Stranger Than Fanfiction(9)
“Jesus Christ, Mo!” Topher laughed. “Take a cold shower!”
“That sounds exactly like your last story,” Sam pointed out. “Is Peachfuzzle all you ever think about? You know it sends subliminal degrading messages to women, right?”
The writer swiveled her head and rolled her eyes so her frustration was evident. It didn’t matter how many times she explained herself, her friends never understood her work.
“I’m not actually writing about Peachfuzzle, I’m just using them to gain an audience,” she said. “As soon as I get a book deal I’ll change the names and locations so I don’t get sued and boom—I’ll have my own franchise! Laugh at me all you want. I’m sure people laughed at E. L. James, too, but look where writing fanfiction got her!”
“All right, I just left a comment on chapter four,” Joey said.
“Awesome! You’re the best, Joey!” Mo happily checked her comment box, but did a dramatic double take when she read his post. “All you put was ‘Nice adjectives.’ Is that all you could come up with?”
“Hey, you’re the writer,” Joey said. “Why don’t you write your own reviews and have us post them?”
Mo was initially repulsed by the idea, but the more she thought about it, the more his proposal intrigued her.
“That’s actually genius,” she said. “Normally I’d be turned off by something so dishonest, but fanfiction is like the fricking Hunger Games—only the cunning survive. Check your e-mail tonight, I’ll send you guys comments to post later.”
The other three were curious and fearful about the words Mo would put in their mouths, but they were always happy to support one another—even in the unsettling realm of fanfiction.
Topher, Joey, Sam, and Mo couldn’t have been more different, but they had been best friends since the fifth grade. It started on the playground of Schiesher Elementary School in 2010 when they all dressed as Dr. Bumfuzzle for Halloween. It was a magical moment for the fifth graders—like when Tony spots Maria across the dance floor in West Side Story. Prior to that, making friends and fitting in at school had not been any of their strong suits, so finding other kids who were infatuated with the same television show was a remarkable discovery. It was the beginning of an unbreakable bond and the greatest joy of their lives.
For the past seven years, every Wednesday at eight o’clock, the unlikely quartet would meet up at a predetermined location and watch the newest episode of Wiz Kids together. They’d spend the following week stressing about the plot, overanalyzing it beat by beat, and making predictions of what the next episode had in store. The routine repeated week after week, month after month, until the season finale put them out of their misery. (Unless the season ended on a torturous cliff-hanger; then there’d be chaos until the show returned.)
Their enthusiasm for such an outlandish program was questioned and ridiculed by everyone they knew, but to them, Wiz Kids was so much more than just a trivial television show. It was their first memory of true excitement and gave their childhoods a purpose. It took them on otherworldly and educational adventures, showing them the world beyond the dull streets of Downers Grove. Most important, it was their first experience of camaraderie and gave them a sense of belonging they had never known before. The show was the cornerstone and driving force of their friendship, and they hoped it would continue for many years to come.
And Wiz Kids hadn’t just introduced Topher, Joey, Sam, and Mo to one another, but also to passionate Wizzers from around the world.
A fourth video message appeared on their computers from their e-friend Davi, a thirteen-year-old boy from Macapá, Brazil. He was thin, had light brown skin, and had wide eyes like a doe. They could see the moonlit waves of the Brazilian coast in the distance behind him.
“Hey Davi!” everyone said together.
“Olá, fucktards,” Davi said—his use of American slang was a work in progress. “Happy WizCon Day! Sorry it took me so long to join you. The cybercafe is busy as tits tonight.”
“What episode is airing in Brazil?” Sam asked. “Has Dr. Bumfuzzle gotten to Kepler-186 yet?”
“No, he and Professor Luckunckle are still fighting Nazis with General Patton,” Davi said. “Are they going into space soon? I sure shitting hope so. All this American history is hard to follow.”
“Oh just you wait!” Sam teased. “The season-nine cliff-hanger is going to blow your mind!”
Topher’s e-mail chimed with a notification from YouTube.
“Guys, Kylie Trig just posted her recap!” Topher announced. “Let’s go to YouTube and watch it together. We’ll press Play on the count of three.”
“No, we have to wait for Huda,” Mo interjected. “She’ll be devastated if we watch it without her.”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning over there,” Joey said. “She’s probably asleep.”
As if Huda had been just waiting for an introduction, she appeared in a fifth video message on their screens. Huda was a fifteen-year-old Muslim girl from Saudi Arabia. She had a round face, big cheeks, and adorable dimples. Even though she lived on the other side of the world, Huda’s knowledge of American pop culture and Hollywood gossip always impressed everyone. If it was a headline, Huda knew about it.
“Please tell me you haven’t watched Kylie’s recap without me!” she said, inches away from her webcam.