Alice bit her lip. "I just—I don't know. It still feels kinda stalkerish. I don't like it."
"Fine, fine, if we're gonna be boring, mature adults about it." Closing the laptop, I stood and brushed the fine layer of hair and cheeto dust off my onesie. "I guess I should probably take that shower now."
"Glad you're feeling better." She picked up her shopping bags and straightened her wig. "I gotta get recording—video's gonna be up late as it is."
"I'll try to keep things down to a dull roar out here," I said, and watched her leave.
As soon as I heard the door to her recording studio—otherwise known as her bedroom—shut behind her, I picked up my phone and frantically put the address for the Hotel Roanoke into my GPS.
You know. For science.