Chapter Two #2
When I returned home, sweaty and exhausted, I jumped into the shower for a quick wash.
Afterward, I pointedly ignored my phone and wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a can of sparkling water from the refrigerator.
As I poured it into a glass, I propped my hip against the countertop and realized that while I didn’t want to share my platform with anyone, would it truly hurt to have a onetime conversation with a follower?
Especially a popular follower like User16892?
Plenty of content creators made a large portion of their money by doing regular TikTok LIVEs, but I had never been interested in them.
In my mind, the Matildas series was educational, although I also tried to make it entertaining, and I didn’t like the idea of discussing the treatment these women received while also fending off troll comments.
I had a brand to uphold: a sharp, clever, feminist take on female historical figures who were denied the respect and recognition they deserved during their lifetimes.
Surely hosting a LIVE would clash with that mission?
Biting my lip, I clicked on User16892’s profile.
He hadn’t created any posts, and his bio read simply, “Yes, I’m judging your grammar.
Do good-er.” A snort slipped out before I could contain it.
This wasn’t the first time I had clicked on User16892’s profile, but his silly bio made me laugh every time.
And that made me frown. He could be literally anyone.
A serial killer. An animal abuser. An insurrectionist. I knew absolutely nothing about User16892, and while his comments made me laugh, I certainly didn’t owe him anything.
With that newfound resolution fusing my spine, I turned to gather ingredients from the refrigerator to make dinner. This would all blow over, and I would continue to create my Matildas content until it did.
—
Things didn’t blow over, though.
For more than a week, I ignored the spattering of comments from a small but vocal contingent of my followers asking for a LIVE with User16892.
When he posted a snappy response on my video about Marie Tharp, the geologist and cartographer whose maps of the ocean floor helped discover plate tectonics, the calls for a LIVE peppered the comment section.
Despite my annoyance, I kept my metaphorical head down and focused on my work.
My analytics continued to be great, and I should have felt optimistic about my monthly outlook.
But like a dog with a bone, the requests didn’t stop. It was fucking aggravating.
Yet it wasn’t until I saw User16892’s reply to one such demanding comment that I felt myself start to relent. It was a short reply, but it did much to tamper the irritation I felt.
Why are you all pressuring @SLikeTheSun to do a live with me when she’s kicking ass all on her own? She’s the one doing all the hard work, and I just shitpost in her comment sections.
It felt good to have someone echo my own thoughts about the subject, and it was almost ironic that it was made by the very person at the center of this nonsense crusade with me.
Just do it, Sofia, I told myself as I sat in the shade on the patio at the panadería, an iced latte in hand.
It was nine in the morning and the temperature was already in the high nineties, yet I needed fresh air to clear my head.
I debated texting Denise to invite her to join me just to procrastinate, but I resisted the urge.
Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I needed to do it.
Opening TikTok, I clicked on User16892’s profile and then hit the direct message button. On the blank message page, I began to type.
Hi! Hopefully it’s not too weird to see me in your DMs, but I was hoping we could chat about the incessant demands for us to do a live together.
Considering you’re pretty anonymous on here (on purpose, I’m sure), this wasn’t something I even considered.
But oof, some people are determined! Is this something you would be interested in doing?
Before I could think more about it, I hit the send button and then tossed my phone in my bag like it was a live grenade.
If I was lucky, User16892 wouldn’t be interested in doing a LIVE with me, and I would find a polite way to tell people to knock it the hell off.
Swallowing a large mouthful of coffee, I wiped the corners of my mouth with my fingertips, closed my eyes, and tipped my head back, letting the anxiety roll off me.
I’d done the hard thing, and now I could relax.
My phone pinged.
“Argh,” I groaned, covering my face with my hand. Surely he hadn’t replied already.
I snatched up my phone and sat ramrod straight, my eyes fixed on a bird feeder hanging from a bough of a mesquite tree near the courtyard in the center of the shopping plaza.
A pair of mourning doves and a few sparrows sat on the feeder’s perches, happily eating seeds and completely unconcerned with the chaos of the world around them.
I, too, wanted to be completely unconcerned with the chaos of my own life.
Instead, my heart was threatening to pound out of my chest.
Exasperated with my own anxieties, I unlocked my phone and peered at my notifications. He had replied.
User16892: It’s awful that you even feel compelled to extend an invitation. This is your account, and you shouldn’t have to interact or collaborate with anyone if you don’t want to.
My mouth twisted into a small smile. Even though he’d said such a thing before, I appreciated that he repeated the sentiment to me directly. I decided to tell him as much. But then more messages appeared.
User16892: Hey, I’m not saying that to earn your appreciation. It’s the truth.
User16892: And don’t people see how hypocritical they’re being by bullying you to do a live with me, when I haven’t done any of the work that has made your Matildas series so popular?
SLikeTheSun: Omg! Yes! I thought the same thing. WTF?!?!
User16892: People are wild.
SLikeTheSun: I knew that before I started this gig, but wow, I’m reminded daily that the internet is a terrible place.
User16892: It’s a toxic wasteland, but it’s home sweet home. I also look forward to your content. Thanks for what you do, S.
That…was really nice of him to say. I paused, chewing the inside of my cheek.
SLikeTheSun: Thank you. I’ve found it’s easier to ignore the noise when my perfectly normal followers—like you!—leave comments on my videos.
User16892: Ahh, you threw em dashes in there…and used them correctly!
A bark of laughter burst from my throat, and I quickly clamped a hand to my mouth when my feathered friends at the bird feeder all took flight.
SLikeTheSun: How did you know ellipses were like ASMR for my brain?
User16892: Lucky guess.
User16892: You know, once the Matildas are done, you could do a whole series on punctuation and how, when used correctly, it can be—dare I say—attractive.
I pressed my lips together to hold back my smile.
SLikeTheSun: That’s a good idea. But I’ll have to brush up on my punctuation skills; I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.
My laugh was pure delight when he responded with a simple I see what you did there.
We exchanged messages for several days, sometimes mundane observations about videos that came across our FYPs and other times to snark about comments left on my videos.
What we didn’t discuss was the continued bullying campaign.
It was as if we had tacitly agreed it wasn’t a good idea, and admittedly, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Until the first thing I saw when I opened my TikTok notifications after my most recent post was another plea for a LIVE.
With a growl, I scrubbed a hand down my face.
I could not understand why people were so fixated on this idea, but my brain churned over it, even while I worked on a script for a video about Marthe Gautier and her important contributions to the discovery of the chromosomal causes of Down syndrome.
As I sautéed onions, garlic, and sofrito to make arroz con gandules, I considered the pros and cons of broaching the topic with User16892 again.
He hadn’t shot down the offer the first time, but he’d avoided it all the same.
If I asked him directly, and he said no, it would close the door on the idea once and for all.
SLikeTheSun: So, I’m sure you’ve seen the comments. What would you think about doing a live with me to discuss Rosalind Franklin? I haven’t covered her yet, and I think my followers would enjoy your thoughts on her legacy.
My lungs burned from holding my breath, but I forced myself to hit send.
His reply didn’t come until after dinner.
My phone was propped up between books on the coffee table while I painted my nails and listened to my mother on FaceTime as she droned on about my cousins in Puerto Rico.
Mamí had spoken with her younger sister, my Tití Cecilia, earlier in the evening, so of course she called to fill me in on all the gossip.
And I appreciated it, because one: I was a bochinche, and two: It had been at least five years since I’d visited the island, and I missed my family who still lived there terribly.