~Three Months Later~

THE FIGHT in Brooklyn actually accomplished something. Dave doesn't bother me anymore. I don't hear from him for three months. I'm starting to think he's gone back to wherever he came from. I'm so ecstatically happy about my new social life with Nick and his friends that I haven't had time to write online at all. I haven't replied to a single fan mail in weeks.

Fall gradually transforms into winter, and Manhattan is covered with Christmas decorations. I don't hear from Dave again until December 17, my birthday. As I leave my bare apartment for school, I find a strange package on my doorstep.

I'll never forget your birthday.

I remove the card, and despite my better judgment — I open the box to find a dozen dead roses. There's a tag attached to one of the brittle dead stems.

Celebrating our anniversary, Dave.

It's December 17. This was the day I signed up for my writing account almost three years ago. It was my birthday, and my dad hadn't sent a card for the fifth year in a row. I was alone in my room, and I needed to talk to someone, so I registered that account and started talking — to the internet.

I break off the bud of the dead rose that had the tag attached to it. I shove in my backpack. During second-period Creative Writing, before most of the rest of the class had settled in their seats, I march up to Jake's desk. Jake and Natalie have been dating on and off for the past month. I can't keep track of whether they are still together or not.

On that day, I didn't care. I dump the dead rose in front of him.

"He's back."

"What's this?" Jake asks. "This is a nice Christmas gift, but it's a little crumpled up."

"I'm not giving it to you, you idiot," I hiss and then lower my voice to whisper. "This was left on my doorstep this morning by Dave. He's back, and he got past my security guard. I found this on my doorstep!"

"Okay, chill out. Don't panic," Jake says as and picks up the rose with his fingertips as though it might be harboring a zombie plague. "Maybe he had his sister do it. I'm sure the doorman thought she was harmless enough."

"And if he didn't? And if I had a 6' foot neckbeard standing outside my door?" I could imagine Dave standing outside my apartment door, fondling my doorknob, and fogging up my peephole with his deep breathing.

"Look, you don't know that he was in your building. For all you know, he sent a courier to deliver it to your door. There's no chance he's been in Manhattan all this time. He would have to have the patience of a saint."

"Do you really think so?"

"Do you think a guy like Dave has the money to lay low in Manhattan doing nothing for over three months?"

"W-why do you think he's back?" I ask. "lt can't be because it's my birthday."

"Is there anything else special that is going on?"

"Nick is taking me to the holiday dance."

Jake rolls his eyes at that.

I quickly move on. "It's also my anniversary of the day I started writing online. I haven't updated in a couple of months. I haven't checked my fan mail in ages, but I can see that my spam folder is getting full."

"There you have it. Why don't you make a new post online, let everyone you're alive? Maybe then they won't feel the need to leave roses at your door like some neckbeard version of The Phantom of the Opera?"

"I-I don't want to," I stammer. "If I start posting again, they'll just yell at me to update. I don't feel like it right now. I have a life now, with Nick. Ruth and I are going shopping this weekend at Hudson Yards. I don't need to write anymore to get attention."

"Fine, then ignore them. They'll eventually go away."

I notice that Jake turns away from me and starts to play on his phone. I frown and stay put. He doesn't say anything else. In fact, Jake makes it a point to show me he's not paying any attention to me at all.

"You're mad at me, aren't you? You think I should say something to my readers."

"I think you can make a lot of people feel better just by letting them know that you're not dead."

"So they can make more demands from me?" I ask. "It never ends, you know. I guess you wouldn't know. You barely have any fans. If I give my followers a tiny bit, they'll ask for more. It never ends. Also, I'm not a bad person. I'm going to pick up Billy's cupcakes for Ruth's sister Jessica. She is in the hospital again. I am filled with the Christmas spirit, just for my real-life friends, not my crazed internet stalkers."

"It's your choice, Corrine. You're right; you owe WilderLuna15 nothing."

"But?" I joke. "Come on; I know you're about to say something else."

"But anyone can be a cupcake-baking sorority girl, Corrine. Only you can be WilderLuna." Jake offers me a flash of a crooked smirk-like smile. "You might not believe it when I tell you this, but you have something special to offer the world. You have a way of touching people that is uniquely you. And I don't think you should waste it."

I laugh, and then I realize he's not joking. The New York Times certainly doesn't think so; I want to reply. I submitted my short story with edits to Mr. Kleeman weeks ago, along with a hard-won permission slip from my mom. I haven't heard back since, and I have been afraid to ask him for an update. Now, it looks like Mr. Kleeman is avoiding me. I wonder if I should just forget about the whole thing.

But how can I, when it's all I think about?

~*~

Ruth sends me a text in the middle of class. She's wearing an emerald green satin dress to the holiday dance. Ruth wants to know if I want to go shopping with her to get a matching dress. She tells me she thinks I would look fabulous in powder pink, and I agree. I've always worn dark colors in the past, but since Ruth has already chosen our colors, I decide perhaps it is time to step out of my comfort zone.

She tells me that I should borrow a gold tiara from her collection to wear with my dress. Back in middle school, Ruth and her sister always used to wear matching tiaras.

Gold works well with your highlights, Ruth tells me. It brings out the warmth in your hazel eyes.

I smile at that. Yeah, I like how Ruth sees people. She's like the best female friend ever. She's so good at knowing how to help me style my outfits so I can shine. Anne says that Ruth is used to putting Jessica first. Anne and Margaret have welcomed me into their group chat. They say that the group needs me. Now that Jessica is too weak to go out, Ruth needs to have someone to have fun with again.

As Creative Writing comes to an end, I open up my compact powder case and touch up my lipstick. I'm wearing raspberry-red lipstick now, just like Jessica did in the Facebook photos back when she wasn't sick. I imagine Jessica would never stare hopelessly at Mr. Kleeman for months waiting to hear back about her short story.

No, Jessica would walk right up to him, smack her pretty red lips, and demand a status update — no, she'll lean over his shoulder and order him to submit the story to the publisher stat. She'll always get her way because no one says "no" to Jessica Brooks.

I get up and walk up to Mr. Kleeman's desk after class. Natalie is in front of me in line to speak to him. I see him handing her homework assignment back to her.

"You're improving," he tells her, emotionlessly. "Are you working on your writing at home? Even when this class ends, you should look into keeping a journal. Fifteen minutes a day of practice can make a world of difference."

"Oh, I am," Natalie promises him and taps his sleeve as though she were bantering with a close friend. "Back when in second grade, I had this diary I wrote in every night. I'm sure I'm going to ace the college admissions essay now."

"Writing isn't just the for the sake of applying to college," Mr. Kleeman says. "It's not easy to keep at it, but if you do, you'll see the results — I promise."

"I swear, I'll do it. Once my story is in book stores, I have all these ideas for a children's novel. I'm planning out the pictures already. I can't wait to go to a party next weekend for all the accepted authors."

"What?" I ask. "You got a book published?"

I don't mean to interrupt Natalie and Mr. Kleeman's conversation, but Natalie is my friend, and she never told me any of this. I glance at Mr. Kleeman with a ginormous smile on my face for my best friend, but Mr. Kleeman is trying not to meet my eyes.

Oh my God, both Natalie and I are going to be published writers!

"Yes," Natalie says and smiles back at me. "That New York Times short story opportunity. Thanks for telling me about it, Corrine. Mr. Kleeman picked my story."

"W-what?" I ask. "No. I already sub—"

Mr. Kleeman clears his throat before I can finish.

"Corrine," he starts slowly. "I picked Natalie's story. I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you."

"What? No, I can edit my story. You can't!" I take a couple of deep breathes to calm myself. Natalie looks at me with pity in her eyes. "W-what's wrong with it?"

"There's nothing wrong with it," Mr. Kleeman answers. "It was great, brilliant, really it was. I would have loved to submit it, but Natalie brought it to my attention that it might have been published already."

"What? No, no, no."

"It was published online. Well, parts of it." Mr. Kleeman looks down as though he's embarrassed that I'm still standing here. "I'm sorry, Corrine. I'm sure there will be other opportunities for you in the future."

"No, there are no more opportunities for me. Won't you—"

"Corrine," Mr. Kleeman interrupts with his brows furrowed. "I need to finish talking to Natalie. Can you wait for your turn?"

I'm done waiting for my turn. I back away from Mr. Kleeman's desk and run out of the classroom. I see Jake outside the classroom, talking to some of his guy friends. I punch him in the shoulder as hard as I can. Jake barely feels it, but he raises an eyebrow at me.

"What's up?"

"You did it!" I hiss. "You told Mr. Kleeman about my WilderLuna15 account!"

"What? Heck, no," Jake laughs at me and then goes back to talking to his guy friends. They are engaged in a very intense debate about last weekend's MMA tournament in Dubai. Jake leads the boys away without giving me another glance.

"Jake! You jerk!" I try to shout, but the words die in my choked up throat.

"Jake didn't do it," Natalie says, catching up to me. "Who cares about your little writing account, Corrine? I made a Twitter account with the first paragraph of your story on it, and I showed it to Mr. Kleeman. Come on, Corrine. Let's be real; we all know you didn't deserve it."

"But, that's a lie. You framed me!"

"Did I?" Natalie asks, rolling her eyes. "If you were honest with us from the beginning — which, as Jake told me months ago that you absolutely were not — you would admit that you share everything with your online buddies. You're a big scandal seeking blabbermouth. So what if I made a fake Twitter account? If I had gone through the trouble of finding your actual Livejournal, or Tiktok, or Instagram that you post everything on, would it make a difference?"

"You have no right," I snap through my tearful eyes. "I worked for that New York Times publication. I wrote every single day to get ready for this moment. What did you do?"

"Do you know why I won? It's because I didn't do any of the things you did. I didn't feel the need to post every detail about my life on the internet. You can be respected by the New York Times, or you can be loved by your little internet followers," Natalie says to me. "You can't have both."

Natalie sneers at me and walks away in the direction of Jake and his friends, who had already headed around the corner. I hear her whisper to one of her girlfriends who had unintentionally witnessed our exchange.

"Is that the one who tried to steal your boyfriend?" The girl asks Natalie.

"Yeah, that's her. The skank even tried to tag along on my first date," Natalie whispers incredulously while glaring daggers at me. "Now, she's getting what she deserves."