They are brutal. No one is holding back.
... ironic that Fern Huang has bullied her bully into committing suicide ...
... fucked up how Fern Huang literally stole everything from Haven Lee??
... wrote that disgusting article basically inciting the world to hate on Haven Lee ...
My chest physically hurts. Breathing becomes harder and harder, to the point that I have to tear my eyes off the computer screen and focus on filling my lungs with air so I don’t pass out. The whole time, I’m thinking: Oh god, it’s happening again. I’m going to lose my book deal. It’s like dying a million deaths, over and over again. Devastated doesn’t even begin to describe it. I once read that heartbreak physically hurts because when the mind is in agony, the body creates more adrenaline,and the heart struggles to keep up with the sudden surge of it, which makes it hurt as it mimics the symptoms of a heart attack. That is exactly what I’m feeling right now. A series of heart attacks as I slump to the floor and envision a future where I lose a second book deal.
And, deeper still, beyond the surface-level panic of losing my career, is the unfathomable pain of knowing that a life was lost and I had something to do with it. A pain that is excruciating in its familiarity. Dani, and now, Haven. I may not have directly caused their deaths, but I am intrinsically tied to them. If not for me, neither one would be dead. The guilt threatens to crush me.
My phone rings. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears streaming down the sides of my face. I don’t want to answer it. Please don’t make me answer it. It continues ringing. I lift it and glance at the screen. It’s Rachel FaceTiming me. I moan out loud. God, please no. Not again. I can’t take this yet again. It will kill me. The thought makes me snort. What would truly be ironic is if I were to also kill myself right now. Why not? Now that once again, I am about to have nothing left to lose. I might as well lose the last thing I do have—my life.
Somehow, accepting that I once again have nothing revives me enough to accept the call. I don’t bother getting up off the floor, though. Why make the effort when I’m just going to crumple back onto it once Rachel fires me?
When FaceTime loads, I find not just Rachel but Julia; Sophia, my publicist; Christine from Marketing; Louisa from Sales; someone else that I don’t recognize; and, worst of all, Martin, the head of the publishing house, on the call. “Oh,” I say, sitting up and frantically wiping away my tears. Are they about to fire me in front of my entire publishing team? This is a new level of cruelty that I was unprepared for. But I suppose I deserve it, and worse.
“Hi, Fern, how are you doing?” Rachel says. Her voice is full of sympathy, which is somewhat surprising.
“Um. Well, I just heard the news about Haven, and—” My voice cracks, and I wave at the screen. “Sorry! I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“Oh, Fern. It’s unimaginably sad,” Julia pipes up. “We all feel awful about what happened.”
“Yeah.” I pinch my thigh to keep the tears from falling. “It’s all my fault.”
There is a collective gasp. Rachel leans into her camera so her face fills the whole screen. “Fern, listen to me. It isNotyour fault. What happened is devastating, but it is not your fault.”
Everyone else is nodding.
“Fern,” Julia says, “I understand why you might blame yourself, but please, please trust us when we tell you that what Haven did is not your fault. You were doing what was right for you, and not only for you but for other bullying victims out there. You were writing your truth. Of course we hate that Haven felt like she had no other choice but to do what she did, but Fern, should you have stayed completely silent your whole life?”
“Exactly,” Rachel says. “And nowhere did you ask people to attack Haven over what she did to you in school. You were only sharing your experience. The fault really lies on all those trolls who came after her.”
I drink in their words with desperate gratitude. I want to believe them so badly. Maybe in time, I might. Right now, their kindness is almost painful, something I don’t deserve. I want to end this call as quickly as I can so I can go back to curling up in my room and crying alone. “Thank you,” I say. “Anyway, um. Look, I get why you’re canceling my book. You don’t have to explain it. I understand, and I will return all of the money.” I move my finger to the Leave Call button, but before I can tap it, Rachel shouts, “What?”
I freeze. “Uh . . .”
They all stare at me with confused expressions, then Martin clears his throat and says, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. We’re not calling to cancel your book.”
“You’re not?” My mind struggles to keep up.
“No,” he says, “why would we?”
“Because everyone hates me? No one is going to buy my books.”
“Who says everyone hates you?” Rachel says. “I mean, is there a bit of trolling going on? Sure. But trolls exist everywhere.”
“On Twitter—”
“Let me stop you right there, Fern,” Martin says. “We’ve got our social media expert on the call. Bree? Over to you.”
The woman I didn’t recognize before smiles and waves at the camera. “Hi, Fern, nice to meet you. My name is Bree, and I am the social media analyst at Salt Books. Now, because social media is so volatile, I hesitate to call myself an expert—thank you, Martin—but despite the volatility, there are patterns, and my job is to study these patterns and—”
Julia clears her throat meaningfully.
“Sorry,” Bree says, “I tend to get carried away explaining my job. Basically, I’m here to help authors like you navigate the rough waters of social media when there is conflict. I have come up with a game plan. Let me just share my screen real quick ... Here we go.”
A slideshow appears. On it are the wordsSocial Media Damage Control. The first slide shows a flowchart with the wordsNewsBlameWhoReframe.
