cyberspace. The first post she’d found went back three weeks, and until she came across her name two days ago, the words had sat online—stagnant, black and white, incapable of harming her. She simply needed to erase the problem from her mind—forget she’d ever seen the posts, and force herself to go back to normal.
Easier said than done.
She kept replaying Sergeant Martinez’s words in her mind. Messing with someone’s head isn’t a crime…. There’s a whole bunch on there that’s way worse…. You can’t let this get to you.
She reminded herself that there were thousands of posts on that Web site, millions if one were to count all of the many anonymous chatboards and blog comments that were on the Internet overall. She couldn’t let a couple of sentences—among all of that garbage—get to her.
Still, instead of learning more about how the molecules of life were synthesized, she found herself running through a host of possible suspects. Her father had immediately brushed off the sergeant’s suggestion that Megan might know the author of the notes. That’s the kind of father he was, the kind of father who instinctively leaped to his daughter’s defense. Of course he had sought to protect Megan against the notion that she might have made herself an enemy. Of course he hadn’t stopped to wonder.
But he had reacted so quickly that Megan hadn’t stopped to wonder, either. Even standing for half an hour in the precinct, she had never paused to really think through the question of who might be in a position—or have a motive—to “mess with her head,” as Sergeant Martinez had said. Or, as Courtney had put it more bluntly, “pull a mind-fuck on her.”
There was that guy outside their apartment last month. He was at the bus stop when she ducked inside Jamba Juice. She initially noticed him because he was cute, but by the time she had her Mango Mantra, the 3 bus had come and gone without him. Instead, he stood at the entrance of her building, and as she approached, she could have sworn that he’d been reading the list of names posted at the entrance, his finger resting close to her buzzer. She’d blown it off once the lobby door shut securely behind her, but now she wondered if there was some possibility she’d seen him before on campus.
As hard as she tried to remember that man’s face, her mind kept pulling up another image. Keith.
They were still together when she picked her fall classes, so Keith knew her schedule. Keith would know how much something like this would distract her from school. Keith was addicted to the Internet. He would know about a site like Campus Juice, and he would know that the site provided anonymity. And Keith could be vindictive when he set his mind to it.
But they had broken up back in June, and the online posts didn’t start until the beginning of September. Would he really stew for almost three months before carrying out a full-on assault of terror against her that continued to this day? It was hard to imagine.
But as she wrapped her necklace—the thin silver chain dangling the heart pendant that Keith had given her—around the tip of her right index finger, she couldn’t help but wonder.
Over the quiet distraction of the background music flowing through her headphones, she heard the clang of a pan against the electric stovetop in the kitchen. Heather had emerged from her cave for a feeding.
Megan had hoped that the one upside to getting a roommate would be a new friendship, a girlfriend to talk to late at night. And when Heather first moved in, she wasn’t particularly cold. In those initial weeks, she joined Megan in the living room for a couple of episodes of Project Runway , one of the only shows Megan ever made time for. They also formed a habit of piggybacking their takeout orders so they could share dinner at the table.
Then one night in June, after Heather caught Megan crying in her room after officially calling it quits with Keith, Heather had
Easier said than done.
She kept replaying Sergeant Martinez’s words in her mind. Messing with someone’s head isn’t a crime…. There’s a whole bunch on there that’s way worse…. You can’t let this get to you.
She reminded herself that there were thousands of posts on that Web site, millions if one were to count all of the many anonymous chatboards and blog comments that were on the Internet overall. She couldn’t let a couple of sentences—among all of that garbage—get to her.
Still, instead of learning more about how the molecules of life were synthesized, she found herself running through a host of possible suspects. Her father had immediately brushed off the sergeant’s suggestion that Megan might know the author of the notes. That’s the kind of father he was, the kind of father who instinctively leaped to his daughter’s defense. Of course he had sought to protect Megan against the notion that she might have made herself an enemy. Of course he hadn’t stopped to wonder.
But he had reacted so quickly that Megan hadn’t stopped to wonder, either. Even standing for half an hour in the precinct, she had never paused to really think through the question of who might be in a position—or have a motive—to “mess with her head,” as Sergeant Martinez had said. Or, as Courtney had put it more bluntly, “pull a mind-fuck on her.”
There was that guy outside their apartment last month. He was at the bus stop when she ducked inside Jamba Juice. She initially noticed him because he was cute, but by the time she had her Mango Mantra, the 3 bus had come and gone without him. Instead, he stood at the entrance of her building, and as she approached, she could have sworn that he’d been reading the list of names posted at the entrance, his finger resting close to her buzzer. She’d blown it off once the lobby door shut securely behind her, but now she wondered if there was some possibility she’d seen him before on campus.
As hard as she tried to remember that man’s face, her mind kept pulling up another image. Keith.
They were still together when she picked her fall classes, so Keith knew her schedule. Keith would know how much something like this would distract her from school. Keith was addicted to the Internet. He would know about a site like Campus Juice, and he would know that the site provided anonymity. And Keith could be vindictive when he set his mind to it.
But they had broken up back in June, and the online posts didn’t start until the beginning of September. Would he really stew for almost three months before carrying out a full-on assault of terror against her that continued to this day? It was hard to imagine.
But as she wrapped her necklace—the thin silver chain dangling the heart pendant that Keith had given her—around the tip of her right index finger, she couldn’t help but wonder.
Over the quiet distraction of the background music flowing through her headphones, she heard the clang of a pan against the electric stovetop in the kitchen. Heather had emerged from her cave for a feeding.
Megan had hoped that the one upside to getting a roommate would be a new friendship, a girlfriend to talk to late at night. And when Heather first moved in, she wasn’t particularly cold. In those initial weeks, she joined Megan in the living room for a couple of episodes of Project Runway , one of the only shows Megan ever made time for. They also formed a habit of piggybacking their takeout orders so they could share dinner at the table.
Then one night in June, after Heather caught Megan crying in her room after officially calling it quits with Keith, Heather had
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