“No, that’s not it. Someone is impersonating me with a fake Facebook page. There are two Allie Rosses, the real me and the fake one.”
Crosetti’s white eyebrows bop up and down like two fuzzy caterpillars. “The real you and the fake one, eh? Sounds complicated.” His face lights up with a wide smile and he points. “Look—goldfinches,” he whispers, and I turn to see two small yellow birds perched atop a half-dead clump of zinnias. I relax a little. At least this guy has not seen my Facebook page or the poll asking if I’ve still got it. But every face I passed this morning on the way to school with Cole had me wondering—had they seen the photo of me naked? Do they think I was sleeping with Rob Avery? And that I am involved in his murder?
“Mr. Crosetti, what I’m trying to tell you is someone made a fake Facebook page and joined the Eastbrook page under false pretenses.”
He frowns. I can tell he doesn’t get it.
“If you don’t want to post anymore, why not just stop posting?”
I open my mouth to answer, but just then my phone rings. It’s Artie Zucker, so I wave goodbye to Crosetti and answer as I begin the long walk to the metro, cursing yesterday’s decision to go with the police and leave my car at work.
I’m disappointed when I realize that the person on the line is not the lawyer himself but a paralegal who wants only my basic information. I make an appointment to meet Zucker tomorrow after work, when I know Mark will be available, too.
“In the meantime,” she says, “do not speak to the police. If they bring you in, call us and do not say anything until Mr. Zucker arrives.” She gives me his personal cell phone number before saying goodbye.
By the time I am descending the steep escalator at the Friendship Heights station, I feel a little better knowing that I have set the wheels in motion with the lawyer. Maybe today, Tinder and Facebook will respond. Maybe they’ll shutter those accounts. It won’t answer the question of who is doing this or why, but it will stanch the bleeding.
But I still cannot figure out how that damn T-shirt got to my house.
Instead of taking the trolley that runs down H Street, I walk from the Union Station metro to the studio, using the time to call the Realtor in Westport whose name Daisy texted to me.
Barb DeSoto tells me fall is a tough time to put a house on the market. “Winters are slow. It really would be better if we wait for the spring market,” Barb says.
“I don’t want to leave it unoccupied the whole winter. That’s income we need.” Neither one of us bothers to say that we can’t rent the house with a leaky roof and a wonky septic tank. I turn down the street where I parked the car yesterday. It’s still there, but as I grow nearer I see there’s a pink slip of paper under the windshield wiper. “Damn it.”
“I know it’s not ideal,” Barb says.
“No, sorry. I just got a parking ticket. As far as selling the house, I have no choice. We need to do it now.”
“Got it. I’ll start running through the paperwork, making sure everything’s in order, that there are no liens against the house, et cetera.”
“There shouldn’t be. My mother didn’t even have a mortgage.” I stop outside the coffee shop, in desperate need of a caffeine fix.
“Lucky you,” Barb says. “That will make things easier.”
I stuff the ticket in my pocket, feeling anything but lucky.
After I grab my coffee, I head upstairs to the studio. No one is in yet, and I take advantage of the privacy to call the Overton alumni office. Of all the insanity of the past few days, that T-shirt showing up bugs me the most, for reasons I can’t really put my finger on. The phone rings four times, and I am about to give up when an exhausted-sounding woman answers.
“Overton Academy, please hold.” The sound of Pachelbel’s Canon wafts through the receiver. I use the time to practice what I am going to say. By the time the woman returns, I am ready.
“Now, how can I help you?” she asks.
“This is Alexis Healy,” I say, using my maiden name, “and I received the most wonderful surprise in the mail yesterday, an Overton T-shirt. The thing is, I didn’t order it, and I wanted to see if I could find out who did, so I could thank them.”
“I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to help you, dear. All school merchandise is purchased through our online shop and billed through a third party.”
“I just thought maybe there was some kind of reunion thing going on? Where everyone from my class got a T-shirt?” I don’t add that I never made it to my graduation. The school mailed me my diploma because I had left in mid-May.
“No, hon. None that I know of. But maybe you should check with your alumni relations coordinator for your area. Where do you live now?”
“In Bethesda, Maryland. That’s just outside D.C.”
“Our National Capital Alumni Group is very active. If you give me your email address, I can send you the coordinator’s contact information. They might be able to help you with your reunion idea.”
I don’t bother to correct her misinterpretation of the situation. I just provide my info. Once we are off, I check my email and find an automated response from Tinder:
Dear Allie,
Each Tinder profile is tied to a unique Facebook account. If someone is impersonating you, please contact Facebook’s help center to file a report.
Kind regards,
Tinder Tech Support
I have contacted Facebook, I type back, teeth clenched. It’s all I can do to stop from screaming. I have filed a report. I hit Send,
