Page 50

WHEN I GET home that night, Liza is in her room, likely studying. I can hear her moving around, turning pages, the rustle of a box of crackers. I need to pull myself together, be a mother. I have to make dinner or at least order some takeout. My daughter needs me to be supportive and present—she has her own issues going on—but I’m a mess. The accusations through the school portal could threaten my livelihood, destroy my reputation. The thought makes panic flutter in my chest.

My phone rings, and I wonder if it’s Theo. We haven’t spoken since I ditched him to pick up Liza. We need to, but he had another tour and I’ve been highly distracted. Snatching my phone off the counter, I see Janine Kang’s name on the display.

“Turn on the news. Channel 104,” she says, without a greeting. It’s the news station she works at.

“Why?” I ask, but I’m already clicking the remote.

“I’m so sorry. I tried to stop it, but I was outvoted.”

Oh god.

Hanging up, I stand in front of the TV. The anchor is another familiar face. The blandly handsome white man has a friendly, folksy delivery. He’s midway through introducing the next clip.

“… bad reviews are part of the deal, right? Well, this local author did not agree, and she drove three hours to confront her reviewer in person. The video of author Camryn Lane has gone viral on social media…”

I’ve seen footage of people losing their shit. Usually they’re fighting in a parking lot, refusing to give up their place in line, or attacking a flight attendant. Even in a world gone mad, outrageous behavior is still deemed worthy of our attention. And now my tirade is the latest showcase of a person breaking the social mores, disrupting the peace, cracking open.

The anchor disappears as the video fills the screen. There I am, screaming with rage at an innocent woman, gesturing violently at the teenager in the window. The caption beneath the scene reads: Author attacks reader over bad review.

They’re oversimplifying it. They’ve got it wrong. But there’s nothing I can do but watch in horror.

“Oh my god! Is that you?”

I whirl around. My daughter is behind me, staring at the TV, her face contorted in anguish.

“I… I’m sorry,” I stammer.

“What did you do?” Her eyes, trained on my image, are brimming.

“I messed up, Liza. I know I did. I never thought…”

But she turns and runs back to her room as the anchor comes back on-screen. He’s composed, but amusement sparkles in his eyes. He moves on to the next story, and I turn off the TV.

My phone on the counter starts to ring, but I ignore it. I need to talk to Liza, to beg her forgiveness. But when I enter her room, she’s already throwing clothes into her duffel bag. Her face is pink and streaked with tears, but her expression is pure anger.

“I’m going back to Dad’s,” she mutters without looking up.

“I understand. And I’m so sorry.”

“It’s gone viral on TikTok, too,” Liza informs me. “I’ve already had a bunch of messages from friends. Soon every girl at school will have watched it.”

“I know this is horrible, but I promise you it will all die down.” My voice is weak, pleading. “People will get bored and move on.”

“I’ll be gone in three months.” She zips her bag closed and finally looks up. “You couldn’t have waited to act like a psychotic stalker until after I left?”

She pushes past me and heads to the door. I watch, helpless, impotent, as she steps into her shoes and leaves.

Alone in the apartment, my phone buzzes continually. I have missed calls from Jody, Theo, and Navid. There are a number of texts, too, and I scan the messages. Theo wants me to call him. Navid tries to console me. Martha asks if she should come over with wine. And Jody tells me to check social media.

#stayinyourLane is trending

Fuck.

With a glass of wine in hand, I head into my office and log onto Twitter. I haven’t been on social media for several days, and I have a number of notifications. But I ignore them and type the hashtag into the search bar. And then I scroll through the tweets.

This is actual footage of an author attacking a woman for giving her a bad review. #stayinyourLane #boycottBurntOrchid

My meltdown has become a gif, a loop of me screaming “My book has been bombarded with bad reviews!” on Megan Prince’s front lawn. Humiliation makes me feel sick and sweaty, almost dizzy. But I sip the cold wine and continue to scroll. Most of the tweets contain the gif and the same hashtags.

This is not the first author to attack a reviewer. If you can’t handle the criticism, don’t read it. Or don’t publish.

A male author physically assaulted a teenage girl over a bad review. A female author doxed a reviewer over a mediocre rating. And now this. When will publishers hold this behavior to account?

My publisher is tagged in the comment, and my face burns with shame, deep and ugly. Another feeling is stirring inside of me. Resentment, even blame. My publishing team had told me to stay off social media, not to engage or defend myself, but that’s only made things worse. Theo’s sage words drift into my memory.

No one cares about your career as much as you do.

I knew all along what was right, but I’d been too compliant, too eager to please. I should have spoken from my heart, apologized right out of the gate, admitted my mistakes, and promised to learn from them instead of sharing some canned, generic apology. I should have tried to explain.

I take a fortifying breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I know a response could inflame the situation. I know that trolls live for a reaction. But if I choose my words carefully, I can make people understand. I can show them that I’m a decent person who did nothing wrong. I can fix this…

Or am I a little drunk?

Finally, I type a comment under the last tweet.

I should never have gone to this woman’s house, and I apologize for any fear or stress I caused her. I can and do accept criticism of my work, but I won’t stand for unfair accusations made about me as a high school counselor. I would never exploit the children I work with.

No sooner have I hit reply than a barrage of responses fly at me:

A reader does not need an author’s permission to have an unfavorable opinion. #stayinyourLane #boycottBurntOrchid

You think you can control if a reader likes your book? You’re a grade A narcissist. #stayinyourLane #boycottBurntOrchid

You need help. You’re abusive. #stayinyourLane #boycottCamrynLane

Privileged Bitch. #killCamrynLane

Another image pops up, a photo from the school yearbook. I’m standing in the foyer, next to the trophy case. My arm is draped around the shoulders of Monique Whitford, a student who graduated a couple of years ago. I remember the moment. Monique had just won a city track meet. I’d been helping her cope with her performance anxiety. My face beams with pride. It’s a wholesome scene, impossible to be misconstrued as anything but. The Twitterverse disagrees.

Camryn Lane has been using and manipulating kids for years.

The look on her face is lecherous. Disgusting.

This poor kid. Camryn Lane needs to be stopped.

The narrative has shifted, darkened, worsened. I’m not only an unhinged author, now I’m a predator and pedophile. My denials are rapid but ineffective. My explanations land on deaf ears. The mob has turned me into the ultimate villain; they’re enjoying tearing me apart. No one defends me, and I can’t blame them. I only have about three hundred followers, and no one is brave enough to take on an angry mob. Besides, most of them barely know me. They might think I’m the deranged narcissist people say I am.

For the first time, I notice that I have eight DMs. I’m sure they’re not anything good, but I open the first one.

Kill yourself you disgusting animal! Save me the trouble of finding out where you live!

Bile rises in my throat. Clearly there’s no need to read the rest.

I go back to the main page and watch the vitriol roll in. I feel sick to my stomach, but I don’t stop. I’m like a masochist, addicted to the abuse, though each insult is like a blow. And then I see a tweet that sends a chill through my body, into my bones. None of the Twitter handles have been familiar, until now. My breath catches in my chest as I read.

IngridWanders

This author abuses children and consumes child porn. She’s sick. Who wants me to dox this bitch so someone can shut her up for good?

Affirmative responses are coming in furiously, but I don’t read them. Instead, I click on the name. The profile picture is the Instagram photo of Megan Prince. The cover image is the gray cat.

It’s her. Or him. Or them.

A guttural sob escapes me. I slam the laptop closed and hurry out of my office.