Sad Desk Salad

by Jessica Grose

  “I guess so.” I say this because I don’t want her to spend all day fretting about me. I don’t know if it’s true yet—I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about BTCH’s sexposé threat, the details of which I will only disseminate if I have no other choice.

  “I believe that you are going to be okay, because I believe in you.”

  Chatting with Mom made me feel temporarily better, but ten minutes later, the enormity of my problems comes back to me. I started off this week as someone with a decent job, a stable relationship, and a sweet domestic existence. Soon I could be a single, unemployed lost soul whose ass is plastered all over YouTube, living in an apartment she can’t afford, trying to figure out what the hell she’s going to do with the next thirty years of her life.

  I can’t face returning to work right now. I know Moira is going to be livid, but I just can’t bring myself to care. She can fire me if she wants to fire me—and I bet the success of the Rebecca West post will give me a little leeway anyway. I’ve already reached my page-view quota for the month, and it’s only the second week of July.

  I turn off my phone so she can’t reach me and rummage through my bag until I find the Xanax that Jane gave me yesterday. I crawl into our bed—though maybe now it’s just my bed—and the sheets are crisp and cool because they’re sitting right below our one good air conditioner. I pull the covers up over my head and cry until my sobbing slows to periodic jagged sniffs. Finally my breathing becomes regular and I fall fast asleep.

  FRIDAY

  Chapter Twelve

  I wake up because the sun is shining directly in my eyes. As I rub them and stretch my arms, I realize that I haven’t woken up naturally—that is, without an alarm or a burst of unconscious anxiety—in six months. I have fifteen full seconds of peace as I unfurl myself across the bed before I remember everything that happened yesterday. Still, everything seems a little more manageable in the clear sun.

  I pad over to the couch, still muumuu-clad from yesterday. I turn on my phone and see that it’s seven forty-five, long after I should have been online. I have fourteen missed messages. I hope one is from Peter, but I’m not expecting much. The last time we got into a Chick Habit–related fight—it was about the fact that I wouldn’t get off the computer at nine P.M., even though I was finished with my work for the day—he stopped speaking to me for a full twenty-four hours. And this is of a different magnitude altogether.

  Still, I have a shred of wishful thinking left when I look through the missed messages on my iPhone. Thirteen are texts from Moira:

  Moira Fitzgerald: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU

  Moira Fitzgerald: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU

  You get the drift. The fourteenth is a message from a New York City–area number I’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s from Doug’s landline? My mom’s advice has put things in perspective for me, at least a little: There is a world outside Chick Habit and I need to start engaging with it. I decide to pick up the message before going back to my computer and possibly getting fired. Which in some ways would be a relief.

  A gravelly male voice fills my ear. “This is Robert Shapton, New York Post. Sources are telling us that Rebecca West has been missing from her off-campus sublet in Cambridge for at least forty-eight hours. We’d like a comment from you. It’s about seven A.M. on Friday now, and I’ve just gotten into the office. If you’d like to respond before six tonight, my number is 212-555-3049.”

  My heart sinks. I believed my mom when she said that the death threats were a lot of hot air from a sea of randoms—that’s always what my death threats seemed like, anyway. But now it seems like Rebecca might actually be at risk. That would explain why she hasn’t responded to me or anyone else since the story broke two days ago.

  The most benign interpretation for her disappearance is that she’s gone into hiding out of extreme embarrassment, the most sinister that she’s been kidnapped or hurt in some other awful way. The worst-case scenario is that she has some heretofore unknown mental instability, and my publishing that video pushed her over the edge into self-harm.

  An image appears in my head of Becky in the days before I published the video. She’s bopping around Cambridge—maybe with a friend or two at her side. Like any normal college student she’s heading to classes with a bag over her shoulder, smiling that sweet smile I know—everyone knows now—from the video. Then in my mental home video she’s walking along the Charles holding hands with her robot, pointing out important buildings to him like he’s a regular tourist and she’s his guide. She seems carefree and happy, and I feel sick with the idea that I’ve destroyed that for her.

  I feel even sicker picturing her lithe body splayed out in a gutter somewhere, perhaps the victim of some John Hinckley Jr.–style psycho who has become obsessed with Becky’s story.

  I start crying, hard. This isn’t a game anymore—it’s shockingly real. But I try to soothe myself by letting my inner voice say, You can’t entertain those worst-case-scenario notions just yet. You don’t have enough information to know whether or not this “disappearance” is something to freak out about.

  Still, if Shapton’s reporting hits the Internet without an update, or any hint as to where Becky West might have gone, I won’t be able to leave my house, either—my front door will be surrounded by villagers with pitchforks and picket signs.

  I need to think before I respond to this Shapton fellow. Since the Post does its own original reporting, my hope is that this is an exclusive and won’t hit the rest of the world ’til tomorrow morning, in the next edition of the paper. But before I go ahead and assume that, I should check the latest Internet coverage of the case to be sure.

  When my computer springs to life there are several IMs from Moira clogging up my screen.

  MoiraPoira (08:01:23): WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?

  MoiraPoira (08:01:25): WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?

  And so on, and so forth. For once I am not going to respond to her instantly, and I’m not going to fall back into the quicksand of my RSS feed, either. Somehow I’m going to try to figure out if Becky West is okay, and maybe even try to help find her.

  I start by searching “Becky West disappearance.” About three hundred pages come up, most of them porn-related, with headlines about Becky West’s bra “disappearing.” On the fourth page of results, I find a small squib on some MIT student’s Facebook page from Wednesday night. The poster is a pretty Asian girl with black-rimmed glasses, one whose face is familiar from my Facebook stalkings of Becky. She’s in a lot of Becky’s photos, most notably one of the two of them rosy-faced at a college party, arms casually slung over each other.

  * * *

  Roberta Sasaki

  Wednesday

  Has anyone seen Becky recently? She was supposed to meet me for yoga today but she never showed up, and I couldn’t find her at home. Did she disappear?

  Like • Comment • Share

  10 people like this.

  * * *

  This is probably what tipped off the Post. I try to tell myself that I’ve blown off yoga classes before just because I was tired, not because I was dead. But it doesn’t help much.

  I move on to Becky’s Facebook page, which looks as pristine and innocent as it was on Tuesday when I first ransacked it. Her wall betrays no evidence of distress, besides a number of friends pledging their support to her:

  * * *

  Sara Klein

  Tuesday

  Becky, don’t let any of this get you down. We know the real you and you are going to come out of this even stronger! Xoxoxoxoxooxoxox

  Like • Comment • Share

  2 people like this.

  * * *

  Candace Woo-Rogers

  Tuesday

  We are here for you Beckster! Your gurls in Omaha have got yr back.

  Like • Comment • Share

  * * *

  Danny Crandall

  Tuesday

  I’m so sorry. I love you.

  Like • Comment • Share

/>   4 people like this.

  * * *

  I look back through her photographs. I stop at one in particular, from when she was a kid. She is with her three towheaded sisters, all wearing matching pink seersucker dresses and standing outside a corn maze. They’re next to a sign that says THE MAIZE, spelled out in hand-painted cornstalks.

  Something starts itching on my arms. I peer down and realize that I’ve broken out into hives. This physical manifestation of my guilt is too much to bear. How will I live with myself if something has happened to Becky? How will I face my own mother? She’s had it hard enough the past two years without my making her feel like a failure of a parent.

  I keep staring at those four very similar faces, trying to figure out which one is Becky. But I can’t—all eight blue peepers look identical to me, and the longer I stare at them the more innocently judgmental those young faces look: pale and happy and excited about miles and miles of corn. I start scratching my arms deeply, like I deserve to feel the pain. Am I going to be held responsible by the public if something bad happened to Becky? Is there some kind of legal action that can be taken against me, like with those cyberbullying high school kids? Will I end up getting a teardrop tattoo with an unsanitized pen cap at Rikers? The now-familiar panic is churning in my stomach when my IM notification brings me out of my Nebraskan dream world.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:20:01): Are you OK?

  She is so full of shit I can’t stand it. I’ve had enough. If I’m going to get fired anyway, and possibly be indicted in the disappearance of a blameless young girl, I might as well go full Monty and accuse Molly of being the hate blogger.

  Alex182 (8:21:06): No, I’m not fucking OK, and you of all people should know that.

  There’s a long pause before Molly responds.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:23:45): I’m not sure what you’re talking about?

  Alex182 (8:24:23): Oh come off it, Molly. Quit this nicey-nice bullshit. I know you’re the one behind Breaking the Chick Habit.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:25:14): This is a misunderstanding.

  How does one scoff over IM?

  Alex182 (8:26:01): Uh, right. I traced the IP address to Fort Greene, and I know you followed me to the Cactus Inn.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:27:25): Lots of people live in Fort Greene, and it was just a weird coincidence that you ran into me at the Cactus.

  Alex182 (8:28:22): OK, psycho. Whatever. I know you’re lying, so just cut it out. You’ve made it pretty clear that you wanted my job from day one, sucking up to Moira like you have. This is just some pathetic ploy to bring me down and I won’t fall for it.

  I’m smiling for the first time in at least a day. After being on the defensive for so long, it feels good to be the one attacking for once.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:29:59): If you’d just let me type for a second, you would know I was just trying to help you.

  Alex182 (8:30:42): Yeah, right.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:31:24): If you’d just LET ME TYPE, you would find out that the woman I was with at the Cactus Inn the other night is my old boss Shira Allen, from People, and that I regularly pump her for information that would help ALL of us at Chick Habit. She thinks of me as her little pet so she tells me a lot of stuff she’s not supposed to.

  I hesitate. Am I really going to buy that? It sounds too pat.

  Alex182 (8:31:35): How can I believe you?

  Prettyinpink86 (8:32:51): Because I’m telling the truth. If you’d shut up for a darn minute and stop accusing me of trying to bring you down, I could tell you that she gave me a really important tidbit about Becky West. That Robert Shapton guy from the Post has called all of us at Chick Habit, trying to reach you. If word gets out that Becky West is missing, Alex, you’re going to have to hire a bodyguard. You’ll have to go into hiding with Casey Anthony.

  I don’t want to admit that Molly’s right, but what she’s saying does sound reasonable.

  Alex182 (8:33:31): OK, what’s this “really important tidbit” that’s so special?

  Prettyinpink86 (8:34:24): The People that hits newsstands next week is going to have an exclusive interview with Becky West. They have her holed up in the Pierre Hotel so that no one else can talk to her—except for a very, very select group.

  Alex182 (8:35:53): Who??

  Prettyinpink86: (8:36:50): The group of MTV executives who are talking to her about the reality show they’re planning about the West family.

  Alex182 (8:37:24): Like a klassier version of the Kardashians?

  Prettyinpink86 (8:37:52): Exactly.

  Whoa. I just sit there for a few seconds, trying to collect myself. Here I’ve been driving myself crazy with guilt the past few days—and it turns out that crafty Ms. West is turning life’s lemons into lemonade. Or I guess more accurately, turning life’s coke binges into cold, hard cash.

  Now I need to focus, because time is running out. Even though the Post’s website looks like it was made by a third grader in computer class, they might put the Becky West information up early if they think it’s a big enough scoop. The People magazine issue won’t be out until next week, and by then the Post narrative will be the one that sticks in the collective readers’ minds: that Becky West was driven into hiding/was kidnapped/tried to off herself because of the humiliation of having that video published. And that it’s all my fault.

  First things first, I have to make things right with Molly. I’ve been mentally categorizing her as some devious, Tracy Flickian monster, when she’s exactly what she appears to be: a hardworking Ohio-bred girl. She really just does want to help Chick Habit, and it seems like she’s doing a sight more than I am.

  Alex182 (8:39:21): Molly, I am so, so sorry.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:40:34): It’s OK.

  Alex182 (8:41:52): I’ve been suspicious of you since you started working here, and it’s not fair. You’ve only ever been helpful to me. This week has just made me completely crazy.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:42:12): You have been pretty frosty, I guess. But it’s OK. I accept your apology.

  Alex182 (8:43:30): Thank you.

  Prettyinpink86 (8:44:21): You know what you have to do now, right?

  Alex182 (8:45:15): Continue to freak the fuck out?

  Prettyinpink86 (8:46:45): No, silly! You need to go up to the Pierre Hotel and find some way into Becky West’s room so that you can get her to spill about the reality show!

  Alex182 (8:47:33): How would I do that?

  Prettyinpink86 (8:48:11): You’re going to have to figure that one out for yourself. Just make sure to have a digital recorder in your pocket!!!

  Huh. Turns out under those emoticons and perkiness lies the quick-beating, ruthless heart of a fearless investigative reporter. I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me to go to the Pierre myself. I guess all these months of reporting exclusively from my couch have trained me to forget about exploring the wider world.

  Alex182 (8:50:18): You’re kind of amazing, do you know that?

  Prettyinpink86 (8:51:37): Aw shucks. Are you going to really do it? Go up there and get the scoop?

  Alex182 (8:52:22): I don’t think I have any other choice.

  I shuck off the muumuu, which hits the floor with a soft scratch. I find a bra, then rummage through my closet for a vertically striped cotton sundress with huge side pockets. I haven’t worn it since last summer and when I throw it on over my head it’s looser over my torso than I remember it being. It’s the losing-your-goddamn-mind diet: Combine high anxiety, life implosion, and a potent cocktail of booze and sedatives and you will drop weight like a high school wrestler! No cauliflower ear required.

  I believe my seldom-used digital recorder is in the old wooden desk in our living room, but all I see when I rummage around is used batteries and instruction guides for appliances we don’t even own anymore. Finally I decide to just upend every drawer onto our grimy sisal rug. After dumping the third and final drawer, I see the dull silver of the recorder peeking out from under an iPhone charger and a take-out menu from a Chinese pl
ace that once gave me food poisoning. I grab it and press the record button. Miraculously, it turns on.

  I shove the recorder in my pocket and head into the bedroom to look at myself in the full-length mirror. There is no obvious bulge in my pocket that screams “You’re being bugged!” so I slide on my sandals and find my canvas bag. I check back at the computer one more time to get directions to the Pierre. Shit, I didn’t realize how far uptown it is. But with midday traffic, it’s probably just as convenient to take the subway.

  I step out into the sunlight without bothering to put sunglasses on. Instead I let the warmth spread over my face as I walk a single block to the F train. The station is empty except for three Caribbean nannies gossiping next to tricked-out strollers holding their sleeping charges.

  Thankfully, the subway arrives almost immediately, but I know it’s going to be a long thirty-five-minute ride until I arrive at the Pierre. As we get on the subway, I let the nannies have the last two available seats while I hang on to a vertical pole and try to devise a game plan.