HamLIT

3. Ham the Vlogger

Chapter Three

Ham the Vlogger

As soon as Ham is out of his mother’s line of sight, he breaks into a run. He runs all the way up the polished wooden staircases and down the long, dark hallways of his house to his bedroom, which, thankfully, is located on the third floor facing the driveway, far from both the kitchen and his mother’s bedroom, which both face the lake. By the time he’s reached his room and slammed the door behind him, he’s out of breath. He locks the door and flops onto his bed with a sigh.

His bedroom is the only room in the house that somewhat resembles a normal room. By “normal,” I don’t mean to say that it’s not a gigantic room with shining hardwood floors and an impressive stone fireplace, because that’s totally what it is. But I do mean to say that it lacks the late-nineteenth-century paintings, mounted animals’ heads, and Persian carpets that adorn the rest of the house. Instead, the walls are covered in posters—movie posters, anime posters, Harry Potter posters, Broadway musical posters, even a JoJo Siwa poster that Ham originally bought “as a joke” but now can’t seem to let go of. However, there are only two pictures on the dresser—one of a somber elementary-school Ham with his parents, and the other of a smiling freshman Ham with his arms wrapped tightly around Harry.

Ham lies there on his stomach for a long time, his head spinning. He sits up again only when he remembers something that will make him feel better.

You see, Ham recently became a vlogger. About a year ago, he started uploading weekly videos to the internet, usually documenting the events of the past seven days. They’re not very interesting; they mostly consist of shenanigans with Ham’s friends at boarding school and clips of Ham talking cheerfully to the camera as he moves through his daily life. In case you haven’t noticed, Ham likes an audience, whether it’s in person or on the internet. He feels lonely and strangely self-conscious without one.

So far, he’s managed to amass a respectable following of about twenty thousand subscribers. He’s not trending or breaking records or anything like that, but he’s doing all right.

In the last month, though, he’s all but abandoned his vlogging. His comment sections are now battlegrounds. Some of his viewers say things like, “Dude, why can’t you post more often? I’m unsubscribing.” Others fly to his defense, crying, “Shut up! His dad just died!” Ham tries to ignore them all. But he isn’t great at the art of ignoring; he can’t help but let disturbing things get to him. Exhibit A: Claude and Gretchen.

Lately, the urge to start vlogging again has gotten stronger and stronger. Ham has so many feelings, so many things to say, and not enough people to talk to. He can’t confide in his mother or his uncle, of course. He could talk to Lia, but after a few attempts, he’s discovered her to be such a mopey person that she never has anything comforting to say. He knows he can trust Harry, but Harry on his own isn’t really enough.

After setting up his incredibly advanced, nearly professional camera system (aka his smartphone and a tripod), Ham sits on his bed in front of his many posters and the glowing letters that spell out HAM. He takes a deep breath and glances at himself in the mirror across the room. There are angry red blotches on his cheeks and gray circles below his eyes. Ignoring the feeling of revulsion at his appearance, he looks back at the camera and does his best approximation of a smile.

“Hi, guys! Sorry I haven’t uploaded anything in so long. Things have been pretty rough for me recently. You know, like, with the whole…thing. I just, like, don’t know what to do. Everything just sucks ass. It makes me want to kill myself. Actually, I’m not gonna kill myself—that would suck ass, too—but I would love it if somebody else would come and kill me. Or maybe I could just…cease to exist. That would be better, I think. Everything that used to be fun just isn’t fun anymore. Everything feels so empty.

“By the way, I wanna thank you guys for being so supportive. Sometimes I feel like you’re more supportive than anyone else that I know. Except for Harry, obviously—Harry’s the GOAT. But everyone else in my life is just so f*****g fake. Like, even my mom! It’s only been, what, a month since my dad died? And he was, like, literally the best husband ever. He gave her everything she asked for. Like, seriously, he bought her a f*****g house in Monaco just because she asked for it! And now it makes me cringe just to think about it! So, yeah, I thought she loved him as much as he loved her—she made this huge scene at the funeral, crying all over his coffin—and then literally less than a month later, she started dating my uncle! Like, what kind of fake thot even does that? It’s so gross.

“So, yeah, now they’re all over each other all the time, and my uncle basically lives at my house, and it’s so awkward. It’s not like he’s even anything like my dad. He’s, like, half a foot shorter, and he listens to really bad music. But apparently that doesn’t rub my mom the wrong way. In fact, you could say that it rubs my mom the right way…ugh, I can’t believe I just said that. That’s f*****g disgusting. But yeah, apparently, she was so thirsty for my uncle this whole time that she couldn’t even wait until she was done fake crying. And now the two of them are all up in my face, like I’m somehow supposed to forget that my dad ever existed—”

By now, Ham has worked himself into a frenzy. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror again, he realizes he’s even more flushed than he was before, his eyes even more hollow. This time, the revulsion and self-loathing are too much for him. He breaks off his rant in the middle of a sentence, just in time to hear his phone make a loud noise. He’s received a text message.

Knowing that he’ll never let this video see the light of day, Ham decides there’s really no point in continuing to film, so he turns off the camera and reaches for his phone. The text is from Harry.

B there in 10 min!

Despite his misery, despite his anger, despite everything, Ham smiles. He’s really missed Harry this last month. Ham hasn’t seen his best friend since he left school early to go to his father’s funeral. He’s touched that Harry would come all the way from England just to be with him for the summer. Ham’s not usually the sort to text someone back immediately (if at all), but it’s Harry, so he types:

Ok c u soon :)

Ham gets up from his bed and walks all the way to the front door to wait for his friend. He knows that Harry is a precise guy, and he expects him to arrive on time.

I wish I could be like that, he thinks. He’s always so calm, and so organized, and so polite. I bet he never feels anxious or angry or miserable the way I do. He’s just…perfect.

Sure enough, the doorbell rings almost exactly ten minutes later. Ham immediately throws the door open, startling Harry, who didn’t expect him to answer so quickly. He launches himself at his friend in an unusually enthusiastic hug, startling him again.

For a moment, Harry is unable to move or even think. He’s overwhelmed by Ham, the way he smells like new cars and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, the way his arms tighten around Harry like they’ll never let go, the way his hair tickles Harry’s neck. Everything about him is so close yet so distant, so open yet so unattainable.

Maybe it’s just the subpar lighting of the hallway, but when they part, Ham can’t help but think Harry looks—is—extraordinarily handsome. It makes him feel strange inside.

They stare at each other for a second.

“I have so much to tell you,” says Ham.

Harry chews nervously on his lip. “I have something to tell you, too. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

The two boys don’t talk too much before going to bed, Ham in his room and Harry in the spare bedroom next door. Despite their mutual exhaustion, they both lie awake for a while before falling asleep; Ham is thinking sadly about his mother, wishing she would actually listen to him, and Harry is thinking sadly about Ham, wishing he could just erase Lia from the picture.

As I’m sure you can tell by now, these boys have issues.