Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

  “If you are going to bust these people, you had best be strong enough to at least look at this.”

  Angelica is right. First glance reveals a very nicely done site. I’m impressed with myself. That is, until I start reading the headings and subtitles cruisers can click on:

  My favorite foods

  My favorite dates ever

  What I want in a man

  What I hate about wimps

  My daily deep thoughts about life and love

  Photos of Mari on Mount Everest

  Photos of Mari in the Caribbean shark hunting

  Photos of Mari skydiving

  My top ten books

  My daily activity log created by my fan club president

  Write me

  Wear my promotional T-shirt

  Favorite prints for sale

  Top ten romantic places in Tucson

  Why I inherit a million if I’m married before 30

  “Well, they are clever. Look at that last one. I might even marry you for a million.” Lysa skims these and randomly pulls up the categories. When she gets to the photos, the evidence of digital editing is obvious only because I know I have not scaled mountains and danced in Zimbabwe. Pages from art and outdoorsman magazines have been scanned. A cutout of Cecilia’s face is pasted atop whatever body is in motion.

  “Okay, can we trace who is updating this account?” Angelica sits on the desk the way they do in the movies and takes charge of the investigation.

  “Well, someone with more expertise should be able to trace a few of these entries. Like this daily log of Mari’s activities. This person wrote in almost every week, so the link should be traceable. We should contact Rae.”

  “Rae!” I shout in her ear. The one she is now holding as she rocks back and forth in pain.

  “Mari, you can’t do a private bust. To close down this operation, you need Rae’s authority. What did you think you were going to do?”

  She got me. I have no idea. “I just found out that I am living this double life, so I had no plan.” I pace in the small room and wish I had asked for a cup of tar with sugar and cream earlier. “She will find a way to turn this against me. I know she will.”

  “Does it matter, Mari? I mean, at this point?” Sadie comes over to give me a sideways hug.

  “No. Thank you for the perspective. You are right…it doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe you should put up your own picture and keep this site. Maybe the right guy is already on this list.” Caitlin wears her heart on her naive sleeve.

  “Negatory.” Reminiscent of those war movie scenes where the president orders that final red button to be pushed, I tell Lysa, “Do it. Call Rae.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As we wait for Rae to show up, Lysa verifies that Chet, Maggie, and Sally are all part of this plot to expose me to the dating world. We figure out that the primary contributor who submits my activity log is referenced by others as the fan club president. But that is as far as we can get.

  “While we are waiting, could we pull up the Botanical Society’s page? I posted a promotion for the Stargazer Gala.” Sadie types in the name.

  We read all about the telescope and the rare plants that have been placed in the center of a star-shaped garden until we see what Sadie was likely focused on. There is a small image of Carson followed by a brief bio. He is very distinguished looking with a kind smile.

  “Wow. He’s a looker.” Angelica compliments as she knows how, but it has an edge that makes Sadie only half smile.

  “He looks compassionate…and strong. Nice combination,” I say.

  “I can see you and him together forever,” Caitlin offers, sounding a lot like Tess and her visions of me and Beau.

  Beau.

  We hear Rae breathing before her large knuckles hit the door. She is in sweats, and it surprises Lysa and me enough to make us giggle. We hope she has been exercising because her face is beet red and frightfully puffy.

  We show her the evidence, and to her credit she seems mortified by its existence. That makes me feel a bit better and safer.

  “I really don’t know how you bring a stop to this kind of slander. Should we contact the company that runs the server? Maybe they could be sure we block any and all access to my personal information.”

  “No!” Puffy face does not want that kind of attention brought to this place under her watch.

  “I love these residents as much as you do, Rae…” I assign human sentiment to this typically unfeeling supervisor so she will like me, “but they are giving out my address and phone number. It’s amazing that I haven’t had men come by my apartment.”

  She won’t budge. “No. I said no. What if that triggered police involvement? We’ll handle this situation ourselves. Chet will cancel the site immediately and give me the names of all those involved.” She sends Lysa to round up the main culprits and continues to peruse the site. “They certainly have imagination, don’t they? Cecilia Jade!” She cackles at this comparison.

  That safe feeling I was getting….gone. Very gone.

  As the guilty parties file into the hallway space outside of the office, an impromptu perp lineup takes place. I glare at each person as if on the other side of a one-way mirror. Only Chet is making eye contact with me. His tufts of gray hair on either side of his large, shiny head give him the appearance of an owl.

  “We just thought we’d help, Mari. We think the world of you and want you to find love and…”

  “Stop right there.” I wave away this line of reasoning. “This is a violation of my privacy and my life. You have no right to do this just so you can win the bet.”

  “Did you bring this to an end?” He asks Rae bitterly. Their eyes meet, and I sense there are more words exchanged within that look.

  “Yes, I did. This is completely out of line, Chet, and out of character for you two, Maggie and Sally. I cannot believe you would take it this far. Mari was ready to press charges and close Golden Horizons down for good. I had to talk her out of it.”

  “Wait a minute! That isn’t true.” I counter her, but the rumor is already out there. I’ll never get back into the good graces of the residents if they think I tried to take their home away. Nice twist, Rae. Now, no matter what, she is the one who has tried to save the day.

  Maggie and Sally start to cry. What a mess.

  Chet is seated at the computer and reluctantly pulling up the site specs. When I ask him about the outside contributor, he shrugs.

  “Spill the beans, Chet, or you will lose your courtyard and matinee privileges.” I am stepping up because Rae has taken a backseat all of a sudden. Chet has something on her, I can tell.

  “Give us that daily log keeper’s info, and then, while you are there, pull up the list of everyone who has placed bets.” I know I am right when I see Rae’s crimson cheeks turn pale and pasty.

  “Gladly.” He sits upright and types in a few key words for a search. Within seconds a long list of names is called up onto the screen.

  “We don’t even have that many residents.”

  Chet laughs a master-of-the-universe, guttural laugh. “We went global. See.” He points to the small pink letters by each person’s name, indicating which country they live in. Some names are accompanied by an icon of a camera. We click on one and it shows two young Japanese men holding up a sign that reads “Mari rocks our world. Beautiful American woman we hope to marry you.” They are wearing the “Will you Mari me?” T-shirt from the site with their torn jeans. Each holds a flower in their teeth.

  “No!” This goes beyond surreal. I thank God my real picture was not used. I can always change my name, but plastic surgery is definitely beyond my budget.

  “I have to say, I’m impressed with how well done this site is.” Angelica nods her approval until I cock my head sideways and give her my “that’s enough” scowl.

  “Thank you. You’re quite a smart and pretty young lady.” Chet is still a mover and a shaker. He recognizes a kindred spirit in Angelica
.

  “Chet, stay with me. Who is this fan club president?”

  “Here it is. All that we know, anyway. This is not someone who was in on the creation of the site. They just started adding great info. We all thought it helped the site, so we never questioned whom it might be.”

  I am shaking my head in amazement as a screen name appears against a black background. Bright cursive letters display “Yvette101.”

  “Well, that isn’t much help,” Sadie surmises.

  But it is something about the curve of that Y that brings to mind a fabric version of the letter. My strange neighbor’s sweater-clad chest flashes before my eyes.

  That’s it.

  Another piece of the puzzle has just settled into place. I motion for the girls to follow me out. “Rae, I am going to check on this site, and if it still exists in one hour, I’m calling the police.”

  “Where are we going?” Caitlin asks but doesn’t care. She’s loving the action.

  “We aren’t going anywhere. I have some personal research to do.”

  Everyone except Caitlin, who grew up reading Nancy Drew mysteries, is glad to conclude this chapter of today’s adventure. Sadie has a date soon and Angelica really wasn’t as interested in resolving the situation as she was in springing it on me and watching my reaction; which, it turns out, has not only been emotional but physical. I’m breaking out in hives all over my face, neck, and chest.

  “Is this stress or something from the walk?” I ask the others as I scratch my chin.

  “We went where you went and we look normal. Enough said?” Angelica offers.

  “What do you think, Caitlin?” I ask my nice friend directly.

  “I think it’s a good thing they used Cecilia.” And only because it was Caitlin and not Angelical who made this joke, I laugh. I laugh until my hives sting and my sides ache. What else can a girl do when she realizes that her lack of a social life has been made globally public?

  What else can I do when Russian men are using money they earned by selling a milk cow to bet that I will not find love for three to five years?

  Laugh and pray it all goes away.

  The Why Behind Y

  Casually I wave to the landlord as he rakes invisible leaves. I have always suspected that he watches for renters with cable to leave so he can watch ESPN or the cooking channel. He picks up his shears and moves to the side yard to trim the shrubs, and I make my move over to Yvette’s unit. I realize I have stumbled over her name because the initial sound is that of “E” not “Y.” How trick-e.

  Her sole window is level with the sidewalk. From my crouched position I can see worn, ugly linoleum the color of sludge running beneath a thirdhand table. There are books beneath two of its legs to keep it level for the computer and the short stack of dishes that burden it. Yvette passes just below the window and I pull back. Flattened against the stucco exterior wall, I realize that my body is casting shadows into her one room. I step over the length of the window to the other side. Dozens and dozens of flowers fill vases, many of which are mine, and cups, buckets, and the rust-stained sink. Lots of them are past their prime, and Yvette is gathering the dead leaves and petals into a paper bag. These endless bouquets are proof of her involvement with my site, though I hadn’t expected the direct link to the bizarre phone calls.

  Why would someone concoct such a scheme to get flowers from strange men?

  I rap on the window and a startled Y looks up into the shaft of sunlight. I wave but she does not know who it is. I hear her release the chain lock and wait a moment for her to peek her head around the corner.

  “Mari!” She swallows big and makes a Donald Duck sort of quack.

  Watching her squirm is not as satisfactory as I had imagined.

  “Yvette. Yvette. It’s so good to see you. I was just passing by and thought I would ask if I could get a couple vases back. Out of the blue I received a ton of flowers. And a big platter of sushi from some guys in Japan. It’s the weirdest thing.” I pause to see if she will understand that I am on to her.

  She closes the front door behind her and spends a moment figuring out a plan, an excuse, a distraction. “I could bring you some later today. I…they’re kind of full right now. Would this afternoon be okay?”

  Though it goes completely against my initial mood, I’m feeling nothing but compassion toward her. Here’s a girl who spends hours on end in a one-room closet with a chair, a lopsided table that holds her computer and a few plates, and a rickety cot. Her only decor and view are posters that promote skateboard parks and software.

  “Do you work with computers for a living?”

  I think back to when her father carried those large, heavy boxes that must have been filled with cables, monitors, hard drives, and other tools used to pry into another person’s life.

  The rise and fall of her adam’s apple gives away her self-conviction. “Yes. I design purchase sites for retailers.”

  Of course.

  I typically avoid confrontation, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my time living in these apartments avoiding her. “Yvette, I know about the postings on my site. That you have been discussing my life with total strangers.”

  Her eyes grow big and her hand goes to the doorknob. “Oh,” she says meekly.

  I wait for an explanation that doesn’t come.

  “How did you even find out about the site? This is all so strange.”

  “After we met, I did an online search of your name. It’s a habit of mine. I search anyone I meet. I figured I would see mostly the usual…any appearances in the daily paper, any arrests…”

  “Arrests!”

  “Well, anything that is public record. But then I see several sites with your blog listed and wham! It didn’t take long to see that most of this site was falsified, but the posted snail-mail address was yours.” She shrugs and giggles. “Cecilia Jade. That made me laugh.”

  “And the flowers?”

  She shrugs again. “After a few conversations with you, I figured that the site was not your doing. And I don’t know anyone around here, so I went online and started chatting with folks at your blog-turned-site.”

  “And the flowers?” My patience is thinning.

  “Look at this place. I barely get any light. It’s a gopher hole. Where I used to live, with my mom, we had a huge garden. I missed the colors, so I started to mention your floral preferences.”

  “But how’d you manage to…?”

  “I said you could only receive deliveries on Tuesdays.”

  “The day I stay late at work. Smart. Then you would just sign for them.” I feel as though I am reciting the closing scene of a Scooby-Doo episode. “I have been plagued by weird men calling me!”

  Yvette’s small hand rises to cover her mouth. She is shaking. “I am so sorry. They must have looked up your number. I never gave it out…promise. Oh, Mari. I hope you didn’t get frightened by anyone.”

  I decide to leave out my many fearful visions of Sal, Warren, Ken, and the others. “No, but I was starting to wonder who was out to get me.”

  “You know that first day I came by to borrow a vase…I almost told you everything. But you were acting sort of strange, and I thought maybe you already knew and were mad at me. I stopped interfering with the site after that.”

  Her confession evokes my compassion once again. How could anyone stay mad at the girl with Y on her chest?

  A big idea sprints into my mind. Maybe I could interfere in her life. “I want you to come to my place tomorrow night. Say, around seven? I’m having a couple friends over, and I’d love to have you join us.”

  Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. The back of her hand pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose so they can slide back down. It’s the first time that I notice more than the Y or the distant look of preoccupation on her face. She has beautiful eyes with rich, thick lashes. Like Caitlin, she is a fortunate soul born with the look of eye liner and mascara.

  “Yeah. That’d be okay. You aren’t mad?”


  “I won’t have the SWAT team waiting or anything. I’ve wanted to invite you over several times before. Why not start off on a new foot?”

  “Okay, see ya. Thanks.” She opens the door with her hand behind her back and promptly ducks into her cubbyhole.

  The girl doesn’t have to pretend to be me to find happiness. God only knows I am struggling with that objective. But she does need something I do have—friends.

  I spend the afternoon tidying my apartment as a way to control some kind of mess in my life. I keep the television on for company, though this isn’t necessary because every half hour I get calls from my concerned friends. Incuding one from Angelica, who says she printed the entire website in case I need to go to the police.

  Then the call from Rae, who sounds puffy and full of whatever it is she uses to keep her meanness afloat. “The deed is done per your request, Mari. I’m so appalled that you threatened this place. You talk so much of service, but when push comes to shove, you only care about yourself. Don’t think I don’t know about the résumés you have circulating.” She pauses to breathe her heavy breath pattern.

  I take in her toxic words because she reinforces the question I ask of myself: Are my efforts all about me?

  Even during this unpleasant stay in the state of guilt, I recognize that Rae’s next line is undoubtedly all about her.

  “You don’t know the meaning of service.”

  She huffs and she puffs.

  And she blows my little job away.

  Phone Home

  I spend the next morning in a haze of uncertainty. I don’t know if I really lost my job or if Rae was just letting off steam. Either way, I stay home. If she didn’t mean it, let her sweat it out. If she did, I have little desire to step onto the premises and give her a chance to reinforce her decision in front of God and everyone. Yes, I have fantasized about such a confrontation, but when such an opportunity is real enough to taste, only the bitter is guaranteed, never the sweet.