by Eliza Gordon
Gosh, I hope U don’t end up like us poor LOSER HENS who are happy to have JOBS.
You get the idea.
And the emails—some were just from ladies at the office who clearly had not yet read anything but were inquiring to know what this was all about—but more were from really, really pissed-off people who must’ve received the link from my hacked address book and spent time reading the entries.
By the look of things, whoever hacked me—it has to be Lisa Rogers—was very thorough. No private stone left unturned.
The only email that doesn’t shave off a layer of skin: Charlene the cat lady, telling me how sorry she is that she read a few of my “stories,” but they’re “nice and honest, and honesty is rare these days, but I might want to delete some of them so folks don’t get upset” (I would love to, Charlene, and folks are plenty upset already) and “My daddy left me when I was little too, so if you ever want to talk about it, I’m always available.” (Why does everyone keep harping on my daddy issues?) Also, she will donate money “for your race so you can meet The Rock because I know how much you admire him.” (Okay. That part’s cool.)
After two hours of tears and beers, I cannot get control of anything related to my very private online diary. The hacker has changed the password, and none of the safety protocols are working for me to wrestle it back. I can’t redirect the URL because I can’t get into the dashboard. Blogger is owned by Google, and there’s only an online Help Center and Help Forum, but there is no one to call to talk to in real time to help me save my own ass.
I can’t tell how many hits it’s getting or how widely it’s been spread—I can only gauge this by the comments section, which grows nearly every time I refresh the page.
Very little of it is friendly.
I gotta call Agent Superman. As embarrassing as this is, maybe he has the tools to get the blog back under my control. Maybe I can redeem myself by leading the feds right to Lisa Rogers and then the hens won’t peck my eyes out when I return to IH&W.
He gave me his card—I dump my purse out all over the couch, coins rolling off the cushions, immediately catching Aldous’s attention.
I dial. Voicemail. Not surprising—it is after nine o’clock.
“Hello—hi—this is Danielle Steele, one of the employees at Imperial Health and Wellness. We talked about the Lisa Rogers case? Yeah, well, it seems I’ve been hacked, pretty severely, actually, and I am in desperate need of help . . .” I give him the URL and explain about the blog and the info online and how horribly embarrassing this is and the damage it’s doing and that it has to be her and please, please call me back at your earliest convenience. “Also, if you could just not read the diary? That would be great.”
Awesome. I just called an FBI agent, and of course he’s going to read the diary, and then my mother will be arrested for manufacture of, and intent to traffic, a controlled substance.
Just in case, I text Jerky Jackie: Obviously I’ve been hacked. Tell Mommy to destroy her plants. The feds are involved in this hacking situation through work. Thanks. Sorry. About everything.
Aldous, tired of chasing pennies, jumps onto my lap and curls up, her long nails in need of a trim and her whole self in need of a bath. Which reminds me—I need to call the hospital and see what’s happening with Howie.
Except when I do, they won’t tell me anything because I’m not family. The woman on the line at least confirms that he’s still alive and gives me the visiting hours for tomorrow.
My phone won’t stop dinging with texts from my annoyed friends and family—Trevor’s messages are getting meaner, his spelling more atrocious. I’d turn the phone off, but I need to talk to Agent Superman if he calls back—
Knock at the door.
Oh Jesus, Lisa’s come for me. This is it. Black pillowcases and zip ties.
I scoop Aldous into a purring heap and situate her on another cushion so I can pull the curtain apart and see whose car is out front.
It’s not Trevor’s. Which is good.
And there’s no black windowless van or huge SUV with tinted, bulletproof windows.
Another knock.
I tiptoe to the door and risk a look through the peephole.
Marco waves from the other side, takeout bags resting atop his opposite hand and arm.
Oh god. I look like a drowned rat who has had time to dry off but still looks mostly drowned. How did he find where I live? I’m equal parts thrilled to see him and relieved it’s not someone coming to take me away.
I undo the dead bolt and open the door. “Hey . . .”
“Am I interrupting? I brought pho.”
“Wow—no, just me and Aldous trying to figure out the fastest way out of town without anyone seeing us.” I invite him in. As he passes, I throw my arm up and quick-sniff my underarm. Seriously, I need a shower.
“I hope it’s all right that I looked up your address from the gym computer. Total privacy violation. Could get fired for it. Will you tell on me?”
“Marco, after tonight, I have no secrets. I appreciate the company. Especially because you brought food.” I lock the door behind him, just in case.
My apartment is small enough that he finds the kitchen himself. He sets to unpacking the takeout containers. “This one’s chicken noodle, this one’s brisket—wasn’t sure if you’re eating beef—and this is a hot-and-sour seafood. After our rather cold adventures outdoors, I thought this would be a pleasant way to settle our stomachs for the evening.”
My eyes threaten tears again. Maybe it’s the two beers. Maybe it’s the hacking. Maybe it’s Howie’s medical emergency.
Maybe it’s because this person who hardly knows me is standing in my kitchen looking delicious, and he’s brought me food when, based on the manic chiming of my phone, it feels like the entire world is stabbing my voodoo doll with the pins I inadvertently provided for them.
“Oh dear, no need to get emotional. It’s only soup.”
My laugh is choked off. “I really like soup,” I say.
Without saying anything else, I pull out bowls and utensils. We dish up our own servings, and I lead Marco to the table, pausing to clean off the recent purchases for Aldous. Hobbs the Depressed Goldfish perks up when he sees me reach for his flake shaker.
And speaking of Aldous, as soon as she gets a whiff of the human food—which does smell divine—she’s off her cushion and mounting an expedition up the leg of my very thin workout pants.
“I called the hospital,” I say, pinching in half a chunk of chicken for the voracious kitten. “They won’t tell me much.”
“Will you go see him?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow. He doesn’t have any local family that I know of . . .”
The subsequent moments are filled with quiet slurps, spoons against the IKEA bowls, the crinkling of paper napkins as we wipe dribbles off our respective chins. The soup indeed warms the earlier chill, plus it dulls the buzz left from the beers I consumed on an empty stomach.
“When I was a lad—twelve years old—I fell head over heels. Her name was Nicola, and she was the love of my life. Well, up to that moment. I didn’t think any other human had ever experienced a love quite like mine. Sadly, it was unrequited. Nicola had eyes for the very dapper Jonathan whose father owned a chain of minimarts. The family had loads of money, and they lived in a huge house down the block, and Jonathan had terrific hair and his nanny would bring in these amazing sweets whenever it was a holiday. I was a bit of a swot—I liked studying—and my glasses were too thick and I had acne before the other kids, so compared to Jonathan, I was a nobody.”
Looking at him now? It’s impossible to picture it.
“Yet I was undeterred. Every night, I would write ardent letters to Nicola, pouring my heart out to her in the way only a besotted twelve-year-old boy could.”
So glad I’m not the only preteen who did this. The preblog, paper-and-pen Dear Dwayne diaries have tons of letters to the Objects of My Unrequited Middle School Affection.
“I compi
led the letters in an old rectangular tobacco tin my gran gave me, but worried that my brother would find my correspondence, I kept the tin with me at all times. We only had cubbies at our school—no proper lockers with locks—but I’d never had an incident of theft at school before, and my brother was constantly stealing my pocket money and comic books, so I felt the letters were safer with me, in my knapsack, away from the house.”
“At this juncture, it’s fair to postulate that even on the other side of the world, siblings are demons,” I say. He laughs quietly. About this time in the story, Aldous discovers Hobbs. Marco and I take turns feeding her leftover chunks of meat from our soup bowls to keep her from murdering the goldfish.
“One day I’d been called to the headmaster’s office to discuss my results on a district-wide test in which our school had competed with other schools. While I was gone, someone helped themselves to my knapsack.”
“Noooooo . . .”
“When I came back into the classroom, at first I didn’t pay any mind to the giggles and funny looks the other students were giving me, or to the pieces of folded paper they were passing about when the teacher’s back was turned. Until the student in front of me opened one of these folded pages, and I recognized the handwriting.”
I feel mildly sick for him—I remember in vivid color when I discovered Jackie with my journals, the embarrassment, followed by rage. And again now, with the blog, only this time it’s not my sister’s evildoing . . .
“Across the room, Jonathan was watching me, his face purple with the laughter behind his cupped hand, his other hand resting comfortably atop my tobacco tin.”
I sit back against my chair, shaking my head in empathy, cradling Aldous so she’ll settle down.
“They read the letters. All of them. Nicola read all of them as well. Jonathan made sure of it.”
Marco runs a hand through his curly hair and leans his elbows on the table, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“After seeing what a jerk Jonathan was by breaching your privacy, did Nicola run into your waiting arms?”
The small smile blossoms. “Not even close. But when I ran home bawling and told my Irish grandmother what had happened, she made me some soup and fresh biscuits—cookies, for you Yankees—and she gave me another empty tobacco tin.”
Marco stands, goes to the kitchen, and returns with a plastic box of chocolate chip cookies as well as—a book?
He sits across from me again, opens the cookies (they smell soooo good), and slides a leather-bound blank journal across the table. “This will keep the Internet out of your thoughts.” He pats the closed book. I pick it up with my Aldous-free hand. It’s heavy. Quality paper, smooth, brown cover embossed with a Celtic design.
Beautiful. Expensive.
“Marco . . . you didn’t have to do this.” I can’t remember the last time someone bought me such a meaningful gift. Seriously, for my last birthday, Trevor gave me a Frisbee, “top of the line, Dani,” so I could learn Frisbee golf—his team was short a player. Gosh, so thoughtful!
I don’t know what to say, so I default to a heartfelt thank you. Why would Marco go to such trouble, such expense, for me?
He shrugs playfully and continues. “Later that night, after Gran nursed my bruised feelings, she went out for her evening walk with her dog, Spartacus. I sat in the front window and watched her go, like I often did—only her route deviated. She crossed the street, walked down the way, and stopped in front of Jonathan’s house. She climbed the three steps, placed a small paper bag I hadn’t seen her carrying, lit it on fire, and rang the doorbell.
“Then she and the dog scurried off the porch and resumed their walk, like every other normal late-spring evening. Only when the person at Jonathan’s house answered the door—it happened to be Jonathan himself—he was greeted with a flaming bag. Upon Jonathan stomping on it to put out the flames, I quickly learned that Gran had filled that paper bag with shit from her beloved Spartacus. And he was a big dog.”
I laugh so loud and so hard, Aldous meows and digs her claws into my chest, eyes wide open.
“I am so stealing this! Can I?”
When Marco’s laughs subside, he wipes clean the cookie crumbs from his fingertips and leans back on two chair legs. “I’m just saying that if your phone keeps doing what it’s doing tonight, a little fire-shit might be in order.”
I transfer the kitten back to the couch, retrieve two glasses of almond milk, and we quietly polish off two more cookies apiece. “Promise you won’t tell my trainer, yeah?”
He winks. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Marco helps me clean up the dishes, few words passing between us, a surge of warmth rushing through me when our shoulders occasionally brush. Everything he’s done tonight has been extraordinarily kind—from helping with Howie to bringing dinner and dessert and the journal. Where everyone else is screaming at me, he’s doing exactly the opposite. It’s gotta be because he’s a good guy who takes care of his clients . . . right?
Maybe it’s more?
When he pulls on his Gore-Tex Hollywood Fitness jacket, my stomach drops. I like having him here. He brings such a quiet peace.
And as soon as he leaves, it’ll just be me and the emails and text messages again. Plus, a hobo’s smelly cat.
I walk him to the door. “Thank you. For this. For tonight. For being my friend.”
He offers his fist for a bump. What I really want, though, is a hug. I abstain. I don’t want to read more into this than I should. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We can do two sessions, right? You can go to the hospital in between to see Howie?”
I nod. “Solid plan.”
“Bring your runners. Maybe during tomorrow’s jog, you can save a stranded whale or rescue a child from a burning building.” With a final wink of his beautiful, long-lashed eyeball, he’s out the door.
I lock up, turn to glare at my phone, and find Aldous with one paw in the fishbowl, a bloodthirsty look on her kittenish face.
Oy.
THIRTY-FOUR
“Hello, Ms. Steele, this is Agent [Superman] returning your call. Per the information you provided in your voicemail, we have looked into your hacking incident, and we’re fairly certain it’s tied to the case we discussed at your place of employment. We are in the process of following the bread-crumb trail, so to speak, and as soon as we’re able to break through so we can return the blog to your safekeeping, I’ll let you know.
“I know this isn’t an excellent time to bring this up, but I did read through your entries, and because they address the Lisa Rogers’ case directly, you are in violation of the nondisclosure agreement you signed. I understand these are extenuating circumstances, so I will talk to my superiors about this, but do expect a call from another agency representative.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
THIRTY-FIVE
FAX
From: PENELOPE “MOMMY” STEELE
Hello, Danielle,
This is your mother. What have you done? I TOLD you the World Wide Web was a gateway to malfeasance and intrusion from the outside, and now you have all of our dirty laundry out there for the entire planet to read!
Georgette and Jacqueline were just here—they made me chop and bag up all but four of my marijuana plants per Oregon State law for fear that federal agents were going to break down my door. You know I rely on those plants to help my friends! How could you tell the government about them? They’re already watching me because of my involvement with Greys (Alien) Anatomy, so this is just the icing on the cake.
I tried to respect your privacy and not read the articles you’ve posted—your sister says that you were hacked and that’s why the stories are out there in the light of day. That does sound really terrible, Danielle, but I am not feeling sorry for you right now because your tirades about your family are quite cruel.
And if you’d rather spend your weekend in some inane competition I don’t even understand instead of spending time with your mother at the beach, th
e least you could’ve done is been honest with me. You know that I won’t live forever, right? You know that it’s important to spend time with your family while they are still here. Or maybe that isn’t as enticing to you as spending time with your fantasy wrestler friend. I know that your obsession with that man started with Gerald Robert Steele, but you really should put all of this childishness behind you. Your father’s influence has clearly been very unhealthy.
I hope no one in my UFO family hears about your online diary. I could be kicked out—the NSA and Homeland Security people are already sniffing around our extended membership, which is why NO INTERNET! This is just too much, Danielle. Too much. You’ve always been the child who needed to be the center of attention—just like Gerald Robert Steele. Well, congratulations. You’ve finally gotten your wish.
If you decide to come to my house, please leave your electronics at home and check your vehicle for a GPS tracking device. I don’t need you to lead them right to me.
Love and light,
Mommy
THIRTY-SIX
Random sampling of blog comments so far:
Hey, if you decide to move to Port-aux-Français, I’d totally go with you. Might be a good time to consider that move *now*—your blog is pretty harsh! LOL . . .
Your boyfriend, Trevor, should put that thing about his soft toenails on Tinder. Bet that would help him get dates! Ha ha ha ha ha . . .
I know you think your trainer is hot, but you made him sound like a total airhead and that’s super sexist. Just sayin’. It goes both ways. Don’t be that girl.
Treadmills ARE the devil! I almost died on one once! Not even kidding!
Where did you go to school? The TAs in our English department were pompous jerks.
If your sisters don’t disown you, they be crazy.
Girrrrl, you have a picture of The Rock in your bathroom? He watches you POO?
You really shouldn’t drink. Alcohol undermines your training. Doesn’t sound like you’re very serious about this at all TBH.
