@Expectations Page 8

  “In real life!” So she is crazy, Zan thinks. Relieved, she says what Reverdy would want her to say. “After what you did to him? No way!”

  Then these words come up on her screen: Mireya [to zan] “I dropped the bastard because he was two-timing me with you.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “You think.” Mireya laughs. “Do you really believe what he says? Poor bitch!”

  “Shut up.” If Zan flees, Mireya will follow. If she disconnects, she’ll lose Reverdy for the night. She types: page Reverdy Help! The display comes up: Reverdy is not connected.

  “He’s done terrible things here, that you don’t even know about. Sedition. Harassment. Baiting these poor people who…” Mireya doesn’t finish. “I’m getting up a bill of particulars. Pretty soon all thirteen Directors will have it in their queues. Want to know what your lover does when you’re not around?”

  “Don’t even try. Reverdy’s warned me about you.”

  “And you believe him?” The woman won’t quit. “Do you really think you’re the only girl in his life right now? Ever?”

  “Enough!” Reverdy? Hopelessly, Zan types:

  @find reverdy

  The display comes up just as she knew it would:

  Reverdy The Dak Bungalow last disconnect 4/18 3:36 a.m. PST

  “Go away!”

  “No,” Mireya says. “We’re not done. Want to hear the truth about this lover of yours?”

  “No!”

  “Then you’re a fool. A double fool. Refusing my pages. Returning my posts. I have things to tell you. Important things.”

  Then just as Mireya’s about to overwhelm her, Lark comes. Like a superhero, he glides in on silver boots. “STOP THAT!”

  Lark stands before you clothed in silver. Look closely and you may see wings at his heels. He is swifter than lightning and impervious, as if he is made of something more precious than platinum, but try and touch him and he will vanish because his powers make him lighter than air. The costume is a little silly, but it covers a noble heart. He is laughing.

  Hug Lark. It is a relief to see him. “Lark!”

  “Get out,” Mireya growls. “This is private.”

  “Not any more. You’re leaving,” Lark says. He types a string that moves Mireya out of the room.

  Cool, Jenny thinks, sitting at her computer laughing in relief. Bizarre, how real this is. She gives herself a little shake, caught for the moment between two worlds. If only I could move people around like that RL. Get the kids out of the living room when they start fighting. Move Charlie back from Pendleton or Cherry Point or wherever the Marine Corps takes him when I need him most. Takes him in spite of the fact that we got married so we could be together. In Zan’s airy tower on StElene, Lark is grinning too.

  Hug Lark. “Thanks!”

  Lark hugs Zan. “My pleasure.”

  “How did you do that?” She laughs. “You vanished her!”

  “Little trick I know,” Lark says. “When I logged on and saw she was here I knew she was getting in your face. My pleasure.”

  “I couldn’t budge her.” It is a programmatic trick Zan hasn’t mastered. “Show me how?”

  “Happy to. Just copy this verb from me. Then you can type @qmove…” He walks her through the simple formula.

  Cut and paste. She downloads the information and stores it for later. “Mireya. Where’d you put her?”

  “Volcano bowl,” Lark says with the delight of a committed programmer. “My friend LavaKing’s coded a crypt. The Directors liked it, so they jiggered it, which means it’s extra diabolical. It’ll take her hours to get out and before she does…” Lark grins. “I’ll beef up your security.”

  There is a lapse in communication that tells her Lark is typing in extra strings of code to enhance security in her room. Imagine being able to type in a predictable sunrise and moonfall, in your so-called real world, a string that will admit your friends and exclude your enemies. The kid is adding messages that will make it clear to intruders that this is Zan’s private space. My God, Jenny thinks, unless it is Zan thinking. It really is a game. “Brilliant,” Zan says.

  “It’s nothing.” Lark beams. Swashbuckling in the silver superhero costume he’s written for himself, Lark bristles with technical competence. The archetypal, volatile programmer, living out fantasies in a world where he has complete mastery and control. His skill takes him a long way on StElene but does nothing for his life outside the box. He’s nineteen! When he disconnects, Lark has told her in confidence, he’s barely functional. Living people terrify him. He can’t look at them! After the breakdown that put him in the hospital his folks insulated a room in their basement, remote enough to let them ignore his weird habits and crazy hours, close enough so they can keep the lid on him. Then there’s his life here. Gawky and pathologically shy at home, he’s a charming swashbuckler here.

  In the game. Which is so not a game. “Where’s Reverdy?”

  “He’s been delayed. That’s what he sent me to tell you. To beg you to wait.” Then, right here in Zan’s place, Lark loses it. He blurts, “Oh look, Zan. I’m in awful trouble, RL.” In real life.

  “The parents, I bet.” It’s interesting, she thinks. We are who we want to be here, but we’re ourselves, too. She and Lark are close. He opens up to her, dropping the mask so she can see into his misery. It may be because she listens and tries to say the right things. And because he trusts her, because on StElene people love to talk about themselves, Lark tells her everything. Not the first time here that Zan/Jenny has done a little vigilante therapy and watched him bloom. And that’s a rush: working with somebody I can actually help. They pick up in mid-conversation. “You tried my trick for getting used to people but it didn’t work?”

  “It worked, but only for a while. I’m so afraid they’ll yell! I’m scared all the time now, and this. This is so bad.”

  “Oh, Lark. What is it?”

  “It’s nothing. It’s…” He can’t quite tell her. “I’m cool.”

  “Is it the parents?”

  “Again. Geez, Zan, they are so awful. If it wasn’t for you and Rev…” He’s cool, but he isn’t. He blurts: “Dad said that he’s sorry they ever had me.”

  Hug Lark. “That’s terrible.”

  He responds with extraordinary sweetness, “It’s my life.”

  That isn’t a life. In fact, Lark’s real life is here. Zan has never seen him RL but has a picture in her mind: tentative Dickensian waif in a baggy sweater, sleeves hanging to the fingertips and turtleneck pulled up to his chin. “Oh Lark,” she says and because she will do anything to support him she rushes on; unlike Amanda Yerkes, this is somebody she can help. The therapist in her knows not to make promises, but this is Zan, too, and impulsively, she says, “Reverdy and I can’t change your life but you know we love you, Lark, and I promise, we’ll take care of you.”

  @ten

  MIREYA

  In miserably cold Boston, where the lonely typist who calls herself Mireya connects to StElene, snowy drizzle has turned into sleet. The night air is damp and soft in Brevert, South Carolina, where Jenny Wilder lies next to Charlie, feeling too guilty and frustrated and wired to sleep. More than a thousand miles separate the two women, but their lives are about to intersect.

  If Zan should type look at Mireya, this is what she’d see:

  Mireya is slender and elegant but strong, with waist-length blonde hair and a tan that doesn’t stop at the bikini line. Her warm, sexy laugh makes you love her and when she talks the talk, you will follow her anywhere. Color her gorgeous. Your dream woman is here in the room with you, and if you treat her right, you can share the dream. She is capable of great pleasure and amazing insight. Share your hopes with her and she’ll take you places you’ve never been before, but be warned. The pikes on the walls of the fortress are lined with the skulls of Mireya’s enemies. Details? Feel free to ask.

  Carrying:

  Love song from Azeath

  Magic wand

  M
ireya’s cantos

  Locket of revenge: you know who you are

  In real life this typist, who spends too much of her conscious time on StElene, holds none of these things. In her life outside the box, people don’t give this woman a lot of presents. In the movie of her life this person is the homely girlfriend whose function is to make a fuss over the presents men give her gorgeous best friend—except she doesn’t have a best friend, IRL.

  Nor is she any kind of beautiful in spite of the description she has so carefully crafted. In real life she is five foot two if she stands tall and, admit it, she carries a few more pounds than she should, she’s relentlessly plain, no matter how pleasantly she smiles at you. Look closer and you’ll see rage boiling behind the mask. It’s not Mireya’s fault that she got trapped inside this stupid body. Her soul is a lot thinner. The hell of it is, the outside’s the first thing men notice. It takes a special kind of guy to get past the externals and love a woman for herself.

  Mireya isn’t her real name either. Her name is Florence Vito Watson. She got Watson from ex-husband Harry. She’s thinking of getting it changed legally, no firsts, no lasts, just Mireya, the glam. As if that would make the difference. She’s still trapped. Rather: she was trapped, until StElene. StElene has turned the ex-Florence into an escape artist, witty and clever. Glamorous.

  On StElene you see what Mireya wants you to. She can break your heart or rip your head off, whichever is her pleasure. Stuck with a one-year contract teaching English in a suburban junior college, Florence is too good for what she does. On StElene her skill with words takes her a lot farther. In a society built at lightspeed, the fastest typist wins the game. See Florence on the street and pass her without noticing. On StElene, Mireya turns heads.

  This is the power of life in imaginary space. Even Reverdy, who knows Mireya all too well—even Reverdy thinks she’s beautiful. No wonder logging off is like a little death.

  The minutes Florence has to spend offline—eating, sleeping, dealing with students, at the fucking Laundromat—stretch like lifetimes. Off StElene her life is marginal at best. She is miserably in transition. Out of her marriage. About to be out of a job. She is freshly divorced from Harry, who is a full professor at the state university and never lets her forget it. Midterms are in—a million papers to grade—and a sticky wet snow is falling.

  No wonder she’s glued to her computer, shaking with anticipation. Zan’s gone from StElene by this time. If she can be alone with Reverdy … Florence/Mireya is logging on from a city miles away from the house where Jenny Wilder sleeps, but their lives have overlapped. In real life, Florence Vito Watson seems soft-spoken and accommodating, but she is a passive-aggressive, so watch out for her. Jenny doesn’t know it yet, but Zan is in danger.

  Mireya has just connected when the office phone bleats. Frustrated, Florence barks: “What!!!” As on StElene, her lover Azeath greets her with a passionate hug. “What do you want Harry,” she shouts. “Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

  “Don’t bite my head off,” her ex-husband growls.

  On her screen, Azeath’s words dance. “I died waiting for you.”

  She types: “Darling.”

  She also types: @find Reverdy

  Harry says, “Cynthia wants to know when you’re coming to pick up the rest of your stuff.”

  So her heart breaks all over again. Poor Florence tries to sound angry instead of shocked and hurt, which is what she is. And vulnerable. “My stuff! Your new popsy wants to get rid of my stuff?” She hears Cynthia flapping in the background, feeding Harry his lines.

  “Wait a damn minute,” Harry says.

  Azeath senses the trouble RL. “Are you all right?”

  She yells, “Isn’t it enough that she made you get rid of me?”

  As she types to Az, “Thank you for caring. I can handle it.”

  Harry’s voice, when he figures out how to respond, is surprisingly gentle. “Cynnie just wanted to be sure she was out when you came to get it, is all. Spare you the encounter.”

  “It’s that bastard Harry.” Azeath types. “Right?”

  Simmering, she types, “It’s that bastard Harry.”

  “Spare me. Yeah right,” Florence says bitterly. “And you called me to tell me this in the middle of the night?”

  Harry says, “Cynnie was worried. She cares about you.”

  “She what?” Furious, she glances at the screen.

  Azeath is saying, “Dearest. Be cool. At least I’m getting rid of Reverdy. I’d do anything for you.”

  Getting rid of Reverdy! Her heart lurches. “No. Wait!” Juggling both conversations, she types as she roars into the phone: “Fuck you, Harry, don’t you know I’m loved?”

  Azeath types, “Bastard. I can hurt him bad. I’ll make him pay.” Does he mean Reverdy or Harry?

  Wounded, Harry whines, “Cynnie is a caring person, OK? She just thinks having your things here isn’t so good for the…” There is a pause; he says suspiciously, “Are you keyboarding?”

  Unexpected anger flashes. “Well, fuck Cynthia. I’ll get my stuff when I fucking well feel like it. She can wait until she rots.” Florence slams down the phone.

  Azeath has typed: “And Harry. I’ll take care of Harry RL.”

  She types: “I can take care of myself, thanks, Az.” And Mireya disappears deep in life on StElene. Dissembling, she asks Azeath to wait while she does a little electronic housekeeping. He has to quit at eleven. Mysteriously, her handsome lover logs off at eleven every night. Eleven p.m. on the button, sometimes in midsentence. She could write the Directors later, but in the lexicon of revenge, sooner is better. She gets off four quick mails to the Directors accusing Reverdy of things even Reverdy would never do. There is the harassment issue, for one. She’s developing grounds. She posts toxic stories about him on public lists. This is designed to push Reverdy to rage, which is where she wants him.

  Outside, the wet snow splats against her office window in the thickening night. Hundreds of uncorrected exams pile up on her desk and spill onto the floor. The cubicle where Florence sits is filled with the stale residue of student farts and tears and sighs and complaints that have piled up in here for decades and will not dissipate. It’s like being pressed to the bottom of the ocean; escape, Florence, before you’re crushed under the weight of other people’s miseries. Hurry! “Az,” she types. “It’s time. Let’s make love.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes my darling! I touch you there.”

  She says, “Aaaahhh…” And the whole time, she is thinking about Reverdy. She’ll never forgive him for dropping her, but Mireya gets hers. Here’s Azeath typing clumsy, passionate words of love that sort of work plus she has something going with the mysterious player Chaplin, who Azeath doesn’t know about, and there’s the arousing pleasure of being in hate with Reverdy. Anybody who hates me that much is still secretly in love with me.

  Reverdy was Mireya’s first love on StElene, and in the way of first things, the wildest and best. In the same week that she caught Harry with a raunchy little student (Cynthia’s just the latest in a series of skinny college girls), she found StElene. She’d fight with Harry and then log on and take out her aggressions on some unwitting guest. Quick as a wasp and more poisonous, Mireya loves to lay waste and pillage on StElene, typing barbed insults; she knows how to wreck people and make them cry. Pissed at Harry, she could get her rocks off by roaring through the GrandHotel, hunting down the vulnerable. She can take a person apart, word by word. OK, she gets off on it.

  In their final face-to-face, the fight that ended the marriage, Harry said, “I’m sick of living with a hobbit. If you can’t lose weight, at least shave your damn legs.” She wanted to tear Harry apart but she was sobbing too hard. Instead she locked herself in her office and logged on: take it out on somebody here.

  Instead she met Reverdy. Shot a barb at him and discovered she’d met her match. StElene was brand new in those days; they were both new to it. She tried to make him angry; h
e managed to make her laugh. It was his description that seduced her in the long run, forget Schwarzenegger biceps and action-hero capes. It was beautifully simple: Reverdy is not what he seems. Yes!

  Her mind filled in the blanks. It was love! Understand, the man in your mind is always a better lover than the man in your bed.

  Their first night together she repeated, “Reverdy is not what he seems?”

  “Exactly.” Even his smile was mysterious.

  “So you are who I think you are.” She corrected herself. Mireya is not stupid. “I mean, you are whoever I think?”

  “You’re very quick.” He laughed. Then he delivered the clincher. “I admire that. But remember. Reverdy is not what he seems.”

  “I don’t care!” Flirting with danger, Mireya almost told the truth. “Neither am I.”

  But Reverdy had already found her deepest place. “Do you know what drew me to you?”

  “No, what?”

  “Your intelligence.”

  Bingo. It was glorious. Breaking up with Harry had turned her days into shit. Her nights were something else.

  Their love was perfect for her at the time. “I don’t care what you look like,” Reverdy told her, “you’ll always be beautiful to me. And besides—” this is how close they were. He admitted, “You wouldn’t want to meet me in a dark alley. I’m a little scary looking myself.”

  Mireya imagined him as the Beast, magnificently craggy—what was it the French called a massively ugly person—beau laid. She confessed, “OK, I’m kind of short, truth to tell. And my eyes are…” She couldn’t bring herself to admit her eyes are too small in this fat face.

  “But you’re beautiful inside.” He left her smiling, smiling! “We are both beautiful inside.”

  They began by quoting poetry and ended exploring the nature of love. It’s philosophical, Florence—no, Mireya—told herself. Simply philosophical. We aren’t even touching. Except the talk slid into talk of sex that somehow mysteriously turned into sex of an odd but powerful kind, and in the strange intimacy of a space where they are unseen she and Reverdy grew ravenous and devoured each other, word by word.