But maybe I was being too harsh on myself. Suaveness isn’t inherent to my people, and I wasn’t quite ready to give subtle flirtations in public. 

So after allowing myself a lingering, pitiful glance in Katherine Luc’s direction, I took both my steaming drinks and retreated through the front entrance.

To be one hundred percent honest, Katherine and I have had multiple failed romantic endeavors, all painfully one-sided, ranging anywhere between stuttered compliments and awkward conversation starters to that one time I failed to properly grip my own credit card and chucked it at her. My go-to way of coping with my own inadequacies was to ignore all emotions and spare my ego at all costs. I’d tell myself that I was worth it. And when I had the chance, I’d crash into my room, eat my favorite foods, and blare rap loud enough (which was regular volumes of loudness for everyone else) to suffocate the thoughts of Kat under the full moon roaming inside my head.

Some of us — mainly me — had too much ego.

And since I was heavily inclined to protecting and bolstering my own self-esteem, I had a habit of dissecting terrible works to make myself feel better.

Ping.

The easiest way to do so involved multiple interactions on Archive of Our Fiction.

I sat outside St. Josefina University’s sciences hall, a giant red brick building that doubled as a snack area. Picnic tables were partially boxed in by two walls with the engraved names of each founder and patron of the school, some of which were politically involved sorcerers from the 1940s.

Ping.

“Why so eager?” I whispered. I took my time to retrieve my smartphone from the bag I’d placed on a picnic table, sipping tenderly on a hot beverage so my tongue wouldn’t scald.

(2) AOF Notification for Political Canis.

I can’t even begin to comprehend your level of dumbassery, PC. I can’t, and I really don’t want to.

— RedHalfMoons

It must be hard dealing with your ego on a day-by-day basis. Imagine if you could use all that time to do something productive in politics.

— RedHalfMoons

“You’re already back Red, what a twist.”

But I was rejoicing, my legs tapping happily underneath the table. Katherine Luc may have unknowingly left sweet coffee-scented scars on the surface of my heart, but here was Red to make it all better. And I was yearning for it.

My beverages abandoned, I fetched my laptop and slammed my cold fingers against the keyboard, not even mustering the motivation to click on the thousands of messages left by my political acquaintances.

Reply here: 

Red. I thought you were taking a vacation — sorry, hiatus. Wasn’t it your fifth or fourth one this month?

RedHalfMoons holds the championship belt for the most stubborn online debater in the whole of my non-career. They were someone who had been at odds with me since the minute I stumbled onto the AoF scene, wielding nothing but a sixth-grade award for my social studies essay to defend me. We became enemies during the renaissance age of fanfiction when most works were based on popular books, comics, and movies rather than the very real human beings forever trapped within the music industry. Theirs was a werewolf novel I critiqued ages ago after it stumbled into my recommended section. I’d had other options, but one single detail on their profile made me stop and consider.

Red lived in tiny Domingo Town, TX, home to St. Josefina University, and the scary thrill I felt knowing that was maybe a teeny tiny bit problematic.

Ping.

I swore. Red’s replies were often shamelessly quick to come and terribly aggressive, much like the titular character in their most popular novel, Hunted by the Rogue Alpha.

My dad’s first law should have been banning werewolf fiction from the universe, but unfortunately for me, our underground nation didn’t work that way. We would have needed a popular vote to even consider the matter, and I knew plenty of older sorceresses and witches who adored the novels despite the growing corrections from our wolven historians.

Message reads:

I have actual things to do. Let me remind you that you should be careful with your digs, otherwise I’ll have you suspended again.

“Mweh mweh mweh, I’ll have you suspended again.” I stuck out my tongue as would any battle-hardened, stolid debater.

Reply here:

Oh, yeah. I remember that. Two weeks of e-mailing back and forth with the administrators, sending our highly personal, highly suggestive conversations, mind you. They unbanned me when they realized I’d only left constructive criticism under your novel and you were the one to message moi. Am I remembering this correctly?

Without missing a beat.

Message reads:

What suggestive conversation?! I had every right to report your spam-like criticisms. The administrators sided with me and only unbanned you because of the stupid CEO's strict views on freedom of speech.

Reply here:

That pesky freedom of speech law, eh? Didn’t we already circle on this argument? Why did you message me after a couple of weeks?

Message reads:

The essay you uploaded, In Bound. It’s terrible. You have sick views.

I cackled. Evil and cartoonish. In Bound was an essay I wrote for my witch tutor in sixth grade, a satire a la A Modest Proposal begging for the increase of fossil fuel usage and destigmatization. In brief, I wrote that we needed amusement parks where the sole goal was to teach kids to dig deeper into the earth while wearing oil industry, collectible paraphernalia. One of the easiest ways to win an influential seat in the witching congressional circle was to focus on environmental issues.

And yes, I did get an A.

“Yandel, why are you smiling like that?”

I jumped and twisted around.