“You mean you’re erasing your CB account?”
Only paranoid tech-phobes erased themselves. It equaled insane. First because it meant deleting all your profiles. And everything was attached to your profiles: buying just about anything, bill paying, credit cards, air miles. But it also meant a complete name change and then never being online in any significant social way again. Since CB owned half the social apps out there, it was only a matter of time before old Woofer pics just reattached to you. Erasing yourself also basically labeled you a miscreant. Imagine going on a job interview and having no online history for your prospective employers to look at. Who wouldn’t wonder what you were covering up?
But it was true. I swiped to his G-File. Other than the sex-video links there was nothing about him.
“Mr. E., this equals way over-the-top.”
He shrugged. “I don’t have enough money to indefinitely get my face Pulled and have my G-File swept. So I’m starting fresh. Bartending got me through college. It can get me through this. It pays better anyway.”
“But you’re such a good teacher.”
“Trust me, Ms. Cheng.” He laughed, like he had a thousand bitter one-liners he’d like to make. “If there’s one thing a teacher’s career can’t rebound from, it’s a sex scandal. And now, if you don’t mind, I believe I’ll get back to the self-pity you found me wallowing in.”
I told Mr. E. about the parkas who’d followed me on my way here. Begrudgingly, he said he’d walk me out. He took the recycling bags with him. Fawn would have insisted he walk her to the train. But frankly, I was as ready to be out of his company as he was to be out of mine. We walked to the trash cans in front of the building. The sidewalk, the entire block, was deserted, proving that the only thing creepier than a block full of sketchy men was a sketchy block completely devoid of anyone.
Across the street, a yellow Hydrogen Coop was parked behind a battered pickup truck. It looked way too new and way too ecologically conscious to be in this neighborhood. (No offense, Mr. E.’s crummy block.)
Watching Mr. E. morosely throw away the recycling, I couldn’t imagine what I used to find attractive about him. I’d never give up this easily. The president would never give up this easily. My mom would never give up this easily. Grow some breasts already and woman up. When our eyes met, he flinched at the pity in mine. Shrugging, as if to say, Add your disappointment to the list, he held his hand out to me.
“Looks all clear,” he said. “Good luck with your investigation, Ms. Cheng.”
“You know, there’s another video out there like mine. What if this is a thing?”
He shrugged. “The end result is the same for me.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out anyway.”
“To be honest, Kyla, I wish you luck and everything, but I hope I don’t hear from you again anytime soon.”
After a heart-pounding run, I made it to the correct train station in a quarter of the time it took me before and hopped on just as the doors were closing. Half of the train was packed with post-holiday revelers returning home from family visits. The other half was completely empty thanks to a sleeping homeless man who wasn’t wearing shoes.
It was so cold outside it hurt the insides of my nose to breathe. Mr. E. had lost his job and was facing criminal prosecution. In comparison to these two men’s lives, mine was easy. The only thing truly wrong with it was that I had a wobbly relationship with my mom. But at the end of the day, it was like Dad said: she was stuck with me. And, sure, I had a trending video that I might never be able to come out from under, but I’d still have opportunities and friends and, like, basic shelter.
Overhelmed by gratefulness, I sank into a seat on the empty side of the train and swiped into the message screen on my Doc.
I owed so many people apologies I didn’t know where to start.
I txted AnyLies.
moi I’m sorry.
I had a huge fight with my mom and I was angry.
I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.
Fine. It was strange that I was apologizing first to the person who’d roadblocked my future, but, well, like that was the weirdest part of my week? I’d been mean and when you’re mean you’re supposed to apologize. And apologizing to AnyLies was a whole lot easier than apologizing to my mom or Audra or Mac. As usual, AnyLies wrote back immediately.
What was the fight about?
moi Oh, that my mom doesn’t like me, I’m a brat, the usual stuff.
At least your mom knows you exist.
I’d been txting AnyLies with abandon, hoping it would humanize me and guilt her into taking down the video. But now she was opening up to me. I felt all the pressure of a parent whose misunderstood teen approached them to talk about, like, taking drugs.
Be cool. Don’t say the wrong thing.
I wrote a few responses. Deleted them.
Finally I went with:
moi Have you tried to talk to her about it?
I chewed on my hair, waiting for her reply. AnyLies took her time responding, like she, too, was searching for the correct response.
No. It’s fine. You wouldn’t understand.
Wrong. I got it wrong.
No sweat for you either way, huh? Bonding time is over. You should have apologized sooner.
I hurriedly replied.
moi Listen, I just spoke with my teacher—the one in the video—the police are after him. He’s ERASING himself. This is getting serious. Forget about me. This is hurting people. It’s time to take down the video.
A couple got on the train wearing matching reindeer hats. When they saw the homeless man, they veered sharply toward the crowded side. It was then I noticed the exceedingly thin figure cloaked all in black at the opposite end of the train, txting. She wore a fancy velvet coat with a black mantle of fur around the hood. Black leather gloves. Heels. A scarf wrapped the lower half of her face, and while, granted, it was cold outside, the train was warm. I couldn’t see what her device was, but it definitely wasn’t a PHD.
“Jessie?” I called out.
Then, just to be safe, I sent a txt.
moi Jessie? Is that you? Will you at least respond to me?
The figure stiffened. I stood up. My Doc screamed with its AnyLies txt sound. The homeless man mumbled in his sleep. We were coming into the station. Keeping her head down, the black-clad figure stood and hurried off the train. I debated following her, but another romp in the freezing dark with only a light wrap on was not on my list of priorities. Besides, this was Brooklyn; it wasn’t like there was a lack of emaciated women who wore black. And, I reminded myself, Jessie is in Turkey. Sighing, I watched the figure whisk away, casting a quick glance over her shoulder as she went.
Only once the train pulled out of the station did I glance at my Doc.
I made you something tonight. Call it a belated Christmas gift. I hope you like it.