Corey groaned and leaned away from the monitor to rub his eyes. He didn’t even recognize the variable that the error report insisted was the problem. How many days ago had he actually built the function in question? What was it for again?

“Next year will be better,” he told himself; the mantra grew less convincing each month. “Next year will be better.”

An alarm went off, and Corey sighed with relief. The midday stretch outranked coffee, lunch, and coffee part 2 in terms of his favorite time of day. He stood from his desk, opened the blinds to let some neighborhood sunlight in, and arched his back as far as it would go. At least his boss couldn’t get to him in his bedroom.

A pang in his stomach reminded Corey that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. The kitchen was crowded with bags of flour and sugar, the fridge stocked with eggs and milk, but he hadn’t done any meaningful meal prep this week. With a sigh, Corey pulled out his phone to check his bank account. He was over-budget already and couldn’t really afford to eat out, but the mere thought of actually putting something together was draining.

There was a gas station fifteen minutes away by foot. Fresh air and cheap food would do Corey so much good right now. He grabbed a pair of ratty sneakers and a coat too heavy for the weather before stepping out of the apartment. Corey kept his head down on the walk, but the glare of sunlight against the sidewalk still made his vision blurry.

It was an old gas station with pumps that didn’t even take card payment. There were only a few cars in the parking lot, but what caught Corey’s attention was the group of a half dozen guys standing on the sidewalk outside the building, protected from the great big ball of hate in the sky by a faded awning. They were openly drinking beer straight from the cans despite one of them being an off-duty deputy sheriff.

“Hey Corey,” one of them slurred.

“Hey, guys. Anything going on?”

“Boss is riding my ass,” another replied. “That bitch thinks she fucking owns me. One day, I’m gonna shove her to the floor and–” He gestured opening his pants and urinating wildly.

The others laughed, none louder than Jackson, who was by far the tallest and the broadest of the group but somehow still wearing his varsity jacket six years out of high school.

“The fuck have you been anyway, man?” someone asked Corey.

“Working late, trying to get some overtime in.”

“You and that cushy fucking job. Why don’t you come outside and build something like a real man? College education is making you soft.”

Corey rolled his eyes and snorted.

Jackson tossed an empty bottle onto the sidewalk and said, “Hey, man, if you can’t take a joke, why’d you even come back to this shithole anyway? You could have run off to the city if you’re just gonna be a fairy about it. Lighten up.”

“I can take a joke. None of you are funny.”

“Fuck off, man.”

Corey leaned up against the wall and scowled. He’d spent his entire childhood diligently working to get the scholarships he deserved, resulting in him being effortlessly accepted into his first-choice university. It didn’t make his life any better. The education was helpful, and it landed him a good job, but the experience did not earn him any new friends or whisk him away to the happy, ideal life he’d been hoping for.

There had been nowhere to go but back home to Shithole, USA.

Someone else said, “That girl on Tinder stopped messaging me. Complete tease. Don’t know why I waste my time.”

“She was a total bitch anyway. Probably ran off with some loser pretending to be a millionaire. That’s all women care about.”

“Wouldn’t even need Tinder if all the local girls didn’t get married to assholes and start popping babies out as soon as school ended.”

Corey found himself mindlessly nodding along, scowl deepening.

“Shit, I came here to grab something to eat.” He detached himself from the wall.

“From here? Don’t you have some fancy computer job? Why aren’t you rich?”

“I spent it all on a one-bedroom apartment with a bucket to piss in. All I could afford.”

He went inside and grabbed a couple of hoagies wrapped in clear plastic wrap. While the teenage teller rang him up, Corey thought back to college. He’d gone in hoping to find some small town girl with stars in her eyes who could see him for who he truly was and complete him as a person.

All these years later, he was still alone.

***

Corey got home and plopped down on the old saggy couch in front of a TV with too many dead pixels to resell. He gingerly opened up each of his sandwiches and savored them. Food was the best part of his life, as sad as that must be to someone who could afford to do more with their limited time on Earth.

Checking his phone, Corey groaned. His friends had stalled him for too long, and now he was behind schedule. There was still a lot of work to do before he could log off and have the rest of the day for himself. His job would have to wait, though; if Corey didn’t start his side project right now, there wouldn’t be time for it later.

He made his way to the bedroom and opened up the closet. In the back was a garment bag that he carefully removed and laid out on the bed. There was also a smaller hanging bag containing a blonde wig. From the upper shelf, he pulled out a very nice wooden box with a latch.

Out of the garment bag came a very nice, modest dress with poofy short sleeves. It was a little tight around the waist but fit him pretty well and had the decency to button up in the front instead of the back. The box was full of makeup products; it had taken Corey some time to learn how to do makeup and even longer to learn how to make it look good on camera. The wig completed the look. Corey was no more.

Fortunately, the little kitchen had an island he could stand behind, meaning there was no need to shave his legs or wear heels to complete the look. He didn’t want to spend fifty dollars on a pair of shoes he’d never wear outside anyway, and he wasn’t willing to give up shorts in the summer either. The very last thing was placing a Band-Aid over the small birthmark on his neck. People noticed, but it was necessary.

Once the ring light and camera were set up, Corey laid out all the utensils and ingredients he needed. He took a few minutes to do some vocal warmups and get into his girl mentality: giggly, animated, playful. The audience ate it up.

He was ready. Corey began the recording and brightly declared, “Hey pals, it’s your friend Clarissa E. Claire with another baking tutorial! Today, we’re going to be exploring my favorite way to make a bear claw, one of the best breakfast pastries ever invented. So, let’s all exercise our second amendment right–I’m not going to get canceled for that, am I? Lol–and see how it’s done.”

It took a while to get the pastries in the oven, at which point Corey turned off the recording and sighed in relief. He took off the wig and hung it back up before sitting down at his desk. There was no point in changing out of the dress or makeup if he was going to be on camera again soon, but the wig needed extra protection.

He wasn’t quite able to get through all his remaining work before the alarm went off, but the rest could be finished in the morning. Corey put his wig back on and returned to the kitchen, doing some quick vocal exercises while waiting for the pastries to finish. A quick glance in the oven assured him that they had turned out wonderful.

“And when the timer goes off, we just pull them out of the oven! Yum, those look just downright wonderful. No way I’ll be able to finish them all on my own, lol! Best of luck out there, pals, and remember to get yourself a sweet treat to eat as a reward for all your hard work.”

Corey could sit down and breathe freely. It was getting late, and he still needed to actually edit the video before tomorrow’s upload. The twice-a-week schedule was burning him out something fierce. He envied influencers who chose quantity over production value.

The dress and apron went into the washing machine while the wig returned to the closet. Corey scrubbed his face clean of makeup and stared at his sorry excuse for a reflection in the mirror. Why did he do this? his own face asked. Only creeps and losers pretended to be women, and he wasn’t a drag queen or one of those… t-something; Corey had always struggled with long-ass scientific terms.

Sometimes, he wondered if he had autogi- autoge- that thing where it’s hot to dress up as a woman, because it felt so good to look in the mirror and see Clarissa E. Claire instead of his normal boring self. Not as a sex thing, though, and that’s what confused him. Corey liked when other people saw him as Clarissa, but it didn’t turn him on… very much. Not anymore, at least. Reddit never told him what it meant if you got past that phase and just enjoyed dressing up as a woman because it made you feel comfortable instead. Nobody ever talked about Autogonofilibuster Stage Two.

Plus, being able to finish producing and uploading a video was satisfying in a way that filled the hole left behind by eight hours of data entry.

Corey searched through a few of his other TikToks and landed on one from a few months ago.

“Hey pals, it’s your friend Clarissa E Claire, and it’s time for a fan-submitted question. This one is, ‘Have you ever won a baking competition, and if so, can we see the prize?’ Unfortunately, no, I haven’t been so lucky. There’s one in my hometown every year, but I’ve never had the courage to try. Maybe with all your guys’ support, I’ll be brave enough to actually apply this year, lol. That’s all for today. Stay safe, pals, and keep sending in recipe recs for me to try out. Byeeee!”

He sighed. That very competition took place in less than a month, but he’d already talked himself out of going. As awesome as it would be to have the blue ribbon he could show his followers, Corey didn’t dare step outside as Clarissa, and the ribbon had the town’s name on it, meaning it would be easy for an Internet sleuth to figure out that Clarissa was really Corey.

Not that he could enter it as himself anyway; his friends would kill him.

***

It was Saturday evening. Corey had finally caught up at work, and his latest video was doing respectable numbers. A message had just popped up from one of his friends asking if he wanted to hang out with them at the bar. The week had been grueling, so crashing on the couch with a beer on his own sounded divine, but some outside air and human contact was probably healthier.

The bar in question pretended to be an Irish pub even if nobody was falling for it. Corey made his way inside, spotting his friends in a booth far in the back. He huffed a little at the realization that they were already deep into a round of beer without him. It wasn’t like Corey had dawdled. They could have waited a few minutes for him to make the walk out there.

Other tables were already giving the group dirty looks for being so rowdy. Jackson was the worst, as he always was. Hopefully, this wouldn’t be one of the nights that got so bad they were all kicked out. That would be just the thing to turn this week from stressful to abysmal.

Corey sat down, only to realize that nobody had ordered him a beer. That was fine. He didn’t need to drink yet. There were still work emails to check.

He did eventually get his beer, nursing it quietly while the others chattered around him, but it didn’t take long for a headache to latch onto him. Laughter pounded against his brain until Corey escaped to the restroom. Splashing his face with water didn’t make him feel any better. Corey took a deep breath and sighed, running his fingers across the graffiti lining the sink.

A glass of water would help.

Corey emerged from the bathroom to see that Jackson had gotten out of the booth and waltzed up to the bar. He was leaning against the counter, probably as much to stay standing as to make himself look suave. For all his bluster and body mass, Jackson had always been a lightweight. The bartender looked pissed off to be the center of his attention. That much was normal for bartenders when Jackson started talking to them, but what did she expect when she was wearing a tight tank top that showed tattoos crawling up and down her arms?

When she stepped away, Corey stuck himself to the shadows and slinked over. “Why are you talking to Cynthia? We spent all of junior year making fun of her for being a bitch. You can do better than that, dude.”

“I don’t give a shit about her, dumbass. I’m just trying to get a little tail. The dog needs a place to sleep every now and then, ya know?”

“She doesn’t look convinced.”

“Give it time. You gotta wear them down slowly. Just keep reminding them that they’re nothing special and they’ll give in, eventually.”

He picked up his beer and walked away.

Corey turned toward Cynthia to ask for water, but as soon as Jackson was out of earshot he heard her mutter, “Jackass. Don’t know why the dregs always gather here of all places.”

Snorting, Corey turned away and walked back to the booth. If she thought she was too good to date them, then she didn’t need their money either. Frankly, Corey and his friends deserved better than a bar that lied about being Irish and hired a gold-digger who couldn’t see a good man when he was right in front of her face.

***

Monday morning hangovers were worse than Sunday morning hangovers, honestly. Corey needed to get his head on straight and get to work as soon as possible because he had another TikTok to start filming later that evening. He got the coffee started and went to check if any mail had been stuffed into his box.

Taped to the outside of the front door was an unmarked manila envelope.

Furrowing his brow, Corey held the envelope up to the light and shifted the contents around. Papers of some kind. Not a bomb. Who had delivered it? There was no way the apartment would let him look at the security footage; the police maybe, but not him.

The mail could wait. While the coffee brewed, Corey sat down at the table and tore the envelope open. Out came a typed note and several photos that had spat out by an inkjet printer. They made his stomach drop. A bomb would have been preferable.

One picture was a screenshot of Clarissa E. Claire on TikTok, the username of the viewer blacked out. The Band-Aid had fallen off at some point and his birthmark was exposed. Another was of Corey’s senior yearbook photo, his birthmark still on display. The note read, “Same face. Come alone to the park at 2PM or your friends learn the truth.”

Corey had to call out from work to have enough time for pacing around the apartment in a simmering panic. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck shit fuck. All around fucking fuck. He was cool, though. He was cool. He was so cool.

Was it too late to skip town entirely?

He had to obey the note. He couldn’t do that! But this would ruin his life if it got out. No, nobody would care, not really. This was easily the biggest scandal in town history. Actually, it was so easy to fake this stuff that nobody would believe it. His friends were stupid enough to fall for anything, judging by the articles they posted to Facebook.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

One o’clock.

One thirty.

Time to go.

Core made his death row march down the hot summer sidewalk, vision swimming. The park was nice, at least, even if the grass was yellow and nobody was picking up litter. He stood underneath a tree and folded his arms. Who here was trying to ruin his life? It was mostly young children and their mothers, the devious bastards.

After a few minutes of nervous twitching, a figure started walking closer. Corey jumped and nearly took off at a full sprint but caught himself. His anxiety only skyrocketed when he realized who it was.

“You’re alone, right?” Cynthia asked, folding her arms.

He nodded.

“Good.” Leaning in to lock eyes with him, she continued, “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to enter that baking contest and win, then give me the prize money so I can move away.”

“Fuck you.”

“In your dreams.”

Corey growled. “How did you even find out?”

“I follow Clarissa E. Claire. At first it was just a hunch. She wore a wig and sometimes stray hairs would poke out from beneath. I’d see you at the store buying multiple bags of flour and looking guilty about it. Clarissa kind of had your face and body type even if she didn’t sound or act like you. A sibling, perhaps? But I could have sworn you were an only child. At some point, I became obsessed and started scanning each video until I saw the birthmark.”

“Creep.”

She shrugged. “We all need a hobby. You’d know that better than me, though.”

“So instead of getting a better job and making money yourself, you’re just going to blackmail me into giving you my prize money? That’s low, even for a woman like you.”

“There’s a good job offer on the table, dumbass, but it’s an in-person job in the city. I can’t move close enough to take it without money in my bank, and I need that money ASA-fucking-P before they offer the role to someone else.”

Corey huffed. “Not my problem, bitch.”

He yelped when she grabbed him by the collar. “Listen to me: your nasty little buddies are getting more aggressive by the week. Catcalling isn’t enough for them anymore; they’ve convinced themselves that they’re allowed to put their filthy hands on me. They’ve also stopped laughing it off when I tell them I’m not going to fuck any of their sorry asses, and I am getting out of town before they decide to force the matter. You are my ticket out of here, so I will put you in the same danger I’m in if that’s what it takes to get your cooperation. Do. you. understand?”

Corey blanched and nodded.

“Great. Hope your baking is as good as you claim.”

QuillRabbit

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