Want to Go Private?

by Sarah Darer Littman

  “Seriously, Abs, remember other things we talked about, too. You’re not talking to the whole auditorium. You’re talking one on one. Billy will be in the front row,” Faith says.

  “And you believe in the value of your message, right?” Grace says.

  “Do I ever,” I tell her.

  “How are you doing, Abby?” Agent Saunders comes over. She’s wearing, surprise, surprise, a pantsuit. I wonder if her entire closet is filled with dark-colored pantsuits or if she ever gets to wear jeans or a skirt or a dress or anything girly.

  “I’m okay, I guess. Just nervous. You know. Stage fright.”

  “Yeah, I get nervous, too, before I have to do these things.”

  Say what? She looks as cool as a cucumber. She must have magical powers sewn into that pantsuit or something.

  “You look surprised,” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t look nervous at all,” Faith says. “You seem totally relaxed.”

  “Part of it’s practice,” Agent Saunders says. “I’ve done this talk so many times I could probably give it in my sleep. But it’s also because I’m so passionate about getting this message out to kids. I confront this stuff every day in my work and I see how oblivious most young people — and, I hate to say it, their parents — are to the dangers. You kids know your way around the technology so much better than us oldies. But there’s this attitude I sense when I’m talking that this will never happen to me.”

  “And I’m living proof that it can, aren’t I?” I say.

  “That’s why you giving this speech is so important,” she says. “And brave.”

  “I don’t feel very brave right now.”

  Agent Saunders puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s your story, Abby. No one can say you got it wrong. Just go out there and tell it.”

  Principal Mullins comes and asks Agent Saunders if she’s ready to start. Then he goes out, silences the angry killer bees, and introduces her.

  She’s got this whole PowerPoint presentation talking about how predators can track you down and stalk you through pictures and info you put on your Facebook profile or innocent remarks you make about what you’re doing in chat rooms. I know what the kids are thinking, because not so long ago, I was one of them. I was one of the kids in the audience thinking, I would never be that stupid or No way that would ever happen to me.

  I hear Agent Saunders talking about some Internet predator cases. Other cases, not mine. Cases where the kids weren’t lucky enough to come home safely like I did. She talks about one where this predator met a teen girl at a mall and then strangled her while they were having sex in his car. Later, he just dumped her body in a ravine. That was right here in Connecticut. She was a year younger than me. There’s another case in which a seventeen-year-old girl was talking to a guy on Facebook who was supposedly sixteen. She went to meet him and ended up dead in a field. And it turns out the “teen” she was chatting with was actually thirty-two. That could so easily have been me. I guess that’s why I still wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat several times a week. But at least I’m waking up, and for that I’m thankful every single day. Even on the crummy ones.

  Eventually, Agent Saunders introduces me, which means it’s time to go out onstage and face them all.

  She whispers, “You can do it!” before she walks offstage, leaving me standing there all by myself facing the spotlights.

  I look out into the darkened auditorium. A million eyes burn into my skin and my heart is an anvil, pounding against the wall of my chest. I feel myself getting dizzy but I will not faint. I grip the podium where Agent Saunders’s laptop rests. She’s already set it up to the first slide of my PowerPoint presentation, since I don’t have a laptop anymore. Mine’s still “evidence” in the trial of U.S. v. Edmund Schmidt, and chances are I’ll never get it back. Mom and Dad sure aren’t in any hurry to get me a new one, either.

  I search past the spotlights for Billy, and catch a glimpse of him in the front row. He’s there, just like he said he’d be, giving me a smile and a thumbs-up. I take a deep breath, knowing that I can talk to him, one-on-one. Then I hear Faith’s and Grace’s voices in my head: Dora the Explorer underwear … Mickey Mouse ears … Fluffy bunny slippers …

  A faint smile playing on my lips, I lift my head, take another deep breath, and begin:

  “Hi. I’m Abby Johnston and last year I was the victim of an Internet predator. Like most of you, I didn’t think it could happen to me. I bet, like me, you think this kind of stuff only happens to other people. Stupid people. People who don’t know any better. Well, I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t. It can happen to anyone. Each and any one of you who is sitting here in this auditorium. But by telling you my story, I hope that I can help to prevent that from happening.”

  I know some people are waiting to hear the gory details — like did Luke rape me and stuff like that — but this isn’t the Jerry Springer Show, so, too bad, they’re not going to get that.

  Instead, I tell them about a guy named “Luke” and how he gradually became my “friend.”

  “It’s not like he contacted me and right away I jumped in a car with him. What I’ve learned is that one of the best tools people like Edmund Schmidt have is listening. They listen to us talk and mirror back our interests and hopes and fears so it sounds like they’re just like us and understand us better than anyone. The person I knew as Luke tricked me, seduced me, kind of, into thinking he was a better friend to me than my real friends, and that he cared about me more than even my parents and my sister. Which is ridiculous when you think about it. But when you’re arguing with your parents and you feel misunderstood — which seems to happen a lot in high school — and then there’s this person who’s telling you that you’re right and everyone else is wrong and they understand what you’re going through …”

  It’s so dark and quiet in the auditorium I have no idea if people are bored, or think I’m an idiot, or are waiting to throw paper airplanes with Slut written on them. I look over at Billy and he nods and smiles, so I take another deep breath and carry on.

  “The thing is, Schmidt told me the things that I wanted to hear, not the truth, like a real friend would. I was always right and my parents were always wrong. He made me doubt my best friend, Faith, the person who has stood by me since second grade and who continues to stand by me today. And of course, he flattered me and told me that I was beautiful and hot and that he was in love with me, which is very seductive when you’re feeling kind of insecure, or down, or maybe a little bit lonely.

  “What I didn’t know was that at the same time, he was telling several other underage girls what they wanted to hear, too. And that he was going on child porn message boards to compare notes with other predators about techniques for tricking us or ‘grooming’ us, so that we’d do the things he wanted us to do.”

  I show them a slide of my bedroom.

  “I felt safe because I was at home in my bedroom. When he first started asking me questions that seemed a little … weird, like ‘What’s your bra size?’ I figured it didn’t matter if I told him because it wasn’t like I was ever going to meet him. It was just online. It wasn’t real. The thing is, if some guy in class asked me that question, I wouldn’t answer. I’d want to slap him. But for some reason, it was different on the Internet — because the person wasn’t in front of me and I was in my pj’s, in my house, in a place that I felt safe. But it’s not safe.

  “It might seem different. You might feel safer doing stuff because you’re in the safety of your own home. But you aren’t. Anytime you chat with someone you don’t know, you’re taking a risk. Because even if they seem nice … even if they seem like they’re your best friend and they care about you and understand you better than anyone else in the whole wide world and they love you …”

  I feel a lump in my throat and I have to swallow hard, because I’m determined to get through this without crying.

  “Well, they te
ll you they love you, anyway. The thing is, you really don’t know them at all. And the reason they’re listening to you, and being so understanding, isn’t because they’re real friends. It’s because they’re getting you to rely on them and trust them so they can take advantage of that trust and … hurt you.”

  I look beyond the spotlight for Billy, because I need a friendly face for what I’m about to say.

  “I know a lot of you think that I was stupid. Or that I’m some kind of slut. That whatever happened to me I deserve because I got into the car with this guy. Believe me, it’s something I’ve punished myself for over and over and over again. But

  I’ve learned that I’m a victim of Edmund Schmidt, even though I was dumb enough to get in that car. I’m just grateful that thanks to the hard work of the police and the FBI, I came home safely and I’m alive to tell you this story, unlike the other kids Agent Saunders told you about.

  “And I don’t want any of you to ever have to go through what I’ve gone through. Never. Ever. Which is why, despite having sworn I would never get up onstage in front of people again after passing out and making a fool of myself at the drama auditions, I’m here standing in front of you now. It’s just that important. So, please — be careful. Be safe. Strangers on the Internet aren’t your friends, no matter how well they seem to know you or you think you know them.”

  I take a deep breath and look out into the darkness. At everyone. At all the eyes that are watching me and probably judging me and maybe still thinking that I deserve what I got.

  “Al Franken, a comedian who’s now a senator from Minnesota, said: ‘Mistakes are a part of being human. Appreciate your mistakes for what they are: precious life lessons that can only be learned the hard way. Unless it’s a fatal mistake, which, at least, others can learn from.’ I’m really lucky because my mistake didn’t turn out to be fatal, when it really easily could have. But I hope that, like me, you can all learn from it. Thank you for listening.”

  It’s really quiet after I finish, and I think that I’ve done the impossible — I’ve bored an entire school assembly to death. But then a few people start clapping and then more and — I can’t believe this — people are standing up and applauding me. Actually giving me an ovation. I’m getting cheered in the same school where, for the last six months, I’ve been getting cold-shouldered in the halls, and whispered about, and where someone scratched Slut on my locker.

  I’m not going to cry, but boy, are my eyes getting watery.

  Principal Mullins thanks me, and I get to go offstage, where Faith and Gracie envelop me in a massive great big group bear hug, and Agent Saunders gives me a big grin and tells me I was awesome.

  “Anytime you feel like coming with me to a school, you just let me know,” she says. “Hearing it from you makes a big impact.”

  “Let me wait till my legs stop shaking from doing this talk before I think about doing any more,” I tell her.

  “No problem,” she says. “Well, I’ve got to get my stuff and get back to the office. You take care of yourself, Abby.”

  “I will … and thank you. For everything.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  I know she is just doing her job, but it’s more than that. She really believes in what she’s doing. In trying to keep kids like me safe from creeps like Edmund Schmidt. Which is pretty cool, if you ask me.

  Edmund Schmidt is in jail awaiting trial. I still see him in the nightmares that continue to haunt me, but at least I won’t have to see him in real life. The district attorney’s office said they have enough evidence from the chat logs and all the porn they found on his computer. The forensic evidence that the SANE nurse took during that humiliating exam should be enough to convict him of statutory rape.

  I’m just glad I’ll never have to come face-to-face with him again. If I did, I’d want to ask him one question: WHY? But I also know that there would be no point asking it. Because everything he ever said to me was a lie.

  Billy passes me a note during science the following week.

  Do you want to go to see a movie this weekend?

  I write back:

  It depends. Are we actually going to WATCH the movie?

  He has to smother a snort.

  It depends.

  On what?

  On how good the movie is, duh!

  This time I’m the one who half snorts, half coughs. Ms. Forcier turns around and looks in our direction, like What is going on with you two?

  He grabs the paper from me, writes, then passes it back and looks at me sideways from under his hair.

  Soooooooo? What’s the verdict? Yea or Nay?

  I think for a moment — am I ready for this? Billy’s been so amazing to me. He doesn’t treat me like I’m this defective, freaky girl because of what happened — even if that’s how I feel myself sometimes. And that’s the problem. I’m just afraid that if he kisses me that I’ll think of Luke. Or Edmund as I make myself call him now. That I won’t be able to stop those thoughts coming into my head. I’ve talked about this in my individual sessions with Dr. Binnie a lot — like, am I going to be freaked out about this kind of stuff forever and never be able to live a normal life? She reminded me that recovery is going to be a long, hard road, and that I’ll have good days and bad days. But if I give up, then Edmund Schmidt has won, and I’m not going to let that happen. Never ever. Not on your life.

  Yea, I write in big, bold letters, and slide the note back to Billy.

  When he reads it, he turns to me and smiles.

  Baby steps.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m often asked where I get the inspiration for my novels. The answer in this case is an Internet Safety presentation at my son’s school. Supervisory Special Agent Tom Lawler of the New Haven office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation told me a true story, which sparked a question to which I felt compelled to write the answer. I am indebted to both SSA Lawler and Marybeth R. Miklos of the New Haven FBI office and Linda Wilkins in the Office of Public Affairs at FBI Headquarters, for their extraordinary assistance with the research for this novel.

  I’m deeply grateful to Detective Sergeant (retired) Jim Marr, Sergeant Mark Zuccerella of the Detective Division Special Victims Section, and Police Chief David Ridberg of the Greenwich Police Department for helping me to ensure that the early stages of the investigation and police reports were portrayed as accurately as possible.

  I owe many refreshing beverages and tasty snacks to Karen Ball, Justine Domuracki, Maura Keaney, and Dr. Amy Zabin, who gave me excellent feedback on various phases of the manuscript.

  My apologies to my beloved critique group, led by the ever amazing Diana Klemin, and including fellow scribes Susan Warner, Bill Buschel, Dr. Alan Shulman, Gay Morris, Steve Fondiller, and Tom Mellana (to whom I am a groupie for life for coming up with the title) for all the sleepless nights suffered after our critique group sessions. I promise to write a funny novel about rainbows and fluffy bunnies someday. Well, maybe fluffy anime bunnies.

  Team Scholastic rocks my socks. My amazing editor, Jen Rees, has been a great champion of this book, despite the creepiness factor, because she “got it” right from the beginning. Joy Simpkins, Susan Jeffers Casel, and Starr Mayo were fantastic copyeditors, finding things that I never would have thought of and sparing me serious (and I mean serious) embarrassment. Phil Falco blew me away with the perfectly chilling book design. I’m still waiting to find David Levithan’s kryptonite, because he really IS Superman. Thanks to Lauren Felsenstein and Tracy van Straaten and everyone in publicity, production, sales, and marketing for helping this book make its way out into the world.

  Super Agent Jodi Reamer is living proof that one should never underestimate persons of diminutive size, because they can, quite literally, kick your butt. Thank you for putting up with my periods of authorly angst and reminding me to just keep on writing.

  My kids, Josh and Amie, inspire, teach, and amuse me every day. My sincere apologies for all those creepy books on my b
edside table during the research phase. Smooches, my darlings. I love you to the end of the Universe and back again.

  Hank, I love you and am infinitely grateful for so many things, not least for lending me your convertible to take for a spin and blast Led Zeppelin when I need to clear my head and get inspiration, and for reading this manuscript early enough to catch potential plot flaws. “Whole Lotta Love,” babe.

  For more information about Internet Safety, visit:

  http://wanttogoprivate.com

  http://chezteen.com

  About the Author

  SARAH DARER LITTMAN’S widely praised first novel, Confessions of a Closet Catholic, won the 2006 Sydney Taylor Book Award. She is also the author of Purge and Life, After, a Sydney Taylor Honor Book. In her “grown up” life, Sarah is a columnist for Hearst newspapers and the online site CT News Junkie. She lives in Connecticut with her family. Visit her online at: www.sarahdarerlittman.com.

  Also Available

  Praise for Life, After

  A 2011 Sydney Taylor Honor Book

  “Convincing and absorbing.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Littman catches the voice of teen readers with her spot-on dialogue and realistic situations.”

  The Jewish Journal

  Praise for Purge

  “An intimate and powerful novel.”

  The Stamford Times

  “A fresh voice… Purge is one you won’t want to miss.”

  teensreadtoo.com

  “With an underlying but not heavyhanded message, this may start a few conversations.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Sarah Darer Littman

  Cover design by Phil Falco

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.