Fifteen
“We need a new plan.”
I’ve finished my shift at Old Navy, where Jack surprised me by jumping out of a fitting room and demanded I share a late lunch with her in the food court. We’re sitting at a two-seater table next to the mall carousel. I’m eating a veggie pizza. Jack has bought a Philly cheesesteak and a giant Cinnabon roll and is alternating her bites between the two. She’s just stuffed a gooey forkful of cinnamon roll in her mouth when she asks, “What kind of new plan?”
“For how we deal with social media,” I say. “It’s getting draining. And kind of depressing.”
As it turns out, silverspunnnx23 was not an isolated incident. Ever since that post, I’ve noticed more dislikes on our videos, more negative e-mails and comments (Ummmm, where’d the plot go?; Does Kitty do her own makeup, because it shows ). It’s hard to tell if the negative stuff has always been there, just less visible, or if silverspunnnx23’s post has opened the proverbial floodgates; it’s racked up a lot of likes and reblogs.
“I’m telling you,” says Jack, “we should hire a personal assistant.”
“Yes, with our huge-ass budget. Come on, we need an actual, executable solution.”
“Uh, okay, eighties businesswoman.” Jack reaches across the table and pats my shoulders frantically. “Oh God, I can already feel the shoulder pads coming in.”
“There is nothing weird about approaching life with a plan.”
“Nothing fun about it, either,” mutters Jack, turning her attention to the cheesesteak. Once her mouth is full, she starts up again. “I don’t see what we can change. We can’t exactly filter out hate. So unless we’re not going to respond to anything online, I say we keep up what we’re doing.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t respond,” I say.
Jack swallows loudly. “Are you kidding? You want us to, what, totally disappear online?”
“No.” The plan formulates even as I’m talking. “We’ll still upload videos. But maybe we should take a week away from weeding through notifications.”
“But when we pick it up again, we’ll have a huge backlog to work through. How does that help?”
“I don’t know ,” I say, frustrated. “I just don’t think how we’re doing it now is . . . sustainable. It would help to step back for a week and get some perspective.”
“I mean, fine, whatever. I don’t mind getting a few hours of my life back.”
“Kevin is still strong at least,” I say, dunking one of my pizza crusts into a cup of marinara. “Most people were happy with #KevinThursday. And did you see how someone started a Tumblr fansite?”
“Dude, that’s been up for ages.”
“Well, I’m just saying .” I wad up a grease-soaked napkin and toss it at Jack’s nose. Jack ducks, and the napkin hits the head of someone sitting behind her. The someone turns around. It’s a middle-aged mother eating McDonald’s with her two children. She looks extremely unamused.
“Sorry,” I say. “Sorry, that was for my friend.”
The woman gives me an unflinching glare. It’s faces like this that have me convinced people really did watch gladiators and public executions for fun.
Jack is still bent over, snickering hard.
I kick her under the table. “Shut up. Eat faster.”
Jack straightens. She takes a bite of her cinnamon roll. With glee in her eyes, she chews slowly.
• • •
When I get home, I look over a flash drive’s worth of edited footage that Jack gave me at lunch. As expected, everything looks good. Jack’s cuts are perfectly timed, her corrective coloring decent. And I never get tired of watching our five-second intro. Tony composed the theme: a flirty little melody on synthesizer; and Paul did the graphics: an aerial shot of neon train tracks that end in the series title.
When Paul first presented the design, I asked if it might be too morbid, considering Tolstoy’s Anna meets her tragic end on the train tracks. (We’ve planned a less tragic end for our Anna: She just leaves town.) Jack replied that nothing in this life is too morbid, because nothing is more morbid than life itself. I didn’t want to offend Paul, who’d done the graphics as a favor to us, so I dropped it. Now, months later, I wouldn’t change a thing. Which might be because I’ve come to realize the genius of our title sequence, but more likely is because I’ve grown accustomed to it.
Whatever the case, I’m happy with the titles. Unlike a certain Tumblr user named silverspunnnx23 who is all WTF about our entire production. The tone of that post is still so lodged in my brain, I can imagine with vitriolic eloquence how the critique would go:
4. OPENING TITLES — What kind of cheap excrement is this? Low budget? How about NO budget. Congratulations on producing a five-second song more annoying than a car dealership jingle. News flash: Punching out a few notes on a synthesizer does not make you a musician. The graphics? If I wanted to see those shades of neon, I’d take some LSD , thanks very much. And train tracks? Talk about poor taste.
“Ugh, toxic,” I tell myself, head on my desk. “This is so toxic, stop it.”
I decide to distract myself by checking the Seedling Productions e-mail account. This isn’t technically social media. Still, before I open the web browser, I set a twenty-minute timer on my phone. Boundaries.
As always, the inbox is filled with equal parts junk and fan mail. There are lots of e-mails from viewers asking impossible questions, like how is the series going to end, and how do we plan on approaching such-and-such plot point in the book. Several people want to know where they can listen to more of Jack and Tony’s music, even though a cursory glance at the videos’ description boxes would provide them a link to Tony’s Bandcamp site. A few just want to say how much they love the show. At this point, I feel like I’ve seen every possible type of letter. Turns out I’m wrong. My eyes catch on an e-mail sent this afternoon with the subject line “ YOUR SHOW SUCKS .” The body of the e-mail is only a little more verbose: I think your show really sucks, would you stop making videos already.
The whole experience is so sudden—just a click and a couple seconds to process—that I find myself reeling away from my desk like a drunk woman. I pace the room a few times. I look at my poster of Leo. He scowls down on me. I scowl back. Then I return to my laptop and delete the e-mail. I tell myself that whatever person gets their kicks from sending nasty letters deserves my pity, not wrath. That’s that.
I wish I could rid myself of silverspunnnx23’s criticisms as easily. The trouble is, silverspunnnx23 didn’t write an uninspired, juvenile e-mail. She (I’ve begun to think of her as a she now) wrote a coherent criticism using good grammar. Worst of all, she’s pressed on parts of me that are already bruised and sore from self-doubt. I’ve wondered at times, when reviewing the script, if certain lines are too stilted, too forced. Jack and I discussed doing a modern adaptation for months and months, and we were both leery of how massive Anna Karenina was. It is an ambitious project, sure, but we liked our approach of simplifying and updating the story. We weren’t setting out to make a masterpiece. It’s not like anyone on YouTube is clicking around in search of the next Francis Ford Coppola. But no matter how many times I tell myself silverspunnnx23 is out of touch, out of line, just doesn’t get it—her biting words keep playing over and over again.
In a last-ditch attempt at distraction, I return to my e-mail. This time around, scrolling through my inbox feels like walking through a field now known to be hiding land mines. I sift through a few more inquiries about Tony’s music before I come to the subject line “ INTERVIEW REQUEST .” This is another variety of e-mail I’ve yet to encounter. Leaning closer with interest, I click open the letter.
Dear Jacklyn and Natasha,
My name is Heather Lyles, and I’m co-founder of the lifestyle blog Horn-Rimmed Glasses Girl. Every month, we like to spotlight girls who are doing new and innovative things on the Internet. If you’re interested, my co-blogger Carolyn and I would love to interview you for our August slot. Feel free to browse around our blog and check out past interviews (links below). Just let us know in the coming weeks if you’d like to take part.
Sincerely,
Heather Lyles
Creator & Blogger, Horn-Rimmed Glasses Girl
I went looking for a distraction, and here it is. An interview request. Like Jack and I are celebrities. Like we have something worthwhile to say in a Q&A. Best of all, I’ve actually heard of the Horn-Rimmed Glasses Girl blog before. Which means this is not just a distraction but a somewhat big deal. Five minutes later, I’ve composed a reply thanking Heather for the opportunity and informing her that absolutely, we’d love to interview.
My twenty-minute timer goes off a few seconds after I press send. Perfect timing. I’ve ended things on a good note. I close my laptop and retreat to my bed with my phone in hand. Thom texted me during work this morning. I read his words quickly at break, but now I take my time, studying every letter as though it’s a hieroglyphic.
Hey, read the Tumblr post. That girl is an idiot, don’t let it bother you for a second. She was basically criticizing all web series, not to mention TOLSTOY HIMSELF . Not worth your time.
Thom’s got a point: Silverspunnnx23 did seem critical not just of Unhappy Families but of everything in general. She’s probably one of those people who goes out on a sunny summer day and says, “Ew, there’s a cloud in the sky, my life is ruined.” And she did slight my man Leo, which is not only offensive but laughable, because he is the best novelist in the history of novelists. These are all good reasons to let it go. Maybe now I’ll finally be able to.
I text, Thanks. You always know what to say.
A moment later, Thom writes back. He’s been texting a lot more promptly over the past few days, and I don’t know if that’s because his schedule is less hectic or if it’s something else. Something having to do with me.
I always know what to TEXT . You ever think how weird it is that we’ve literally never said anything to each other?
I sit up straight in bed. I want to text back that yes, I’ve been thinking that for weeks now. But that would come off as way too desperate.
Very weird, I write. But that’ll change soon.
Is Thom going to bring it up? Is he going to suggest we call each other? Skype, even? Maybe he isn’t going to text back at all. Maybe he’s going to be spontaneous and call me on the spot.
But no. No call. He texts back, Are you sure you’re okay?
And I can’t be mad at him for that.
I’ll be okay, I write. Just a lot of things I wasn’t expecting, all happening at once.
Thom can’t know this, but I’m not just talking about the web series anymore. I’m talking about the health of my best friends’ dad and my mom’s out-of-the-blue pregnancy and the ever-widening rift between me and Klaudie and the sinking feeling that my dream school is a pipe dream school.