Sarai Walker - Dietland

A QUIET SETTLED OVER CALLIOPE HOUSE the day after the Jennifer revelations became public, as if we were holding a moment of silence for the mother who’d lost her daughter, which was at the root of everything. The story was still taking shape; some questions were answered, but many others remained. Information about Soledad stuffed the papers and airwaves, much of it speculation. There was no news about Leeta, but she hadn’t been lying when she told her roommate she knew the identity of Jennifer.

After a morning engrossed in the news, I had the kitchen to myself in the afternoon. I slid a tray of cupcake batter into the oven. That Leeta was connected to me and also to Jennifer—Soledad—was unreal. I didn’t know how to think about something that was so far removed from anything I’d experienced. For the rest of the day I wanted to pretend that they didn’t exist, but as I went through the messages in my inbox, I discovered I didn’t have that option.

The messages were mostly from new girls who’d sent their addresses, requesting books. One girl suggested a high school edition of Fuckability Theory, an idea I said I would pass on to Marlowe, amused at the thought of her replacing every occurrence of fuck and its variations.

Working my way to the top of the inbox, I found two names I recognized, Hannah and Jasmine. They’d written several times to discuss Marlowe’s book, so it wasn’t unusual to see email from them in my inbox, but these messages were different. The girls explained that they’d received weird correspondence in recent days, each time from a different, vague email address, with subject headings such as “Revolution!” and “Rise Up!” In one of the messages, the girls were advised to cancel their subscriptions to Daisy Chain and donate the money to Reproductive Justice, a nonprofit group. In another, they were encouraged to skip school and engage in acts of civil disobedience. Hannah forwarded the most recent one to me:

From: account7

To: Hannah_hannaH

Subject: Fight Back!

The police and the “justice” system don’t take violence against women and girls seriously. If you’ve been assaulted or harassed, take the law into your own hands. Form vigilante groups with other girls. Sign up for self-defense classes, but don’t just use the skills defensively. Go on the offensive!

Hannah wanted to know if these messages were from me. “Oh my God,” I said under my breath, slamming my laptop shut. I recalled Julia’s response when I asked her why Leeta wanted the spreadsheet: Maybe Jennifer’s army is looking for new recruits. No. I scoffed at my own wild thoughts. I was becoming paranoid like Julia.

And yet, something nagged at me.

As a woman being hunted by the FBI, Soledad had better things to do than email Kitty’s readers, but her network was large and Leeta was out there somewhere. Maybe someone in the group wanted to reach out to these girls—at the heart of “Jennifer” was Soledad’s own lost girl. There was a certain degree of logic to it. I wondered if this could be traced back to me or to Julia, and what would happen if it was.

“What’s burning?” Sana was standing in the doorway, next to the refrigerator. I didn’t know how long she’d been there watching my rising panic. I’d forgotten about my cupcakes and now opened the oven, a gush of smoke blinding me. I slid the pan of charred cakes onto the stovetop.

“Are you all right?” Sana said, a question she asked too often and not without reason. We were still slightly awkward with each other the day after our argument.

“I have a lot on my mind, you know, with all the stuff in the news.” I used a knife to flick off the burned top of a cupcake, then pinched a chunk of the moist part underneath, blew on it, and ate it. I was hungry and I didn’t want to face Sana, so I stuffed my mouth. She took the tray away from me and dumped the cakes in the trash.

“Things aren’t so dire that we have to eat ruined food, are they?”

I licked the crumbs from my lips. She was waiting for me to say something, to explain why I was acting odd, but I would have to lie and I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t tell her about the messages until I had more time to think about the situation. If I mentioned it to Sana it would become a brouhaha, and I couldn’t deal with that. I needed to keep a lid on this and Julia’s book and my suspicions about her. The lid on the pot was already rattling, about to blow off. Everything I worried about was linked to Julia.

“I’m still concerned about you,” Sana said. “I’m just putting that out there, into the universe.”

I wrapped my arms around her, squeezing her tight, hoping this would convey how much I appreciated her. She squeezed me back. I rested my cheek against her shoulder, the yellow of her blouse and the citrus scent of her soap transporting me away from this kitchen and away from thoughts of Jennifer, to somewhere simpler, like the lemon trees in my mother’s yard. I was reluctant to let go of Sana and this reverie. We continued to embrace, no line between us. “I’m sorry I haven’t been myself lately,” I said, but this wasn’t entirely true—I didn’t know what it meant to be myself anymore.

When the hug ended, she didn’t push me to say anything more, even though I knew that’s what she wanted. She left the kitchen and returned to her desk, leaving me alone, my laptop on the table, unavoidable. I would have to open it again.

From: PlumK

To: JuliaCole

Subject: SOS

Julia,

I need to speak with you urgently. DO NOT IGNORE THIS MESSAGE!

—PK

Within minutes, I received a reply—an indication that something was wrong.

From: JuliaCole

To: PlumK

Subject: Re: SOS

Let’s meet tonight at Café Rose. 10:00. I need another favor.

J.

Of course.

When I arrived at Café Rose, Julia was sitting at a table in a back corner, drinking espresso despite the late hour. She was the Austen version of herself, with flawless makeup and straight hair, pale skin, boots with heels. I couldn’t see what she was wearing underneath the trench coat, but I assumed it was her Austen uniform. I thought of her chest under that fabric, covered in roses and thorns.

“What’s with the eye makeup?” she said when I sat down. “Taking beauty tips from our favorite fugitive, are we? That would make a great article for Daisy Chain. ‘Get the Jennifer look!’”

I was conscious of the server hovering nearby. “The T-shirt already exists, so why not?” I said quietly.

“Jennifer as fashion statement, stripped of all the violence and bloodshed, available at Neiman Marcus.”

“Camo will be in style soon.”

“No doubt.”

This banter seemed to be a relief for both of us. The server requested my order and when she was out of earshot, Julia and I both leaned in. “Someone is emailing Daisy Chain readers, telling them to revolt and rise up,” I whispered.

“It’s not a problem,” she whispered back. When the server appeared with my wine, Julia and I straightened up, smiling at her pleasantly. I took a drink slowly, peeking at Julia over the rim of my glass.

When we were alone at the back of the café again, Julia continued, explaining that the Austen network had been under sustained attack for weeks. “Email accounts have been hacked, subscriber information downloaded, everything. This works to our advantage. They will never connect those email addresses back to you and me. Don’t worry.”

I relaxed a bit, taking another sip. “But I’ve been emailing the same girls on my own. It might seem like an unbelievable coincidence.”

“There’s nothing criminal about that. You worked at Austen for years. You developed a connection with the girls, blah blah blah. Trust me, this is the least of our worries.” That phrase— our worries —was loaded with meaning. I didn’t know why I was included in it.