More Than We Can Tell

The message from Nightmare is right in the middle of the screen when I open my laptop.

It’s lost a little bit of its power, though.

That’s not okay. What he said to you. You know that, right?

I did know that. I do know that. But for some reason, hearing the words from a complete outsider gives them a little more weight.

Hearing the words from Rev gives them a little more weight.

I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He’s intriguing. I said that watching him lose the sweatshirt was like watching Clark Kent turn into Superman, but that was almost an understatement. It’s more like finding the dark and brooding Oliver Queen under the hood of the Green Arrow.

I don’t usually tell anyone about in-game harassment—it’s so common that I rarely think to mention it. If someone hassles you in person, you can tell a teacher, or talk to a manager, or call the cops. It’s one person, and you can recruit other people to help stand against them.

If someone harasses you online, you can have them blocked—but they can reappear in seconds, pretending to be someone else. Over and over again.

Anonymously.

I close Nightmare’s message, log in to my admin panel, and block him again.

This is beginning to feel a bit fruitless, though. Nightmare has already demonstrated a willingness to create new accounts to harass me. I’m stuck in this space where I’m giving him what he wants—attention—and wishing I had a more effective means of attack.

I don’t. So. Here I sit.

A message is waiting from Ethan, too.

Friday, March 16      8:11 p.m.

From: Ethan_717

To: Azure M

What happened? All OK? I’ll be on for a while if you get a chance to log in. If I’m not here, check Battle Realms.

It makes me smile. He’s turning into a friend.

What a weird night.

The moment I have the thought, there’s a tap-tap-tap at my door. I slide my headphones onto my neck and sigh. It has to be my mother. “Come in.”

Mom eases the door open. She’s in loose pajama pants and a tank top, her hair in that signature ponytail. Sometimes I wonder if she’s trying to send a statement to the world that she has no time for feminine standards—but really, she’s probably just too busy to bother with more.

Texy gets up from where she was flopped out and noses at Mom’s hands.

She rubs the dog absently behind her ears. “Are you playing?”

I bristle. “It’s a Friday night.” I glance at my clock. “And it’s not that late.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. I was asking if I was interrupting.”

Sure. “No. It’s fine.”

“Can I come in?”

I close the laptop and wish I could say no. I don’t want a lecture, so it’s better to just get this over with. “Okay.”

She eases into my desk chair and looks around. “I wanted to talk about what you said this morning.”

“Oh. When I was in the shower?”

“Yes, Emma.” She sounds a little exasperated at my attitude. “When you were in the shower.” Texas is leaning against Mom’s legs, her head resting in her lap. I want to call her away, but Mom is rubbing her head now. It reminds me of how Rev was doing the same thing. Maybe it’s a tension release.

“We don’t need to talk,” I say. “I know you don’t like the gaming.”

“Emma—it’s not that I don’t like the gaming. It’s that I want you to be realistic about your goals.”

I scoff. “What do you know about my goals?”

“I know you think your father has an amazing job. I know you’d like to be a game designer yourself. But sometimes luck plays a role, and that’s not something you can count on.”

“I know, Mom.”

“I’m very much in favor of furthering women’s advancement in STEM fields, but I think it would be prudent for you to have some practical—”

“I know. I get it.”

“I don’t think you do. I’m asking you to keep an open mind—”

“If I’d said you were interrupting, would that have stopped this conversation?”

“I don’t appreciate that, Emma. Every time I try to talk to you—”

“Look.” My throat tightens, because she’ll never understand why this is important to me. “I don’t want to be a doctor. I’m sorry, okay?” I put the headphones back on my head and open the laptop before emotion can crowd into my voice. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment.”

Her expression seems frozen between surprise and irritation. “Emma. What—”

I press a button. Hard rock courses into my headphones. She keeps talking, but I have no idea what she’s saying.

I lock my eyes on my monitor. If I listen to one more word, I’ll start crying.

She’s still talking. I wonder how long I can get away with this.

I log in to OtherLANDS and keep my eyes on the log-in message.

An iMessage from Cait appears on the screen.

Cait: Are you gaming?

Emma: No, I’m ignoring my mother.

Cait: What do you mean?

Emma: I mean she’s sitting right here and I am not listening to her. What’s going on?

Cait: I got all set up to do a video, but then Calvin needed the laptop for homework. Now I’m just killing time.

Calvin is her younger brother. I should ask what her video is about, but I really don’t want to talk about eyeliner or cosplay or foundation right now.

At the same time, I don’t like this weird distance between us. I type quickly.

Emma: Do you want to come over?

Cait: Doesn’t sound that happy at your house right now.

She’s right. I glance up. Mom is still there. She’s glaring at me now.

That’s actually helpful. A glare means she’s angry instead of pretending to understand. I can deal with angry.

I pull the headphones down. “What?”

“I’m trying to have a conversation. If you’re trying to demonstrate your maturity, ignoring me won’t do the trick.”

“Look, I know you think Dad is a waste of space right now. Sorry I got the bulk of his DNA. Must be so rough for you.” My voice threatens to waver. I pull the headphones back up.

I force my eyes to stay on the screen, but I can see her in my peripheral vision. Her face is red, her jaw clenched. She looks like she’s ready to yell. Or to hit something.

I hope she does. I’d love to see her lose it.

Instead, she walks out.

Emma: Mom just walked out. That didn’t take long at all.

Cait: What’s going on?

Emma: She’s mad that I don’t want to be a doctor.

Cait: Have you showed her the game?

Emma: I don’t think it would matter.

The little dots appear below my message, showing that she’s writing back, and they seem to go on forever.

And ever.

And ever.

I log in to my game while I’m waiting.

A message flashes at me immediately. No connection found.

What? I glance at my bookcase, at my flashing router.

Which isn’t flashing.

WHAT?

I get up and pull the plug, then wait a full minute.

When I plug it back in, it still doesn’t work.

I go to the door and fling it open.

Before I can say a word, my mom calls from down the hall. “Problems, Emma?”

Irritation stabs me right in the back. I can tell, just from her voice, that she’s done something. “Did you cut the Internet?”

“Maybe you would have noticed if you weren’t so busy ignoring me.”

I want to punch the wall. “And you called me immature?”

She comes to the doorway of her bedroom. She’s rubbing lotion into her hands. For a moment, I feel as though we’re having some kind of standoff.

“Maybe a night without the Internet will do you some good,” she says. “Some time to think.”

“I don’t know why Dad puts up with you,” I snap.

She jerks back, like I’ve hit her.

Turning off the Internet feels like she’s hit me.

I slink back into my room and push the door closed. My throat refuses to loosen. I’ve already started regretting what I just said.

The worst part is that I sound just like her. The gaming DNA might have come from my father, but the biting one-liners are all her.

I close my laptop and pick up my phone. I could connect to the phone via Bluetooth and get Internet that way, but it would never support gaming. The only place she could have disconnected the Internet is at the Verizon box in the basement, so I just need to wait until she’s asleep to reconnect it. Not a crisis, but a pain in the ass.

Emma: My mom just cut the Internet.

Cait: I guess she wasn’t happy about the ignoring.

Emma: Whose side are you on?

Cait: I wasn’t taking sides! I’m just saying.

I don’t know what to say. My mental state has gone straight to hell in a matter of minutes. I want to pick a fight with everyone right now.

Where’s Nightmare when I need him?

There’s a long pause before the little gray dots appear from Cait’s side of the conversation.

Cait: Thanks for the invite. I think I’m going to bed.

Emma: OK.

I sit in absolute silence for the longest time. Texy climbs up on the bed and flops her lumbering self down beside me. Her head drops in my lap.

I log in to my messages on my phone to write back to Ethan through 5Core. I don’t want to complain about Nightmare. It makes me feel weak, like I can’t handle a little trash talk.

Friday, March 16      9:14 p.m.

From: Azure M

To: Ethan_717

Mom cut the Internet. I’m waiting for her to fall asleep so I can reconnect it.

His response comes back almost immediately.

Friday, March 16      9:15 p.m.

From: Ethan_717

To: Azure M

That’s a new one. I’ll be here all night. Yay, Friday.

I smile. Yay, Friday.

Friday, March 16      9:16 p.m.

From: Azure M

To: Ethan_717

Give me an hour. Depending on how many glasses of wine she’s had, it might be less than that.

A new message appears almost instantly. I grin.

But then I see the message header.

Friday, March 16      9:16 p.m.

From: N1ghtm@re4

To: Azure M

Hey, look, I found you on 5Core.

Nice pic.

I freeze, staring at the message.

My screen names are the same in both places. That’s not too big a deal.

It’s the content of his message that’s so unsettling.

No one has ever connected Azure M to Emma Blue, but as I stare at his message, I realize how simple it could be to connect the dots. And my profile pic doesn’t show my face, but it does show my back. Cait took it last October, at the Fall Festival. My arms are up, and I’m cheering after throwing a whipped cream pie at the quarterback and hitting him square in the face.

In the picture, my braid hangs down my back.

I’m wearing a Hamilton High School T-shirt.

I can’t delete it from here. I need to go downstairs and reconnect the router. My heart beats so hard it’s almost painful, and adrenaline has taken over my bloodstream. My fingers shake over the screen of the phone.

But then I talk myself down.

Azure M isn’t that obvious.

Hamilton High School isn’t either. My braid covers half of the words. I know what it says because it’s my T-shirt, but in the tiny thumbnail, it’s almost unreadable.

Not to mention, I go to school with two thousand other kids.

And he didn’t threaten me. He just said nice pic. He could be commenting on my butt. He probably was commenting on my butt.

This is a calculated attempt to make me uncomfortable. It’s working, but it’s not criminal.

It’s not even a message I can report. What would I say? Some guy said I have a nice pic.

I can click on his name, though.

Annnnd of course his profile is almost completely blank. His “name” is Night Mare. Hilarious.

I sigh. I hate this. I delete the message.

All of a sudden, I don’t want to reconnect the Internet at all. I don’t want to see what else he might have sent me in the game.

That’s not okay. What he said to you. You know that, right?

I do know that.

I just can’t do anything about it.