Chapter 5: From Eucalyptus Scandal to Leading Lady

While I slept, the supporting actress got roasted online.

The folks who’d trashed her now turned on me.

“Who eats eucalyptus? Mallory’s just looking for attention.”

My haters commented: [Feed all the eucalyptus to Mallory.]

I was touched.

That guy’s the only one who supports my eucalyptus habit.

I replied with my main account: [Thanks, you’re actually really nice.]

My hardcore fans replied, exasperated: [Girl, how did the hospital let you out?]

The uproar was so big, the screenwriter rewrote the script overnight, cutting all the fight scenes. (Hollywood never moves this fast, but hey, crisis mode is real.)

I sat on set, reading the new script, feeling like nothing made sense.

A few days without eucalyptus and it felt like my brain was growing.

The main lead’s team and the supporting actress’s team screamed at each other for ten minutes—nobody laid a finger on anyone.

The villain cackled, “I’m gonna curse you to death! Scream all you want, nobody’s coming to save you!” (Dude, dial it back. Even American villains are less dramatic.)

The male lead rushed in to save the female lead, using every creative insult he could muster to shame the villain into giving up.

The action flick turned into a roast battle.

Rewritten, but somehow even worse than before.

Thanks to eucalyptus, I went viral far beyond Hollywood—med school Twitter and even the global koala fan community.

The official explanation for my eucalyptus eating: “Didn’t recognize the leaves, ate them by mistake.”

Lots of people called me “airhead,” “bimbo,” “Eucalyptus Girl,” “Koala Girl,” “trying to poison herself for attention.”

But my hardcore fans still defended me: “Everyone’s body is different, some people just love eucalyptus, respect every quirk, okay?”

I grinned at that comment. It actually made me feel a little better.

Carter told me that was probably a sarcastic hater.

I scratched my head. “I can’t tell.” Maybe I’ll never figure out human sarcasm.

He said, “In your fan forum, ‘eucalyptus’ is now a banned word.”

He started giving me lessons on how to tell fans from haters. “Anyone mentioning eucalyptus? Hater. Anyone cursing out the haters? Hardcore fan.”

I picked out a positive comment:

“Am I the only one who thinks she’s adorable? She’s like a little koala! My beautiful, cute baby girl.”

I pointed at it. “This one’s definitely a true fan!”

He chuckled. “That’s a planted comment from PR.”

I kept scratching my head, totally lost.

Why can’t humans just be sincere?

I went on a deleting spree with my assistants, wiping out eight thousand hate comments in an hour. Honestly, the speed was ridiculous—even my thumb was tired.

My manager told me to stop—deleting too fast would just draw more criticism.

I told her, “Anyone who calls you a beautiful idiot is just saying you’re good-looking.”

I put down my phone.

She added, “It’s better to be a notorious idiot than a quiet nobody.”

I didn’t quite buy it. But I guess that’s Hollywood logic for you.

But after the roast battle drama wrapped, I landed a lead role in a period romance thanks to all the buzz.

I was excited: “Being a notorious idiot really works! Better gigs!”

My manager looked at me with pity. She sighed, “Sweetie, the studio invested in that show to promote you.”