CECI EST TRES URGENT JE DOIT L'ENVOYER D'ICI DEMAIN MATIN, SVP AIDEZ MOI!!! J'AI PAS BIEN PIGER LES LE TEXTE


Still, I can’t like Tyler Moldenhauer. A jock? Mom would
flip out.

Just to get my mind off this whole ridiculous thing, I click
over to my Facebook page and see that I have one friend
5) request. Before I check who it is my heart bumps. Tyler?
Already? Tyler Moldenhauer wants to be my friend? (...)

I click on the “Friend Requests” icon, and see a name
that I don’t recognize: Alex Well, which means that “Alex
Well” is some clever business that targets teens through
10) social media. No doubt “Alex Well” has some unlimited
texting offer for me, since, of course, all teen girls just live for
unlimited texting. And lip gloss. Earn Lip Gloss Using Our
Unlimited Texting Plan!

I don’t confirm the request, but, just to see what kind
15) of scam Facebook thinks I should be targeted for, I click
on the bogus name. Expecting to be taken to a page hec-
tic with offers and great news about a great product and
giveaways if I confirm the friend request, I am surprised to
end up looking at a page with nothing on it except for the
20) dippy white cutout of a person with that curlicue hairdo
against Facebook’s blue-gray background. Alex Well has no
friends. Not one. Nothing is filled in. Birthday, Hometown,
Current City, Relationship Status, they’ve all been left
blank. In his Info section there is no contact information,
25) no groups he is a member of, no pages he follows. They are
all blank.
The only information on his wall is a status update next
to the curlicued photo that says: 11:56 A.M.AUGUST 12,2009.
“Hello, Aubrey. Thank you more than I can say for
30) coming this far. I used a fake name because I didn’t know
how you would respond to seeing my real name. More
than anything in the world, I would like to know you.
Even if it is just this. Just messages on Facebook. I can
think of a thousand reasons why you wouldn’t confirm
35) this. But I hope you will. This is Martin, your dad.”

I can’t say how long I sit on my bed staring at those
three letters. D-A-D. The way, when you are stan-
ding on a skyscraper and you think you might—just
accidentally—jump off, I start feeling like I might—just acci-
40) dentally—hit the little “Respond to Friend Request” button.
So I step away from the edge and slam the laptop shut.

I lift my gaze to the teddy bears that Mom and Dad
(D-A-D!) stenciled along the top of the walls before I was
evenborn. I love thinking of them doing that together. Me
45) still inside Mom, listening to them laughing. Maybe Dad
painted a dot on Mom’s nose like in those old movies when
husbands thought their wives were just so cute.

So much is exploding inside of me. Too much has hap-
pened all at once. I stagnated for years with nothing hap-
50) pening, and now, all in one day, too much is happening.

I open the laptop, go back to Facebook, back to “Alex
Well’s” page. I stare at the little box next to a faceless car-
toon that is now a faceless cartoon of my father, and read
and reread “Respond to Friend Request” roughly a million
55) times. Then, like she always does, Pretzels—who can’t hear
anything, but somehow manages to hear the refrigerator
opening and the garage door going up, grumbles—and
starts struggling to her feet.

This is my signal that Mom is home. I quickly sign out
60) of Facebook. She can’t know about the message. Thinking
about my dad makes her so sad. And me going away to
college next year is stressing her. I can tell by the way she
stares at me so much more now that she’s imagining being
here without me. If she knew about this? Dad contacting
65) me? It would upset her so much.

A few seconds later, she rattles the knob of my door,
yells when she can’t open it, “Why is this door locked?”

“Why do you never knock?”

“Open the door!”

70) “I’m taking a nap!”

“I need my laptop to see how many I’ve got registered
for my class tomorrow!”

I crack the door a few inches, just enough to hand
the laptop out. “I don’t see why I can’t have my own lap-
75) top. They’re not that expensive.”

“That is a discretionary item."
This is her way of saying that I have to use the money
I made working as a counselor at Lark Hill. “I would except
that I don’t want to go to school naked, and, P.S., most
80) mothers don’t count clothes as ‘discretionary’ items. For
your information, Parkhaven is not clothing-optional.”

She gives me Hurt Look Number 85. I hate Number 85,
which translates to I am trying not to cry because I got totally
screwed in the divorce and don’t make enough to buy us all
85) the stuff we need. I am suddenly so sick of knowing what
every twitch of her face means that I want to scream. I try
to close the door, but she has her foot wedged into it.