Chapter 4
“You’re not still sleeping.” The voice coming through my phone’s speaker has me opening my eyes until I’m squinting at the screen, with a frown on my face Madison can’t see. I groan to give her a verbal reply, then bury my face in my pillow once again.
“I’m still sleeping,” I mutter. “You know I was up super late with Squad Ghouls last night. Let me sleep.”
“Not if you want your hair done. I’m outside. Get up, or I’ll go get your spare key from Mrs. Elmore.”
I sit up at that, rubbing my face and moving my phone to prevent it from getting lost under the comforter.
“Why would you think I’ve given her my spare key?
” I ask thoughtfully, blinking around the room and, as is my routine no matter how much of a rush I’m in, I yank my laptop off of the nightstand to let it thump onto the bed.
“Because you don’t like anyone within a five-mile radius of you, and she seems pretty trustworthy. I just worry she’ll die in her house and your key will fall into the hands of someone who will use it for nefarious deeds,” Madison remarks with dry amusement in her tone. “Think she’s awake yet?”
“Uh, no. No, I think she wakes up at three pm for a few hours, eats, and goes back to bed.” With my laptop open, I swirl my mouse around the screen, not paying attention to it as I glance through my social media pages for anything important.
If I’m avoiding my blog post until the end, well, no one really has to know except me.
But finally, when I’ve found just a few likes and reposts of my latest content, I have no choice but to check that as well.
Sure enough, the notification count reads 99+, and I have a feeling quite a few of those aren’t so friendly after last night.
There’s no way I’ll be able to skim all of them without finding a few about Miscreant Manor, or saying something unpleasant about my review of Squad Ghouls that really could’ve been meaner.
I hadn’t talked about their little setup, after all. I didn’t say a word about how they created a scary situation just to try to freak me out on camera for their own gain. My jaw tenses as I skim through the first few comments, though thankfully they’re all positive.
“Persy?” Madison’s voice is mild, and she hides her concern well. She’s known me long enough to know what my morning routine is, so I have no doubt she’s at least suspicious that this is what I’m doing.
She also knows that my unfortunate, ingrained habit is skimming through for mean comments or negative remarks, ones that I’ll hold on to for far longer than anything positive I read.
“Yeah, I’m just checking emails,” I dismiss her, trying to brush off her concern.
“You mean you’re bad comment hunting.” She lets out a sigh. “Come on. Don’t do this today. Can’t it wait until we get back, at least?”
“It cannot, unfortunately,” I reply with a huff. “I just need…” I trail off, my heart twisting as I find a few examples of exactly what I’m looking for.
You were kind of a bitch while you were on the show…
You didn’t have to be so weird just because Blake asked about Miscreant Manor. You should learn to be nicer.
Do you think you’re better than them?
You’re really pretty when—
“Persephone.” Madison’s displeased voice cracks like a staticky whip over the phone, and I force myself to close my laptop mid-comment, rolling my eyes up at the ceiling.
I wish I wasn’t like this. I hate this habit, though it’s one that’s gotten worse and worse ever since I started getting paid for what I do.
My fingers curl around the edges of the sleek, silver device, and I set it back on my nightstand.
“I’m up,” I mumble. “Sorry, Mads. I’m up.
I’m alive. My eyes are open. And now I’m hanging up on you. ”
“Only if you swear you’re actually up and not still reading comments.”
“I swear I’m up and getting dressed,” I assure her. “Literally stripping right now, actually. Do you want a play-by-play?” Now that I’ve pulled myself away from the screen, things feel less heavy, and it’s easier to want to do things other than roll myself up in my blankets like a burrito.
“Oh, I would absolutely love a play-by-play,” Madison invites. “Let’s go. What are you taking off now?”
I snort, shaking my head as I lay the phone on top of my dresser. “My boxers.”
“The ones Brynn got you? The ones with the cats on them? You kept those?”
My answering snicker is muffled as I yank off my shirt. “Well, yeah. And they aren’t just cats. They’re Scaredy Cats. Plus, they’re comfy as hell. I didn’t shave yesterday, by the way. Or the day before. And I’m absolutely wearing shorts. You’re welcome.”
Madison doesn’t answer, and I hear her soft, annoyed huff of air a second later. “Your neighbor is coming out to check up on me,” she informs me. “Come out before she calls the cops.”
“Sure.” Madison hangs up even before I’ve said the word, and I quickly throw on a comfortable sports bra and t-shirt over the loose shorts I already pulled out.
My legs aren’t that bad, from a distance greater than five feet.
And unless I’m setting a man on fire to sacrifice him to some vengeful or mildly inconvenienced female deity, I don’t plan on being that close to anyone.
With my phone in my pocket and my sneakers half on, I stop only to swish some mouthwash, and grab my keys and hairbrush before opening the locked front door, automatically flipping the light off as I go.
Outside, I subtly spit my mouthwash into the bushes, and swipe my hand across my face like a heathen.
“Hi, Mrs. Elmore!” I call, voice louder than it needs to be. Even though Madison hung up on me at least three minutes ago, my ancient neighbor is still hobbling up my short driveway, her cane scooting along the asphalt ahead of her.
She smiles up at me and stops, puffing out a breath. “I was just coming to make sure everything was okay, Persephone,” Mrs. Elmore calls back, her voice shaky and quiet with age.
“You’ve seen me before, Mrs. Elmore,” Madison calls out from her car window, waiting for me to lock the door and check it a few times before I turn to jog down my sidewalk toward her blue Charger.
“Doesn’t mean I like you any more than I did the first time you showed up, Madison,” Mrs. Elmore replies in a surprisingly cheeky tone, not missing a beat.
Her words make a surprised whistle escape my lips before I can stop myself, but Madison only sticks her hand out the open window and flips the old lady the finger.
Mrs. Elmore cackles and turns, shuffling back down the driveway. “Have a good day, Persephone,” she calls back to me as I open the passenger door of Madison’s car.
“What about me?” Madison calls, and this time sticks her head out the window to crane her head back so she can see Mrs. Elmore.
“Have the day you deserve, sweetie,” is my neighbor’s quick, unhesitant answer as she continues to hobble her way across the street. I can’t help but snort as I try to muffle my snickering with one hand while clumsily trying to buckle my seatbelt.
“I could run her over,” Madison informs me, backing down the driveway with her gaze fixed on Mrs. Elmore for longer than strictly necessary or polite. “All you have to do is back me up and say she jumped in front of my car. Old people do that sometimes, you know.”
“Jump in front of cars?” My brows rise toward my bangs. “Since when do they jump in front of cars, Mads?”
“Since they’re two centuries old and senile,” she grumbles, waiting impatiently for Mrs. Elmore to cross the road back to her house.
I swear I’ve never seen my neighbor move slower, but all I can do is try not to laugh.
With bleach tingling my scalp and foil wrapped around almost half of my hair, I feel like I can barely move. Even though Madison has assured me I’m just being dramatic at least eight times, I’m still sitting at her table, hunched over, with my phone in my hand.
“Are we almost done?” I grumble, elbows on the table as I doom scroll through any social media app that draws my attention.
Though today, I care less about my content and more about the drama from anything else.
Having already read four stories on the breakup forum and three more on the what the fuck are men section of social media, I’m getting bored.
“You’re the worst client a hairstylist could ever ask for,” Madison tells me, tucking her silver-blonde hair behind her ear.
As always, she looks like she’s going to a highbrow job interview, or like she already works as a corporate member of society.
If I wore the kind of pencil skirt, tights, and blouse she’s wearing, I worry I’d look frumpy instead of accomplished.
“Good thing I have you then?” I offer, finally swiping away from social media to go to my blog again.
There are more notifications, of course, so I navigate to the comments section of my newest post. Once more, I swipe through the ones from earlier, my eyes and mind lingering for too long on the unpleasant ones.
It really is one of my worst habits, and I don’t know how not to do it. Nor do I know how to not dwell on every little negative thing a stranger on the internet says to me.
“Don’t make me take your phone,” Madison threatens at my silence, without even looking up from the book she’s reading. But she doesn’t need to. I’m not very subtle.
“Where’s Brynn?” I ask instead of commenting on what I’m doing. I doubt she’ll really take my phone, since unfortunately, I really need to run through these for work reasons.
Though, work reasons feels a little bit like an excuse to make myself feel worse. But I’m certainly not going to bring up that I don’t have to go through my comments.
“The gym.” Madison flips a page and adjusts her position at the dining table across from me.
“She’s been struggling a bit. You know how the gym helps her mood.
” I can feel her eyeing me across the table, but I don’t look up.
“I can think of another person who could use a hobby to help her out when she’s down. ”
“Actually, I think Mrs. Elmore has plenty of hobbies already.” I’ve made it through the new comments by skimming them, though I’m pleasantly surprised that I’ve barely found anything to make my chest tighten unpleasantly around my heart.
I haven’t had that sinking feeling since this morning, so obviously my brain goes on autopilot and I search through this morning’s comments as well.
Just to make myself feel bad, apparently.
I don’t remember the comment I only half read until I find it again, and it causes my whole process to come to a screeching halt.
You’re really pretty when you’re trying to be nice. I bet you’d be prettier when you aren’t nice. And no, that’s not a good enough prize for me successfully scaring you. Sorry, babe.
My stomach flutters before I can tell it not to. Like the comment before, it was left by an anonymous visitor to my blog. I should reply.
…I have no idea how to reply.
That becomes obvious when all I do is sit there, worrying my lower lip between my teeth as the bleach continues to tingle unpleasantly on my scalp.
What do I say to his flirty tone, or the accusation of me trying to be nice on camera?
That part ruffles my feathers a little, though I’m sure not to let it show on my face.
“Are you okay?” Madison asks as she stands up, making me think I wasn’t too successful. “Let me check to see how much you’ve lifted.” Casually she moves to check my hair, peeling the foils back with soft, rustling sounds and gentle tugs on the bleached sections of my hair.
“I’m fine,” I reply, flipping my phone over so I can’t stare obsessively at the screen anymore while I try to figure out how to respond to the comment.
But I don’t have to. That’s the glory of being in charge of my content, and the thought of just ignoring it is a lot easier than figuring out what to say. It’s just some weirdo on the internet trying to get a rise out of me. Nothing more. If I ignore him, he’ll go away without anyone noticing.
“We good?” I ask when Madison steps back. “Not to be impatient, but I sort of hate the feeling of bleach in my hair.”
“You’re so whiny,” Madison scolds with a snort. “Yeah, we’re good. Come to the bathroom so I can waterboard you in the tub. You grabbed the stuff I asked for the other day, yeah?” she asks, beckoning me to get up.
“I got the exact colors and brands you told me to,” I assure her, already on the way to the bathroom. The bright side of having to contort into the tub for her to rinse the bleach out of my hair is that I don’t have to think about work anymore. At least for a little while.
That’s all I need, really. Just a little while to be Persephone Gallows instead of Scaredy Cat.