"This guy came in the other day and he shook my hand when I took him to his table and he didn't want to let go. He asked me my name so I told him, and he told me his name was J____ and he was a manager at Walmart. He asked me what I did and I told him, 'I work here.' He asked what else I did and I said I went to school and he asked what my major was and I told him psychology and he asked if I was analyzing him."
She burbles out a laugh. "He told me he was good at reading people and he said he could read that I was single."
She took his order and then her shift was over so she left. The waitress who took over her tables later texted to say J___ missed her, but was resigned to his new server.
"We had his name — you know, from his debit card — so we could look him up. My friend tried to find him on Facebook, but no luck. You should look me up on Facebook but I'm not there right now. I deactivated my account."
"Because everyone else seems glamorous on there — my friends, they all seem more exciting than me. Plus school's starting soon. I know I'll be back, I don't know why I deactivated my account, but I've done it before."
You answered the little question about why you want to deactivate?
"I just said it's taking up too much of my time. What am I going to say, 'Facebook is contributing to my low self-esteem?'" Another laugh. "So anyway, would it be wrong to look up this J___ from the name on his card?"
That seems kinda stalkerish.
"You're talking to a longtime stalker. Fourth grade, I stalked this boy."
How do you stalk a boy in fourth grade?
"You know, just followed him around and was all" — and here she rolls her eyes — "unngh every time I saw him.
"I stalked another boy in 8th grade. I had a blog about him — Hayden, sweet Hayden. Original lucky duck." She tries looking up the page but can't find it.
"He moved to Florida, and then he moved back, and when I was a sophomore or junior we hung out a couple of times, and that was cool but then I was like, eh, not that into him. But I got to live out my middle-school fantasy."
So you stalked him in 8th grade?
She nods. "He was my friend's brother. I stole a pair of his socks one time."
"Quick in, quick out. They were on the floor of his room. Thick wool socks. I wore them for a long time — I wouldn't let my mom wash them; I would hand wash them so I could get them back faster. I remember one time I washed them in my sink, and I hung them under my sink cause there was a pipe there and they could drip dry.
"I also collect lip balm."
She hates her mother, too. She keeps lists about her mother in her journal, the one she locks and carries with her, the key to the lock on a chain around her neck. Her mother once read one of her journals and photocopied the pages. "They're in a bank, in a safe-deposit box. I don't think that's what those boxes are for?" She seems genuinely puzzled why her mother copied her journal.
She reads from one of the Mom lists:
She thinks she's superior just because her husband has money.
Lays in bed.
Emotionally not there.
Dependent yet arrogant.
Doesn't respect privacy.
Her boyfriend interjects: "You've got to stop harping on your mom. You've been doing this non-stop for weeks."
"No, I haven't," she says. "Maybe I have. I have." She nods and laughs. "I have."