Page 44 of Anti-Player

“I...”

“Oh my god it is you! Wait, can I get a photo with you? I have to show my buddies!”

Rattling my head side to side I backtrack, heel slipping off the sidewalk. I fall down, scramble to my feet, yank at my car door. It's locked; I unlock it, darting inside as the stranger continues to flag me down.

No no no no!

Snack-time is abandoned. I press the gas and just go, nearly hitting some recycling bins on the street in my panic. I'm breathing hard and heavy—I glance in my rear-view mirror. No one is following me. I feel insane for multiple reasons. Stupid, too. What's the line between overreacting and being justified in your paranoia?

I drive down more backstreets, finally stopping at a corner to gather myself. My sweaty palms slip on my steering wheel. Pressing the break, again checking behind me, I force in calming gulps of oxygen. “Breathe,” I say to myself. “He wasn't going to hurt you.”

But he did recognize me. In my own neighborhood. Fuck.

I can't go back.

Maybe ever.

I place my phone in my lap, turn it on, then freeze when I see all the missed calls and texts from Mikel. He must be so angry, I think. I wasted his second chance. Worse, his reputation is tainted like mine. Everyone will spam his company with bad reviews. God, what if he got death threats too?

I press a button in my contacts. “Hello?” my mom's voice says when she picks up.

“Hi Mom!” I shout, steering my car around a corner. “How are you?”

“Oh, I'm great! What are you up to? I thought you'd call at the end of the week before you came by to help me with the groceries.”

“That's sort of why I'm calling, yeah.” I do my best to keep my tone light. “What would you say if I came to stay with you for a bit? Just some quality you and me time?”

She doesn't respond at first. My mom isn't dumb, and her voice is less cheerful as she asks, “What happened?”

“Nothing! Why do you think anything happened?”

“Paige...”

“Mom, it's fine. I just want to spend some time with you.”

There's more silence. I haven't fooled her. To my relief, she plays along and says, “Alright, sure. I'd love that. When are you coming by?”

“I'll be there in under an hour,” I say. Tapping my phone off without looking, I focus on the road. My mind keeps floating back to the missed calls and texts from Mikel. Imagining strangers hunting him down and slandering or harassing him makes acid flow from my stomach to my tongue. Everything inside of me boils. I've never been on this side of an angry online mob before. I have, however, seen it from a distance.

Thinking back to the stream, I recall Cookie trying to stand up for me. It's good she's on my side, but I hope she doesn't get in the middle of things. The angry mob will turn on her if she dares to defend me too much. After all the work she did as my mentor, having her suffer from this would be my final breaking point. It isn't like anything she says will change their minds, either—once people decide you're a lying sellout, that's it.

Lots of things matter on the internet.

The truth isn't one of them.

****

The fan-like clustersof the green and pale-purple aloe plants block the view of my childhood home. Between them and the manzanitas it's easy to miss the single-story house with its bulging yellow stucco and reddish shingles.

Parking in the driveway, I climb out, spotting motion in the front window. My mother waves at me through the glass, her body bobbing up and down—the tell-tale gait of her cane. She can get around indoors without her wheelchair, but it's a slow process.

“Paige, sweetheart, how are you?” she asks when I open the screen-door.

“Great,” I lie, hugging her as tightly as I dare. She's wearing comfortable tan pants and a loose, billowing white shirt that hangs to her wrists. Her hair is the same maple-brown shade as mine, worn in her characteristic bun. I never knew her to style it any other way growing up. “Have you eaten? I'm starving.”

“Oh! Well, there's a new little acai place nearby we can go to that's got a lovely outdoor patio.”

“I was thinking take-out.” Closing us inside, I set my backpack on her small brown couch. She hasn't replaced it since I was a kid. There's still an old stain on the arm from oil-paints that never washed out. “Chinese? Thai? Pizza? My treat.”

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