Crazy Stalker

Chapter 21 - You Can Never Escape the Internet

Chapter 21 - You Can Never Escape the Internet

THREE WEEKS later, I go to my OBGYN to get everything checked out. I know that Jake said that the condom didn't slip, but I decide to go to be extra sure. Brooks is hosting a party at her house, and I can't wait to go there with Nick.

We're going to take an overnight trip to the tip of Long Island, and Nick says I can stay over at his family's summer home. I decide that means we'll finally be alone. There is a very good chance that I'm going to sleep with Nick while I'm there.

I want to do it right this time.

I meet Nick at Penn Station the following Saturday after my OBGYN appointment. Monday is Columbus Day, which is a school holiday.  We have a three-day weekend to hang out in Nick's parents' house in Montauk. Nick is wearing a baby blue Polo shirt with the collar haphazardly popped up. Underneath that, he is sporting ripped snow-white shorts. I like it. It's like he's a mash-up of a Soho hipster and a yacht-hopping trust fund bro.

The only thing that I found in my closet that looked remotely stylish is a satin H&M vest. I have it on now as we get ice cream from Zaro's in Penn Station. I get the vanilla with cherries in it though I definitely no longer have my cherry. But Nick doesn't know that. He must think I'm some good-girl virgin. That must be why he hasn't made a move on me. That must be it, right?

I hope so. I hope Nick hasn't been holding back because he thinks of me as a friend.

I wonder if I should have packed some short butt baring shorts or shirts with cleavage down to my belly button.

"Nice mug," Nick says when he notices my Starbucks Thermo tucked into the side pocket of my Jansport. I use it to hold my water because disposable water bottles in NYC are expensive. At first, I am pleased because my Tumbler is cool as heck. It is monochrome in a New Yorker kind of way, and on the side, it has a torch from the Statue of Liberty. I bought it last year when my friends from Queens and I took a Times Square trip to see an off-broadway show.

I was just a tourist back then; now, I get to pass by Times Square every day. I get to live here, in this city, and now I'm dating a guy with an apartment on the UES and a second home in the Hamptons. I'm so blown away by the magnitude of this moment that I don't even stop to think. If I did, I would have realized that out of all the things he could have complimented — from my impeccable make-up (and my fishtail mascara that I woke at 6 to apply) to my artfully chosen outfit (this satin vest makes my boobs look bigger even though the rest of the outfit says nerdy librarian) — Nick chose to compliment my dumb coffee mug.

"Thanks," I say and blush. "It's just a thing I got from the Starbucks near our school."

"Looks really . . .handy," Nick says as he stops at a kiosk to buy our tickets to Montauk. The train platform is nearly empty because this isn't the peak beach season. We're only going there because Nick's friend Charles' parents are out of town, and everyone has promised their parents that we are all going to a party chaperoned by Charles' parents.

We get into the LIRR and find seats in the middle, away from the sticky beer disaster in the seats by the bathroom. The LIRR is always a mess on Saturday morning after the drunken Friday night crowd has spilled their drinks all over the floor.

Nick gives me ample room by the window. He has a schoolbag with him that looks way too deflated to be carrying anything of substance. He pulls out an iPad to read his notes from class. He must take this train so often that he doesn't even care to see the sights go by anymore. I pretend to study too, as though I too take the train to the Hamptons every weekend.

Secretly, I'm about to burst with excitement.

I've never gone to a party quite like this before. Around this time last year, back in Queens, I considered grabbing chocolate milkshakes at the diner behind the expressway gas station to be the pinnacle of birthday party festivities.

As the train pulls away from the station, I get a message on my phone through Gchat.

"Are you dating YouAreAllLosers?" YouAreAllLosers is Jake's Twitter handle.

It's BunnyMelissa again. She's one of the few people who I let private message me through my Gmail account. Bunny wouldn't message me if it weren't urgent. Ever since this stalker business started, I've been too scared to check my fan mail, my Twitter comments, or even to write. Deep down, I have a gut feeling that if I just stay silent, this stalker will lose interest and go away.

Jake doesn't think so. He is taking a more active role in tracking this monster down. I guess he can't help but poke back even as it seems like the bear isn't as excited about tracking me down as he or she was three weeks ago. The prank calls have died down, but the mysterious texts still appear now and then. Just the other week, I got an eggplant emoji during Math class from an unknown number. I'm starting to think this stalker is a man. What kind of a girl would text something like that?

"No," I text back and make a face. "Gross. I don't even know him. Why do you think that?"

"He liked your post, and you liked it back on Twitter."

"So what? I like things all the time."

"Not things that nobodies like the Loser guy posts."

Okay, that is true. I am losing my mind with all these stalkers. I'm actually friends with Jake Villin now because he's the only one who knows what's happening to me online.

"Are you guys a couple?" BunnyMelissa continues. "Are you, are you, are you?"

"Maybe," I reply and sign out of the chat. I lean my head against the splotchy, dusty window and watch most of Queens fly by. Nick is busy taking notes with his finger on his iPad, and I don't know what to think.

As I lean against the window, my phone starts to vibrate. I glance down on it despite my resolve not to stalk my phone the entire weekend. I nearly choke on my spit.

It's a picture of me through the blurry train window as we headed out of Penn Station.

I glance around the nearly empty train, and I don't see a single person who I could easily pinpoint as a crazy internet stalker. They all look like bored businesspeople going home or old ladies on their way to take their grandkids to the Long Island Aquarium. Also, the photo was taken through the glass, on the platform. The person who took the photo could have been anyone in Penn Station.

Underneath the photo — there is a single line of text.

I SEE YOU

Who Is This? I text back furiously, but the text bounces back to me.

Sender not found the message says.