The side street is dark for a moment, then bursts into light as we reach the more populated areas. Out on the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks, the cool air breezes off the Hudson and chills my forehead, which I only now realize is drenched in sweat.
Rebekah hurries toward the railing by the water, her face pale, eyes enormous. She throws up, loudly and violently, over the edge, coughing and sputtering. I pat and rub her back, tucking loose strands of red-orange hair behind her ear.
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. “You’re safe.”
“Fucking assholes,” she chokes back.
“They’re gone,” I continue. “They—”
“Hey!” a breathless male voice shouts, and I spin around to spot Brian, the guy who held that Walt jerk back. He’s panting laboriously, bent over, one hand up in the air, the other on his knee. I ball up my fists and look around for someone, anyone. Not just for someone who might be able to help, but someone who might do more harm. His friends, or whoever they are.
“Wait, wait...” he protests, gulping for air. “Don’t... I...” He holds something in the air and shakes it.
It’s my phone.
He looks up at me, and his face is red, eyes glistening. He’s got a horribly busted lip, already purple and pulsing, blood trickling down his chin.
“Sorry,” he says, taking a step toward us. I shrink back and look around, searching for an escape. Rebekah is in no condition to run, and for a bizarre moment, I wonder if we can just jump into the water and swim to Manhattan, like we’re in an action movie where that’s possible.
“Don’t...don’t bolt,” Brian pleads. “Here, just...” He moves closer, and it feels like my heart is crashing against my rib cage, like it’s about to jettison out of my chest and into the water. “Here.”
He reaches out with my phone, holding it by the very end, like he’s trying to give a snack to a dangerous animal in a zoo. I take it from him quickly, snatching it away and burying it in my jacket.
“I’m sorry,” he continues, stepping back, hands up. “Walt... His friends... They’re all a bunch of assholes. I’m just here checking out the school. Transfer student. Got stuck with them as my like, tour group for the week.”
I stare at him.
“Sorry, I’m...talking too much.” He clears his throat. “How can I help? I’m Brian—”
“I gathered,” I say, clearing my throat and pausing for a beat. “Look, if you want to help, talk to your boy about how to treat women. And don’t let him go back there. That’s our place.”
“Fuck that, not anymore.” Rebekah sniffles.
“I’m not letting someone take that place from us,” I insist, turning around to face her. But Rebekah’s eyes are red and wet, and she looks up at me with a crushed expression that tells me they already have. I wrap an arm around her, feeling my heart break over the loss.
Brian is still standing there, his hands in his pockets, looking incredibly uncomfortable.
“Thanks for getting my phone back,” I say, holding my phone up. “Like I said...if you really want to help, educate your friends.”
“Yeah, I don’t think they’re my friends anymore,” he says, rubbing at his face, wincing when his hand brushes against his bloody lip.
“Good,” I tell him. “You don’t need friends like that. No one does.”
I pull out my phone, a little crack in the screen, and move to dial.
“Who...who are you calling?” Rebekah asks.
“The cops.” I bring the phone up to my ear. “I’m not letting anyone get away with hurting you again.”
Reclaim the Sun: Chat Application
AARON: Hey! Up for some resource grinding tonight?
D1V: Hey, not a good time right now.
AARON: No worries. Is everything okay?
D1V: That’s a tough question to answer. I’ll go with no for now.
AARON: Do you want to talk about it?
D1V: Not particularly, but thanks.
D1V: Listen I feel like my world is about to go up in flames, so let’s talk later.
AARON: Okay. I’m around though if you need a chat.
D1V: K.
8
DIVYA
It’s only a matter of hours before the news about Quarter Slice Crisis is all over the Internet, and the reports online are just awful.
The comments, of course, are even worse.
I glance over at the sign on my desk, in simple black letters on a print I ordered from Etsy.
Don’t Read the Comments.
Ah, little sign. If only it were that easy. If only every person who gave that advice, who claimed that they heeded that advice, actually took that advice.
Everyone reads the comments.
Every single one.
It’s Rebekah’s attack all over again. The video, taken by one of the bros at the pizza place, filtering from social media to all the gaming blogs. A thing to be whispered and posted about, by swarms of people that won’t hear anything that we have to say about it.
I think the wildest thing about all of this is that nothing is reported in the actual news. Like on television or the major local news outlets. There’s no report about two girls being assaulted and threatened in the middle of downtown Hoboken. Nothing about a popular hangout for college kids being unsafe. There’s a blip in a hyperlocal news blog, linking to the gaming blogs that are talking about it. But largely, the only people discussing the incident are the video game sites.
And it’s there that the comments are worst—from the people in my community. Or supposedly my community, at least. There’s lots of talk about me “deserving” this or that because of my stream. But how does any of that make sense? How does playing a game and making videos make me deserving of any of this?
I see it too often. People saying how putting myself out there this way, on the Internet, on streaming sites, on social media... Well, what do I expect to happen? That I should anticipate being some kind of victim, for finding joy in something.
How dare you, their voices say, without directly saying it.
I close out all the blogs and my social feeds on my computer just as the doorbell to our apartment rings. I peer out the windows of my bedroom to the street below. There’s a black car with dark windows across the way that I’ve never seen before, and down near the door to our building, a woman in a suit, looking around impatiently. She rings the doorbell again.