Going Vintage (2 page)

The Asian part is half real, from his dad’s side, but the amazing part I’m starting to doubt. Karate? I don’t think he can even do a judo chop. I have no clue why he’s virtually living in a walk-up in Greenwich Village when he’s always said he wants to leave California for Canada, where people love hockey as much as he does. And who cares where he fake lives when that leather-clad lacrosse cartoon is on his arm?

One word pops out among the list of fake favorites.
Married
. For a moment, a tiny hopeful second, I’m flattered that he’s carried me over to Bizarro-World. And then I know. BubbleYum is his main squeeze.

My boyfriend is cheating on me with a cyberwife.

Chapter 2

Jeremy’s
(Fake)
Profile Information

MARRIED

Lives in Greenwich Village, NY

Profession:
Professional Portrait Artist and Freelance Graphic Designer

Black Belt in Karate

Favorite movie:
Anything martial arts

Favorite music:
Techno

Level:
Advanced Lifer

I could click around and talk to this BubbleYum person using Jeremy’s avatar, but I’m sidetracked by his in-box, bulging with e-mails from his corseted wife. I pause for a moment before clicking on the messages. Do I want to read this? Of course I don’t. Of course I do.

My hand shakes as I scroll through the trail of words—secrets, confessions, fears. Is this what shock feels like? Like I’ve jumped out of my body and I’m watching this moment happen, but it’s not my moment, it’s not
my
boyfriend saying those things to another girl. It’s someone else somewhere else, maybe in a movie playing for an entire theater of viewers rolling their eyes because everyone saw this coming. Everyone except that poor girl in front of the computer.

But it is my moment. This is happening to
me
. It’s real—authentic, so much more so than this stupid game. I read and read, imprinting that earth-shattering moment into my consciousness until a machete can’t even hack it out of my brain.

Bubs,

I missed you today. And your new profile page makes me so happy. I like all the pictures you added of us—we’re a good-looking couple. There was this song at the grocery store. Maybe James Taylor? I don’t know oldies. But the line is “And if I’m feeling down and blue, or troubled by some foolish game, she always seems to make me change my mind.” Babe, I can’t tell you how much you mean to me. Ha! I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true.

Looks like our puppy is growing into a big old dog. Stop feeding him the expensive dog chow, LOL! I’ve got to put in some extra time in the art studio tonight, but maybe you can come in and watch me paint? Or I can paint a picture of you. I want to start studying nudes.

—AA

Jeremy, I mean, AMAZING,

I looked it up. That’s totally James Taylor. You need to go to some hipper grocery stores.
All the songs that make me think of you have really heavy, intense beats. Not to say I don’t like a good love song, but you’re bigger than that. Bolder. And nudes, hmmm? I’m listening.

Sorry about Snoopdoggie! I just can’t tell him no when he gives me that look. And thanks for taking out the trash. You’re the best hubby around.

You know what else makes me think of you? Everything. I wish I could jump into the computer forever.

Love,

Yum

Everything
. Everything out there reminds this girl in a wired box about my boyfriend. She’s thinking about him and … he’s thinking about her. How dare they. Both of them.

I don’t read all the messages. There’s too many and not enough time. Besides, what I see is enough to make me ill. The talk isn’t dirty or about sicko fetish fantasies. This is worse. They talk about
everything
. The day—both the one they had invented together and what was happening in the real world. No mention of Jeremy’s ACTUAL girlfriend, though. I am invisible in this alternative world.

Eating Pizza Hut is suddenly not a good idea. Agreeing to write Jeremy’s paper isn’t a good idea. Being here, in his room, twirling in this chair where Jeremy sits daily to construct his
fantasy world that is Mallory-free makes me feel like a freaking idiot.

The big question rushing through my ears: Why did he need this?

And the other question—that harsh, scratchy whisper: Why wasn’t I enough?

And then it’s just a tide, surging along, where every single interaction I’ve ever had, every kiss, every joke, every truth becomes a wobbly question mark.

Do I need to hack into his real e-mail, check all his phone texts?

Who is this girl, moving in on someone in a relationship? Does she even know he’s in a relationship?

Is this make-believe, or is something physical going on?

Does she live nearby? Do they have secret rendezvous?

Eww. Did they cyberconsummate their virtual marriage?

How can some girl, real or unreal, close or far, know Jeremy better than I do? The same boy who I’ve been with for thirteen months, the same boy I was,
I am
, in love with?

“It’s mild salsa.” Jeremy’s standing in the doorway, chips under his arm, salsa and a Diet Coke in each hand. “And I got you some gum. You know, for after.”

Right. Because after, he wants to hook up some more.

Since Jeremy can’t see the screen from where he’s standing, I make a snap decision and shrink the page so all that is visible is a blank Word document. I walk around the desk, still amazed at the out-of-body feeling, like everything’s all floating or slow motion. How can this even be real? When I take
the snack from him, I make sure my still-shaking fingers don’t touch his. “Thanks,” I say. The word is gravel on my tongue.

He flops down on his bed. I bite into a chip but don’t chew, so when I swallow, it pokes at my throat.

“Did you start on Herbert?” he asks.

“Who is Herbert?”

“Our paper.”

“
Hunter
.” I can’t help the shrillness in my voice. “You don’t even care enough to remember his name.”

“Okaaaay.” He pushes his hair out of his face. His adorable, floppy Action Hair. I love it. I hate it. “I didn’t know you were so attached.”

“Some people still value loyalty,” I say.

“Are we still talking about my philosophy paper?”

“Are we?” Now is the time when I should confront him. Ask all the questions pinpricking my skin. And as much as I want to, I also don’t want to hear his rationalization, or see him get annoyed/anxious/defensive. Or worse, calm. What if he’s Mr. Supercalm and Collected, I’m Glad You Know, It’s Best This Way?

I want him to know that I know, but I don’t want to know anything. I don’t want there to be anything
to
know.

“If you don’t want to work on it now, you can e-mail it to me tomorrow when you’re done packing your grandma’s house.” My heart drops when he says
e-mail
, all casual, like e-mails are everyday forms of communication and not vessels for relationship destruction.

“Maybe I’ll do that,” I say faintly.

In one fluid motion, he yanks me onto the bed with him. My skin, burning with want only minutes ago, is icy from his touch.

“So what are we going to do the rest of the afternoon, then?” He grins.

I squeeze my nails into the palm of my hand. I’m nauseous from his closeness, disgusted with this stranger. “I need milk.”

“What?”

“Milk. You didn’t bring me milk.”

Jeremy rubs the small of my back. “You said you only want milk if it’s hot salsa.”

“Changed my mind.” I squirm away from him.

“You’re good at that.”

So are you.

He stands. “Be right back. Anything else?”

I shake my head. Jeremy asking what I want, offering me anything at all, is more fake than his virtual trip to Mount Rushmore. He doesn’t care about me. I’m his warm body. I’m not the one he’s thinking about when a James Taylor song comes on in the unhip (who says
hip
?) grocery store.

The second he’s gone, I’m back on his computer, feeling another wave of hurt when I see the page. Part of me hoped the information would disappear. I enter his “world” by zooming in on a little arrow hovering over the map. Fake Jeremy is listening to music in his New York bedroom, lying on a bedspread that I’m guessing his wife picked out. Maybe he’s waiting for her so they can whisper stupid song lyrics to each other.

I click on a book and chuck it at his head. His icon starts to bleed. I laugh. This game
is
addictive.

But that’s not enough. I want to hurt him like he hurt me.

I click onto his account settings, to the list of applications. Authentic Life has more than one version, and I don’t have time to erase them all. That’s okay. What I really want is for him to know I was here. I want
her
to know I was here.

I replace his BubbleYum profile picture with the one of Jeremy and me by the pool. I erase the MARRIED part and add CONFUSED. And because
confused
isn’t accurate enough, because I really want things to hit home, I leave his Authentic Life page for his main Friendspace page—the real Jeremy. Instead of the cute update I’d considered for the “What’s Happening?” section, I write:

JEREMY MUI IS A LYING TOOL.

Sums it up very well.

The first response comment has already dinged onto his page when I push the swivel chair back and run out of his bedroom. I’m downstairs in a second, brushing past a bewildered Jeremy. I almost grab the glass of milk in his hand and dump it on his face, but go for the more old-fashioned approach by slamming the front door.