Ed got to stay in California for two days. His quiet trip to the beach turned quickly into a meet and greet with his West Coast fans. He hardly got a half an hour of swim time before they sighted him. After an hour and a half of selfies and small talk, Ed was pulled off the beach by his mom, who had by then gotten tired of sunbathing.

On the first-class flight home, Ed got to try frozen grapes. He was surprised at how good they actually were. Emily had raved about them ever since she first had them that year she went to Disney World (when was that? Maybe when they were in eighth grade? Ed couldn't remember). Ed wondered why he didn't put a bunch in his freezer back home and try them when she first recommended it. It took him a first-class flight from the Ellen DeGeneres Show to widen his epicurean horizons enough to eat a frozen grape. It was also because of the Ellen DeGeneres show, that Ed tried freezer-aisle Mexican food. The day after he arrived back in Pennsylvania, three boxes of Bueno Burrito frozen enchiladas arrived in the mail.

"How often is this going to happen?" Ed asked the FedEx man, as he signed for the package.

"I dunno how Bueno Burrito cuts it," the FedEx man ripped off part of the delivery receipt, "My cousin won a lifetime supply of Rice-a-Roni when she was on Jeopardy in the eighties. She still gets a box once a month in the mail."

"The eighties?" Ed had visions of mountains and mountains of rice, molding and rotting to microwavable waste. They're not kidding when they say lifetime, huh, he thought to say.

"The decade before the nineties," the FedEx man said before Ed could open his mouth, "you know what a decade is, right?"

"I'm not an idiot," Ed said.

"Pfff," the FedEx man exhaled.

"I'm not!" Ed insisted, as the FedEx man returned to his truck.

***

The day after Ed arrived back in Pennsylvania was also the day he hit five hundred thousand Twitter and one million Instagram followers. Around mid-afternoon, Ed zapped one of Bueno Burrito's frozen enchiladas in the microwave. It smelled pretty good, but it cooked inconsistently. The outside cheese melted well and scorched his tongue, but the inside meat-goo was still very cold. Ed sat at his kitchen table, set down his enchilada, and attempted to draft a funny tweet on his phone. He hadn't tweeted in days. He felt guilty. After all, half a million people had taken the time to follow him. They expected something in return. Ed really didn't want to disappoint five hundred thousand people.

The best joke Ed could come up with was off the back of a Laffy Taffy he found on the floor of his bedroom closet while looking for a clean pair of blue jeans:

What kind of tea is sometimes hard to swallow? Reality.

Lord, Ed thought as soon as he typed that dad-joke monstrosity, I can't post that. I might as well just tattoo the word idiot on my forehead.

Ed decided to check his mentions for ideas as to what his followers might like to see him tweet. He opened his notifications and scrolled through various declarations of undying love and marriage proposals. Ed's eyes fell then on a peculiar username with an egg avatar: @EnchiladaDead. The tweet in question read:

@averagED you're ugly. you should be dead.

Oh nice, he thought, I'm getting death threats from trolls now. Fantastic.

Ed started to wish that Captain America hadn't taken his picture in the first place.

An unexpected pounding at the front door startled him. Ed remembered his dad's internet safety lecture- crazies, terrorists, murderers- and, for a quick moment, worried that an internet troll had found out where he lived and took it upon his/herself to torment him in meat space. But then his iPhone buzzed. He checked the lock screen. A text from Emily:

ANSWER YOUR DAMN DOOR, EDWARD.

Ed crept down the hallway and peeked out one of the foyer's windows. He recognized the green hatchback Subaru Impreza that Emily's mom let her drive. He couldn't see Emily, but Gina lay face down in clear view in the middle of the front lawn.

Ed's phone buzzed again.

I KNOW YOU'RE HOME, DOUCHEBAG. THE MALIBU IS IN THE DRIVEWAY.

***

"Finally," Emily said, as she walked past Ed over the threshold and into the foyer, "it looks like it's gonna rain."

Ed's eyes darted around his front yard and down his street, both ways. He wasn't sure what exactly he looked for. Gina plucked a few pieces of grass from her fuzzy purple jacket and then followed Emily inside.

"Are you okay, kid?" Emily brushed a piece of hair off of Ed's forehead. "You don't look so great."

"He's just scarred by the blood sacrifice," Gina twisted her torso and cracked the vertebrae down her back.

"What?" Ed asked.

"You know, the one Ellen forced you to perform so that you could become famous. The usual Illuminati rigmarole."

"He was famous before he went on Ellen," Emily said. "Speaking of which, how do you like being famous, Ed?"

"Fine," Ed walked back to the kitchen table as the girls followed him. "A little objectifying, but fine."

"You have a problem with thousands of teenage girls ogling your body?" Emily sat down across the table from him, "Phil would probably cut a bitch for that opportunity."

Ed didn't feel like talking about how the FedEx man jeered at him, or about the new death threats from the Twitter trolls, or even how every new development seemed to disappoint his dad. There were worse things to happen.

"I said it's fine," he shrugged, "I just don't know how I'm supposed to eat all of these." He pointed to the tortilla wrapped meat-goo on his plate.

"That's one of the lifetime supply of enchiladas?" Emily chuckled.

"Ooh," Gina popped her head out of the fridge, in which she had been looking, "let me see."

"It's just an ordinary microwavable enchilada," Ed said, as Gina picked up his plate.

"I wouldn't trust it," Gina poked the tortilla, "the Illuminati designated this specifically for you. What if they're planning to fill you with some kind of feminizing drug?"

"Feminizing drug?" Ed scoffed.

"One they want to test out on America's most attractive teenager," Gina set the plate back onto the kitchen table, "As a guinea pig."

"I'm not America's most attractive teenager."

"Your million Instagram followers say otherwise," Gina turned around the chair closest to her and straddled it.

"I mean, these things aren't bad, they're just not great," Ed examined the enchilada with his fork, "I could eat one every few weeks, not three boxes a month."

"Why don't you donate them?" Emily suggested. "The debate team's having a spring drive for the South Side food bank. I could take them off your hands."

"That's an idea," Ed said.

"That's horrible," Gina spat. "So Ed should unload the Illuminati food on the already-downtrodden? Here toothless, homeless man, please enjoy twenty milligrams of ESTROGEN."

"That doesn't even make sense-"

"Don't be a sheep, Emily-"

"Hey," Ed interrupted. "Why are you guys even here?"

"Miss Larsen gave Audra your copy of T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets for you to read. There's some notes too." Emily fished around in her book bag.

"Miss Larsen gave it to Audra?" Ed's heart thumped. Did Audra volunteer to bring it to him? Or did Miss Larsen think they were friends and volunteer Audra? Or had Miss Larsen figured out that Ed was hopelessly in love with Audra and was trying to play matchmaker? Or-

"She's still at orchestra practice. Mr. Long kept the violins after dismissal," Emily pulled out a chapbook and a neatly-kept manila folder. "I said I could get it to you before we go to the movies tonight." Emily handed Ed his homework, "I suppose you don't want to go to the movies tonight? The new Marvel flick is coming out-"

"Boo! Hiss!" Gina interrupted, "I thought we were going to see the Saw reboot."

"Eew, no," Emily grimaced. "So how about it, Ed?"

"I can't. People will recognize me and ask for my picture. It'll probably pester you."

"So it's not still about the whole thing with Audra?" Emily lifted an eyebrow.

"No," Ed faked a smile, "I'm over that."

Ed wasn't sure if Emily bought it, as he was definitely not over the whole thing with Audra. Ed wondered if Emily could tell he had drafted and deleted another text message to Audra first thing that morning, not long before the FedEx man delivered the three boxes of his enchiladas. Ed wondered if he would ever actually be over the whole thing with Audra. There wasn't even a whole thing, by most people's estimations. He really shouldn't have had this much trouble accepting a nothing-no-big-deal. He -of all people- the Internet's boyfriend, with potential new dates lined up from here to Somaliland-

Ed felt a very sharp ache in his abdomen. Not his spleen, but definitely his stomach. Ed stared at the Bueno Burrito enchilada and doubted that he could ever eat another one.

***

Ed's dad found Bueno Burrito's contact number on the company website. "Make sure you frame it as a charitable act, not that you find their product disgusting," Ed's dad instructed him, while Ed waited on hold.

"It is a charitable act!" Ed insisted, "I'm being charitable!"

Ed's dad left him alone at his bedroom desk.

When Ed asked the customer support specialist about his enchiladas, she put him on the line with the Bueno Burrito's junior marketing director, who put Ed on hold for another fifteen minute before answering his call. When Ed explained that wanted to give back to his community, and bring awareness to America's hunger problem, the junior marketing director called him a "kind-hearted young man," and then complimented Ed's agent's PR strategy.

"I don't have an agent," Ed said, very confused, "I just wanted to reroute my monthly deliveries to South Mountain Food Bank," he read the address off his computer screen, "59 Lost Cavern Road, Linden Valley, Pennsylvania, zip code 18-"

"I got the shelter's website up," the junior marketing director interrupted, "I'll make sure that gets to the right people. Which publicist are you rep'd by? This sounds like Bill Najak's work."

"I just said I don't have an agent-" Ed massaged his temple, "Who's Bill Najak?"

"You should look him up," the junior marketing director said, "class act. Make you look real good. He'd be great to write the press release with."

"What press release?" Ed asked.

"About your charitable donation," the junior marketing director snapped his chewing gum.

"Could you not have a press release about this?" Ed asked, "Keep it anonymous?"

The junior marketing director cackled.

***