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She’d pulled the conversation away from me, directed it so masterfully that no one noticed me slip away, my heavy grocery bag cutting into my shoulder, grateful for her kindness.
“Why are you so nice to me?” I’d asked her once. We’d been alone in the bathroom, shoulder to shoulder at the sinks, me washing my hands while she applied lip gloss. Her eyes met mine in the mirror and she said, “It’s the girl code. We have to look out for each other because no one else will.”
And then, midyear, Kristen had simply vanished. One day she was in the seat next to mine, cracking jokes with her best friend, Laura Lazar, and the next, she was gone. At first, I figured she was just sick. But after a couple weeks it became clear she wasn’t coming back. No one seemed to know where she’d gone, or why.
Of course, people had their theories.
She went to boarding school in Switzerland.
She got a spot at Ms. Porter’s.
Her grandma was sick, so the family moved to Florida.
She got pregnant and went to one of those homes for unwed girls.
Laura Lazar had refused to talk about it, claiming she didn’t know. But I could tell she was lying. Laura knew why Kristen had left, and I thought I did too.
By high school, I’d mastered the art of blending in. Of finding corners where people wouldn’t notice the frayed edges of my thrift store clothes, or the fact that my hair was usually one day past needing a wash. And I saw things other people didn’t.
Like Kristen, slipping out of Mr. Dempsey’s classroom at lunchtime, cheeks flushed and hair slightly mussed, tugging at the hem of her skirt. Or the afternoon I saw her glance over her shoulder before sliding into the passenger seat of his car.
Nothing obvious, but enough to make me notice how subdued she’d become. How much harder her friends had to work to get her to join in their conversations.
Whatever might have happened between Mr. Dempsey and Kristen, it was none of my business. And after a while, I assumed what everyone else had—that Kristen had moved away and that was the end of it.
***
I wasn’t that invisible girl, hiding in corners, anymore. In the three years since high school, I’d learned how to mold myself into a woman who knew how to enter a room in an outfit designed to draw attention. How to order wine at an expensive restaurant and what the tiny fork was for. I knew how to apply makeup with a light touch and how to keep lipstick off my teeth. If I were to pass Mr. Dempsey on the street, I was the kind of woman he’d notice, but never recognize.
Did Mr. Dempsey have something to do with Kristen’s abrupt departure? Possibly. Could I exploit that? Definitely.
I imagined sending him a message. Hey there, Mr. Dempsey! My name is Meg Williams, Wolverine class of 2006! Rawr!
The gamer next to me pounded away on his mouse, earning himself a dirty look from the guy working the counter. I looked back at my screen, imagining a first date with Mr. Dempsey and the typical questions people always asked—where I grew up, my family, what I was doing with my life. I was raised by my single mother, until she’d died of cancer due to a lack of access to quality medical care. I’m currently living in my car, just south of the poverty line. I love Bruce Springsteen and the Dodgers.
I couldn’t simply message him and hope for the best. If he said no, that would be the end of it. I first needed to learn everything I could about him—what he believed in. What repulsed him. What he cared about above all else, so that I could mirror that back to him.
Outside, the rain slashed against the windows, and I thought about the sound it would make on the top of the car that night as I tried to sleep, my nerves still a tangle. Then I imagined what it would be like to have a home with locks on the doors and windows. To listen to the rain on the roof of a house instead of a car. To have a television to watch and another human to talk to.
I logged out, navigating back to the Circle of Love home page, and clicked on the New Account button.
***
The first fake profile I created—Deirdre, age forty-three, perhaps a little new age, definitely in denial about growing older—didn’t work. Her message—You seem like the kind of guy I’d like to get to know better—didn’t even get a response, so two days later, I was back at the internet café to try again.
Sandy. Age 32. Status: Never been married. Occupation: Server. Likes: sunrise in the mountains, vodka tonics at 5:00 p.m., road trips to Mammoth.Sandy’s message to Mr. Dempsey: You’re hot. Sandy wanted sex.
Within minutes, the icon beneath Sandy’s message flipped from Sent to Read. I leaned forward, three dots showing that Mr. Dempsey was responding.
One minute. Two minutes. I imagined what he might be writing—something flirty, complimentary perhaps. It didn’t matter that I looked nothing like Sandy. I only needed her for a short while.
Finally, his message appeared. Thanks, but I’m looking for something a little more committed. I wish you luck!
I stared at the screen, parsing his words, my mind turning over my next move. I thought back again to Kristen, who’d only been seventeen. If I’d made Sandy a decade younger, would his answer have been different?
Another image search, another photo. A blond, caught midlaugh, the sun setting behind her. I was like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks were a twenty-one-year-old homeless woman with a passion for indoor plumbing and a willingness to sleep with a man to get it.
Amelia. Age: 21. Status: Never been married. Occupation: Student (majoring in early education), currently on hiatus and hoping to get back on track. Likes: Surfing. Romance. Looking for a serious relationship.
