I read through my response and sent it off. I would try not to think of LuAnne again, of her bedroom door with the chair in front of it, of her stepbrother slipping under the covers with her and sentencing her to a lifetime of therapy or worse. I needed to put her out of my mind, and the Internet was convenient in that way—people could be deleted, switched off. I responded to each girl only once, and if she wrote again, I usually ignored her; with the volume of messages I received each day, I didn’t have time to become a pen pal. To survive my job I needed the callousness of an emergency room doctor.
Next.
There were hundreds of messages in my inbox. Before continuing on, I wanted to order my lunch, the usual low-fat hummus and sprouts on oatmeal bread (300), but the girl was standing at the counter, paying for her fruit smoothie. Carmen served her without knowing there was an invisible tether connecting the girl to me; wherever I went, so went she.
Carmen’s café looked like a 1950s kitchen, with walls painted turquoise, and vintage jadeite teacups on display. The front of it was entirely glass, presenting a view of Violet Avenue that was a moving tableau of people and cars. Carmen needed extra help occasionally and I would work behind the counter or bake for her, arriving before dawn to make cupcakes and banana bread. Despite the temptations, I loved to bake, but I didn’t allow myself to do it often.
I met Carmen in college, and although we were merely acquaintances then, we connected again in New York. She allowed me to use the café as an office. We were friends, since our relationship extended beyond the café to phone calls and occasional outings, but with Carmen pregnant, I couldn’t help but worry that things were going to change.
The girl returned to her table with the smoothie and sat down. She didn’t write in her notebook, which sat unopened in front of her. Instead, she twisted the silver rings she wore on each of her fingers, moving from one finger to the next, looking bored. I had bored her.
Was the girl actually following me? She had seemed genuinely surprised when I confronted her. I couldn’t think of a reason why she’d want to follow me, unless Kitty had sent her to spy on me, to make sure I was doing my work. The girl didn’t seem like the type of person who would work for Kitty, but then neither did I.
From: AshliMcB
To: DaisyChain
Subject: big problems
Dear Kitty,
This is going to sound strange, but I like to cut my breasts with a razor. It’s something I started doing last month, but I don’t know why I do it. I like to trace around my nipples and watch the blood seep through my bra. It’s an embarrassing problem and there’s no one else I can tell it to. I hate my breasts, so I don’t care if they’re scarred. They’re small and mismatched. I’ve seen porn websites and I know I’m not normal but I can’t keep cutting myself because I might bleed to death or get infected. Please help. I can’t stop. I know it’s weird, but I do it because it feels good. It hurts, but it feels good too.
Your friend Ashli (17 years old)
A cutter. I felt a momentary blip of dismay at the thought of such troubled girls writing to a magazine editor for help, but if they didn’t I’d be out of a job. I looked through my computer files and copied and pasted my standard response about cutting, adding a few personalized tweaks.
From: DaisyChain
To: AshliMcB
Subject: Re: big problems
Dear Ashli,
I’m very worried that you’re cutting yourself. Many girls do this, so please don’t feel that you’re weird, but as your friend Kitty, I ask that you stop doing this immediately. I’m not legally qualified to give you advice on this topic, but at the bottom of this message there is a web address that will give you a lot of information and options for getting help from professionals in your local area.
The next paragraph of my message would focus on breasts and porn. I looked through my files: My Documents/Kitty/Breasts/Porn.
Many of us have breasts that don’t match. Please remember that women in porn aren’t normal. You are normal!