Monday Morning

I click on NO.

Tuesday

How does this scam work? Probably there's a picture with a hundred random names, one of them mine. Maybe a thousand names. SexySleepwalker is trying to lure me into being friends, to get a large friends list, for some scammy purpose.

I click on NO.

My best friend June and I are eating lunch together in the high school cafeteria, like we always do. She says to me, "Um, Lida, can I ask you a really weird question?"

"I guess so?"

"Promise you won't get angry at me?"

"You know I won't."

"Um . . . " She takes a breath and then says in a gush, "Are you posting sexy pictures of yourself on the internet?"

"What?" I feel like, for the briefest moment, I'm in an alternative reality with a different person named June. "Of course not. Are you crazy?"

"Okay. Never mind. Yes, I am."

"Why did you even ask that?" I'm hurt.

"It's nothing. Sorry."

"June, why would you even think that?"

"I said I was sorry. Just forget about it, okay?"

Wednesday

This is happening too often to be a widespread scam. Do I have a personal stalker? I don't want someone stalking me or harassing me or whatever.

But I can't think of any reason why anyone would stalk me. I'm in tenth grade. I'm shy. There's nothing noticeable about me. Hardly anyone knows who I am.

Could someone be interested in me? I would like that. No I wouldn't.

I click on NO. I hate being so cowardly.

"Lida!"

That sounded like my name. I take a quick glance behind me in the crowded hall and see Ahmad, from my history class. He's kind of cute. And smart. I wish he was calling out to me. Attention makes me nervous, but sometimes I get tired of being ignored.

"Lida?"

He is saying my name. I look back. He's looking at me. I stop, confused, and face him. "Are you talking to me?"

He walks up to me and stops in front of me. I wait, mystified, to see what will happen; he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and then back again. "I was . . . I just wanted . . . uh . . . what did you think of our history homework?"

Our history homework? I can barely remember what it was. What am I supposed to say? "I finished it."

"Oh. That's really great." It is? How can that be great? Isn't it just boring? He adds, "Me too."

We both stand there. It's really awkward. I'm desperately trying to attach any purpose to this conversation, but I can't. Finally he says, "Well, see you later." He gives me an embarrassed smile, then turns and walks away.

"Okay," I say to his back.

"Ahmad talked to me today." We're eating lunch.

June squeals. "He did? A boy? Tell me all about it."

I shrug. "He stopped me in the hall and asked what I thought of our history homework. We have history together."

June was totally excited about playing the supporting bff for what seemed to be our initial entry into the world of boys. But that knocked her off-balance. "I don't get it. History homework?"

"I don't get it either. History homework?"

"Was he pranking you?"

That would explain it. I think back. "I guess so. But he wasn't smirking or acting like a jerk or anything like that."

"Hmmm. How did he act?"

Good question. I think back. "Nervous? He seemed really nervous." I realize, "That doesn't make any sense."

Now June squeals again. "Could he have been tongue-tied? Was he, you know, interested in you?"

I scowl. "Why would he be interested in me? He's ignored me all year."

June says, "Then why did he even talk to you?"

I shake my head, "It was really strange. I have no idea."

Alain comes walking straight towards our table, like he might accidentally bump into it. He was one of the stars on the football team in the fall, and now he's one of the stars on the basketball team.

He's looking at me! This is the second time today – and this year and my whole life – that a boy has actually looked at me. He stops next to our table and says to me, "Nice pics." He puts his fist out in front of my face.

I'm staring stupidly at his huge hand until I realize he's trying to fist bump with me. Me? In the cafeteria, in front of everyone? I cautiously put out my fist, we bump, and he walks away.

June looks like she's in shock. "Oh. My. God." I see her trying to say more, but she can't and she just mumbles again, "Oh my God."

I can't talk either. I pinch my arm, and I can't feel it. But that was too strange to be a dream. I ask June, "Did you see that?" Which is the stupidest question I've ever asked.

She nods her head yes. "I think so."

"Is this an alternative reality?"

She shakes her head no. "There's no alternative reality. We agreed on that years ago. But if they existed . . . then yeah, this is what it would be like."

"Next question. Are boys always this confusing? Pics? What pics?"

June doesn't answer. I look up at her, and it's like she has a secret. "What?" I demand.

"Um, Lida. Do you have a second Facebook account?"

"No, Why would I? I don't think that's allowed."

"So you don't know anything about SexySleepwalker?"

Ding. "I keep getting friend requests from SexySleepwalker. I thought it was a scam, then maybe some creepy stalker. Or just crazy randomness. How do you know about SexySleepwalker?"

"You're not SexySleepwalker?" She sounds surprised!

"No! I said that already."

"Um, I think you should accept that friend request. If you get another one."

"Why?"

"Just, you should. Just do it. Okay? I'm your friend, just trust me."

"You're worrying me, June."

She shrugs. She's supposed to tell me not to worry . . . but she doesn't.

Thursday

I click on ACCEPT and go to SexSleepwalker16's home page. She has no entries and no biographical information. Just a profile picture.

But it's quite the picture. In it, she's wearing just a bra and a thong. I can't see her face because her long black hair is hanging down in front of her face.

I read that some women post sexy selfies of themselves on the internet. Okay, she can do that if she wants. But why was she trying to share her picture with me? I'm not Lesbian. If I was, I still wouldn't be important to anyone.

I know I didn't fall into an alternative reality – they don't exist, plus most of the billions of trivia in my life haven't changed. But still. Two boys talked to me yesterday and some exhibitionist wants my attention enough to send me four friend requests. Something about my reality changed.

Ahmad sits down at the desk next to me before history class. "So, Lida, um, are you new to our school?"

Ahmad and I went to the same Junior High. As I suspected, he never noticed me. That doesn't surprise me; the only mystery is why he noticed me now. "No."

One second, two seconds, the silence is painful. I ask, "Are you new?" That's now my stupidest question ever.

"No, I've been going here since 9th grade."

"Me too."

A long pause. Apparently we have beaten that topic to death. I knew a conversation with a boy could be awkward. But I never imagined this awkward.

Finally, after a few more seconds of nothing to say, which feels like the conversational equivalent to waterboarding, he says, "Well, I better get to my seat."

He looks at the clock, signaling me that he needs to get to his seat. "Yeah," I say, showing that I understand he has to go to his seat. "Yeah," he says, extending that topic far past its expiration date.

I am totally, hopelessly, absolutely confused. I give up on understanding what's happening to me. Conclusion: The world is strange.

At lunch, I tell June, "I friended SexySleepwalker. But she's just posted an erotic selfie of herself. Nothing else."

"Yeah. She changes her picture every night."

"She does? Why?"

June says quietly, but urgently, "I don't know."

"Are they always, you know, like that? Underdressed?" To put it politely.

June nods her head yes.

"So that's what you wanted me to see? Someone posting erotic selfies?"

She looks like she's in pain. "I thought they were, um, interesting."

Alain winks at me as he walks by. June doesn't see it, so I don't tell her about it. She would want some explanation; I don't have one. "Interesting in what way?" Her picture was strange, not interesting.

"Didn't you notice anything?"

I have no idea what she's asking. So I tell her about my latest interaction with Ahmad.

I just can't understand Ahmad and Alain. I imagine an astronomer looking at radio waves from outer space, and suddenly seeing a pattern that shouldn't be there, and not knowing why it's there or what it means.

Friday

I overslept, so I have to move fast to catch the bus. But I want to check SexySleepwalker16. Did my stalker-slash-exhibitionist change her picture? And to what? Having something interesting in my life is different – I can see how it could become addicting.

She changed her picture! Just like June said she would. I think she craves attention. It's taken from behind, and she's bent over forwards, showing her butt. She's wearing white panties, which I don't understand – I thought thongs were the go-to underwear for being sexy. But for that pose I certainly would have avoided a thong.

Her legs are straight and she's holding her ankles with her hands. She's got nice skin and a good body. She needs psychological help.

On the bus, I realize I forgot to do my math homework – I was too tired at night, so I was going to do it in the morning, except I overslept. Then Roberto gives me a big hi as we're walking into school. He's in my math class; he didn't know I existed before this morning.

Boy #3. The confused astronomer notes, with astonishment, that the pattern from outer space is still repeating. I don't have time for an awkward conversation with him, so I just ask him if I can copy his math homework. He's "happy to help a hot girl like you."

"Roberto Torres said I was hot."

June would be squealing for me in any normal universe. But we both understand that normal has departed from this particular reality. "Why?"

I shrug. "I asked to copy his math homework."

She says, like she's in a little daze, "You asked to copy his homework . . . and he said you were hot?"

I shrug. "Yeah. Is that remotely possible?"

She gives her head a little shake no. Then she says, more supportingly, "It's possible. There's nothing wrong with your face or body."

"I have a plain face. And an ordinary body."

"Yeah, but you're thin, and you have, like, breasts and stuff. A guy could see you as, you know, sexy."

"No guys have ever seen me that way before." In this new reality, I still look the same.

I see Alain walking by; I wave to him, momentarily forgetting that I'm a wallflower. He waves back like I'm not.

June's mouth hangs open for a second. "I'm not even asking what that meant."

"It would do you no good. I honestly don't know."

"Lida, one of the most popular boys in the whole high school just waved at you."

"Yeah. I know. It makes no sense, right?"

"Lida, you waved at him first. You don't wave at guys. You waved at him like you somehow knew he would wave back."

"I didn't think about it."

She stares me in the eye, as if I might be lying. But I'm not. She says, "Okay." I don't know if she believes me; she probably doesn't know what to believe.

I'm the same.

A guy comes up to me in the hall. "Hey, Lida. I'm glad I saw you. There's a party tonight." Boy #4. He hands me a flyer with the address.

I'm not naive. I mean, I probably am. But I knew there were parties. I knew flyers got handed out. I knew a 10th grader might be handed a flyer if she if was pretty enough or he was good in sports.

But no one ever handed me a flyer. I'm not close to receiving-a-flyer status.

And he knew my name. I don't know his name.

I stare at the flyer, trying to comprehend what just happened. It's like the astronomer found the same pattern written in Brail on a cereal box.

I pack the flyer in my backpack, with the slim hope that it might, by some magic, suddenly make sense. I can't use it – a free ticket to the Tibetan Symphony would have been as useful.

Saturday

I sleep in late, until 10 am. I never sleep that late, but I wake up feeling refreshed for the first time in days. I want to check on SexySleepwalker, of course, but I take my time – I eat a leisurely breakfast, go for a short run, take a leisurely shower, and finally look.

Shock. Complete shock.

She's in the sexiest pose I've seen her in. It's just waist up, but she's NAKED. One arm is in front of her, her forearm trying to cover one of her breasts and her hand trying to cover the other. There's no nipple showing, but there's cleavage and bottom breast and side breast.

It's a sexy picture, I'll give her that. Actually, it's a slutty picture, but it's artistically posed.

Her other hand is in front of her face. So I can't see her whole face. But from this picture alone – We. Could. Be. Twins.

She must have somehow photoshopped my face to that body. This raises her stalking to a whole new level – she's now targeting me.

But how did she get a picture of me? And who would go through that much trouble? And if she wanted to affirm her body, or whatever quirky trip she's on, why use someone else's face? And why use my face? That doesn't make any sense.

She was just an exotic curiosity. Now it's personal.

June texts me: "I knew it was you!!"

Me: "What??????"

June: "You're SexySleepwalker! I knew it!"

Me: "No! Not me. Today's pic is photoshopped."

June: "Really?"

Me: "The pic isn't me."

June: "If you say so."

Me: "Promise."

Ding. Anyone who saw that picture would think I was posting erotic pictures of myself. June got an invite to those pictures. What if other people got an invite? Like, say, Ahmad and Alain, Roberto, and Boy #4.

They would get totally the wrong impression of me. She would be ruining my reputation if I had one; instead, she's creating it. But I'm supposed to be creating my reputation, even if I never did; she has no right to decide what people think of me.

I don't like attention even for something good, and this attention is definitely not good. But I'm somehow important to this sick girl. So, in a small and inappropriate way, I feel relevant for once in my life. But I still don't like what she's doing to me.

I'm sleeping overnight at June's. We spend an hour talking about Ahmad and Alain, then it's time to talk about SexySleepwalker. I ask bravely, "Can I see the pictures she posted before Thursday?"

June nods. "I saw three before that. But I didn't save them." She shrugs.

"What? I need to see them. Why didn't you save them?"

"Why would I? You want me collecting erotic pictures of you?"

"Of course not. But they're not me. And you should have known I'd want to see them."

"I thought you were posting them. How was I supposed to know you didn't see them?"

I take a deep breath and say bravely, "Tell me about them."

"Well, they were erotic pictures of you – I mean her – in her underwear. Her face was in the first picture, but it was in the shadows. So it was hard to see."

"So you couldn't see what she looked like?"

She whispers, "She looked like you." Then she says apologetically, "But I couldn't be sure. And it seemed sooooo unlikely that it was you."

"Shit."

"Please don't swear. My mother might hear."

"This deserves swearing."

She glares at me.

"Okay." I back down.

"So, I'm pretty sure most people wouldn't think it was you from the first picture. The second picture was just your – her – stomach. It was nicely cropped to show a hint of bra and panties. And the finger."

"She was showing a finger? One finger?"

She shakes her head. "No. The finger. Across her stomach. She was giving everyone the finger."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Lida, pretty much none of this makes any sense."

"True. So no photoshopped picture of my face."

Her face looks stricken. "She put your name in the caption. I thought you knew that."

Ugh. I was repressing that. "My whole name?"

"No, just Lida."

"So some random person would think it's me. There's a lot of Lida's in the world."

We're looking at each other and thinking the same thing – I'm the only Lida at our high school.

June adds, "And they would see it only if they were invited."

"That's good."

"The third picture was normal."

"Normal as in a picture of a beach at sunset?"

"Of course not. She was wearing a bra and panties."

"Oh. You meant normal for this new version of reality."

She gives me a big smile. "Yeah, that normal. And the pose was normal . . ."

I wait, letting her enjoy her moment.

". . . for a pole dancer. Huge back bend, except her face was looking upwards so all people can see is her hair." She adds excitedly, "And breast cleavage, and bottom butt, and bare legs and like I said bra and –"

"Okay." It's sad – we lead such uninteresting lives that some disturbed high school girl has our complete attention.

Sunday

When I wake up, June is sitting in the chair next to where I'm sleeping, staring at me, waiting for my eyes to open, so we can view SexySleepwalker's new picture together. We rush to her computer.

There's no new picture for SexySleepwalker. We're both disappointed.

I get my Mom to take me clothes shopping at the mall. Guys are actually looking at me in school, so what I wear has suddenly become relevant.

I imagine a movie where the hero suddenly wakes up in a strange land with strange customs, and he doesn't know how he got there. And he's trying to get home, of course, but eventually he realizes he might be stuck in that strange land for a long time. So he starts trying to adapt. The new clothes look good on me.

June texts me: "You have a twin!"

Her second text quickly follows: "Explains everything!"

I text back. "Thought of that. Confronted Mom. She just laughed."

June: "Confront her again."

Me: "Did. She said I was one of a set of quintuplets, one on each continent."

June: "So she might not be your real mother?"

Me: "JUNE! STOP!! SHE WOULD TELL ME IF I HAD A TWIN!"

If a twin knew about me, she would just call me, right? The girl who's framing me doesn't like me. I have an enemy. But I don't know who she is. How can I fight her on the internet?

Monday

I wake up, hoping that SexySleepwalker has stopped posting pictures. No, I want more pictures, they're interesting. No I don't.

I rush to my computer and discover she has a new picture. She's pulling a t-shirt off – it's up and over her head, so her arms are in the air. And she's showing all of her bra. But her face is hidden.

So it could be anyone in that picture, except . . . that's my t-shirt. It's an old t-shirt from summer camp, so practically no one would have it.

That can't be photoshopping. How many people even know about that t-shirt? I guess if I wore it and someone paid close attention to me, but no one paid attention to me before.

I get dressed. I angst for minutes about what outfit to wear. Then I have a long conflict about whether to leave the second button of my blouse open. Being a noticeable female is time-consuming. I want to go back to my simple life of being a wallflower who just gets ignored. No I don't.

She needs therapy. And how did she get that picture of me?

Two more boys noticed me. One was a tenth-grader in my English class who paid no attention to me before yesterday. Today, he smiled at me twice. The other boy, maybe a twelfth grader, started to wave at me as we passed in the hall. Then he stopped, probably because we don't know each other and he suddenly realized he had no reason to be waving at me.

Ahmad asked me if I want to do something after school.

At lunch, June and I spend five minutes deliberately not talking about SexySleepwalker. Finally I crack. "That was my t-shirt."

She knows what I'm talking about. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Someone stole your t-shirt? Is that what you're trying to tell me, Lida?"

"No. The t-shirt's still in my room."

"So . . .  do I have this right? The pictures are not you, but they have your t-shirt and your face?"

"Not exactly my face."

"Exactly. Your. Face."

I'm not winning that argument – I couldn't see any differences. "June, I swear, I didn't post those pictures. I don't know how they got there. I never even took those pictures. I don't know who did."

"So that isn't you?"

I bury my head in my arms on the table. "It can't be me. I don't see how it can be me."

"Hmmm." She thinks, then says, "If you didn't post those pictures, how did they get there? Look at me, Lida."

I lift my head up. Alain walks by and I give him a quick tiny wave. He returns a smile and a quick salute. "I don't know. Help me, June."

I let her take over. I'm so glad she's my friend, even if I am getting interrogated. "Someone's posting selfies of you, pictures you never took?"

"Would I post a picture of myself in bra? Or panties? I'm not an exhibitionist. I am, like, a professional wallflower."

She shakes her head. "There was a lot of breast on Saturday. Was that your breast?"

"I DON'T KNOW." Everyone nearby looks at me.

"Do you have a bra like that?"

"It was a typical bra. Of course I do."

"I don't. Is there any evidence that it's not you in those pictures?"

This is the part of the movie where the hero realizes he might forever be stranded on that strange planet. "No."

Ahmad asked me where I wanted to go; I said McDonald's because I was nervous and it was the first thing I thought of. Awkwardly, we both tried to pay for my drink at the same time. Now we're sitting at a booth having yet another awkward conversation.

I blurt out, "Why are you so nervous?" Which of course makes him more nervous. I'm awkward in these conversations too. But . . .  is he on some kind of med? Or did he stop taking his meds?

"I get nervous around you."

I take a sip of my root beer. This makes no sense. Why would I make Ahmad nervous? "Maybe you should try not being nervous. Just a suggestion."

I see him concentrating; his eyes are closed. I ask, "What are you thinking?"

He opens his eyes and looks at my chest and then my face. "I'm trying to see you as just an ordinary female. Instead of . . .  you know."

Instead of an erotic exhibitionist. "I'm ordinary. Believe me."

He shakes his head no. He's sitting here, in McDonalds, thinking of me as half naked? Are boys allowed to do that? It's creepy. I don't like it. Yes I do. No I don't.

These new changes in my life are awkward, confusing, embarrassing, and incomprehensible. But I'm sitting at a table with a kind-of-cute and definitely smart boy. If I could have picked someone to be sitting here with, it might have been him. He's anxious and acting like an idiot, sure signs that he likes me. He even asked me to come here. I guess I can put up with him thinking about my breasts.

And I make him nervous. That's so . . . empowering. Awkward, uncomfortable, and conversationally unfortunate. But exciting.

I study SexySleepwalker's latest picture. The background wall is the same color as my bedroom wall. If I set my phone to delayed picture and propped it on my bed, I could take that exact picture. It might take a lot of tries to get that good of composition.

I saved yesterday's picture. I study it. I can't see any difference between those fingers and my fingers. I can't see any difference between those breasts and my breasts.

I don't know who she invited to be friends. Me and June, obviously. But every boy who is now paying any attention to me must have seen those pictures.

And the obsessive thought I keep coming back to is – how did she get that picture? I'm the only one who could have taken it.

I phone June: "How did she get that picture?" June knows what I'm talking about.

"You have a nice body."

"Focus on the question."

"Okay. Who could have taken that picture? Think hard, Lida."

I think hard. But I've obsessed over this already. "I'm the only one."

"Okay. You're making progress. Now, who does that leave as possible suspects for posting the picture."

Ugh. "Me. I'm the only suspect. I get that. But something unexplainable could be going on."

June: "We know that, Lida. Unexplainable is a given."

"So what am I going to do?"

I hear her thinking. Then she says, "You're going to do a test. Write on your stomach in magic marker."

"What am I supposed to write?"

"Sex Goddess?"

"June!"

"Just write something, it doesn't matter what."

"Then I'll have magic marker on my stomach. What if someone sees it?"

"Who sees your stomach? You don't have gym. It's the winter."

"Right, no one. Okay, I'll write something."

I was going to write "Property of Lida Reinhardt." My body is my property. But that was too long, so I just wrote "Lida." It will come off eventually, but it won't wash off.

Do my legs need shaving? Not really. Yes they do. I could easily let my legs go another couple days, but they might end up in some internet picture. I shave them. Vain, I know. Again I experience the time-cost of being a female people actually see.

Tuesday

I feel tired, but then my extra-curricular interest jolts me awake. I rush to my computer.

A new picture. It crops at her nose, so I can't see her eyes. It looks like my mouth, but people couldn't easily tell it was me from that.

SexySleepwalker is in just a bra and panties. No one is going to recognize the tops of my breasts. No guy has even noticed the tops of my breasts. Well, not until last week.

On her stomach, in big black letters, is LIDA. It's upside down in the picture, but that won't fool anyone. It was right-side up to me.

So that picture is me.

Worse, it's a picture of me taken since 9 pm last night, even though I wasn't out of the house and didn't see anyone. So I'm the only one who could have taken that picture.

Even though I have no memory of taking it or posting it. There is no world, not even my current one, where I could have taken that picture, posted it to the internet, and then casually forgotten about it.

Ugh, that was a such a bad choice for what to write. How could I be that stupid? June and I thought no one was going to see my stomach? We forgot about the entire internet.

Today, a few guys shout out my name when they pass by me in the hall between classes. One just says, "Upside down." Andy waves at me. I know his name is Andy because he has it written upside down in black magic marker on his arm. Ugh, SexySleepwalker is trending.

So they saw the picture. I blush, remembering how sexually provocative that picture was. I also try to disappear, but I don't, so I have to just keep walking down the hall in shame.

In biology, a girl who never once talked to me says, "Your name was upside down, you stupid slut." Then she walks to her seat.

Ahmad comes to chat with me before class. I think he prepared a few questions to ask me, so our conversation isn't painful, it's just overly scripted. The girl who sits next to me has to ask him twice to leave before she can sit at her desk.

"You're name was upside down." June and I are eating lunch.

I'm more than a little tired of hearing that. "It wasn't upside down to me."

"But it's upside down to everyone seeing the picture."

"I wasn't thinking about the picture."

"Anyway, I figured it out. You're sleepwalking." June sounds so sure.

"I am?"

"That has to be right. You get up in the middle of the night, and you sleepwalk. That's your name, right? Sleepwalker?"

"Her name." Actually, it's Sexy Sleepwalker. She's boasting, but that's apparently deserved. "While I'm sleepwalking, I take off my pajamas, pose myself for a sexy picture, take a selfie, then log into an account, using a password, and post it onto the internet?"

"It's possible."

"Pretty sure not. People who are sleepwalking are still, you know, asleep. SexySleepwalker is high functioning."

"Well then, maybe you have a second personality? Like in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?"

"That's impossible too."

"Why?"

I try to imagine getting up as another person, taking off my pajamas, taking a picture of me/her, then deliberately and maliciously posting it on the internet.

"Lida? You're not answering. Could it be a second personality?"

"No."

"Every idea I've had, you've shot down. But this time you don't have any reasons."

"It can't be true, because . . . " I try to think of some reason it can't be true. "I guess it's possible."

"Eek!"

I look at June. "Did you just squeak?"

"Um, no. Of course not. It's just . . . "

"Yes?" I ask challengingly.

"Well, the second personality is supposed to be different from you."

"Check that off – we are total opposites."

June nods. "But . . ." I can see the excitement in her eyes. "The second personality is also a part of you. Like there's a part of you that's really sexy."

"There's no part of me that's sexy." Or exciting or interesting, but I would at least like to be those. No I wouldn't. Yes I would.

"I know, Lida. I'm not trying to say you're sexy." I wince. "It's just that –"

Two boys that we've known since junior high, but never talked to, suddenly appear at our table. After some awkward conversation while they stand there, June realizes that they want to talk to us. She gives me an eyebrow flick saying that it's okay, and I invite them to sit.

As we talk, I see June wrestling for the first time with the issue of how a conversation with boys could be so difficult. Actually, it isn't as bad as those first conversations with Ahmad. I smooth out some of the worst parts, and eventually June catches on. With the two of us working together, it isn't so bad.

That afternoon, June and I spend an hour talking about our 15 minute boy-conversation. June is thrilled. Then I get my hair trimmed and curled. I never had to spend time on that before.

Really, this is exactly what's supposed to be happening to us in 10th grade – ordinary guys suddenly growing up, finally noticing that our bodies have also grown up, and everyone awkwardly trying to talk and interact, starting out in an immature 10th grade way. Then slowly getting better at these things (I hope).

I'm not supposed to be dealing with frankly sexual pictures on myself appearing on the internet and cool 12th grade guys showing an interest in me.

I, Lida Reinhardt, have a second personality. I thought I understood myself. I didn't. I wasn't even close.

And she's so different from me. That's really scary.

I try to log in to her Facebook page. It feels really creepy, like I'm spying on her. I keep telling myself that legally I'm just logging into my own page.

But I don't know her password. I try guessing and guessing, but nothing works and I have to give up. It's probably something logical – that's what I would do if I was logging into Facebook late at night and didn't want to write my passsword down where I could find it. But there are too many possibilities, and I can't guess her password without any clue.

That kills the idea that I'm doing this when I'm asleep – if I can't get on the account while I'm awake, how could I do it while I'm asleep?

I Google second personalities. Yes, it's possible for her to know things I don't. That explains the password.

Also, she might know everything I know. That's creepy and scary. I don't like anyone knowing my thoughts; I certainly don't want a disturbed second personality knowing my thoughts. And what kind of power would she have over me?

I try resetting the password, but reset email goes somewhere else. She could have set up an email address on my computer, used it to establish a Facebook account, then deleted it. That's what I would have done. I check if anything's in my computer trash, but apparently she knows the trick of erasing from the trash.

I search my room in case she wrote her password down, but I can't find anything. So I can't break into her Facebook page. I'm stuck being just another one of her voyeurs.

I take out my cell phone and prop it on my bed, pointing at my wall. Just like she does. I stand against the wall. I would pose, except I don't know any poses. Yes I do, she was giving out lessons. I turn away from the camera, bend down, and with my legs straight, I grab my ankles. So my ass is up in the air, exposed for everyone to see. (If I was taking a picture.)

It feels very brave to do this. And empowering. I can see why she likes doing this. It's also scary and embarrassing. And I have all of my clothes on; she can do this in her underwear. That's amazing.

I want to understand the enemy. I take off my t-shirt. Now I'm down to a bra on top. I take off my jeans and change into my thong. So I'm ahead of her on that. I put on my highest pair of heels. I pose.

I could NEVER take a picture of myself like this. I don't know how she does it.

I change into my pajamas. Then I get the chain and lock I bought today at the hardware. I'm going to chain my wrist to my nightstand, so she can't get up to take a picture of me. I hide the key between my mattress and box springs.

Except she probably thinks like me, so that's the first place she'll look. Where's the strangest place I can think to hide a key? I get a piece of scotch tape and tape the key to the underside of my nightstand top drawer, so she has to open the drawer to even get at it, and even then she can't see it, she would have to think to look for it with her fingers.

I write her a note.

Then I lock my wrist to the nightstand.

I finally realize why I've been so tired this last week. Duh, I've been awake for who knows how much of the night. It's uncomfortable that I can't move my wrist where I want, but I still fall asleep easily.

Wednesday

I wake up. To my surprise, my wrist is still chained to my night table. I'm actually a little disappointed – I thought she was smarter than that. Plus I wanted to see a new picture; it's interesting to see how she chooses to pose and how much she decides to show. I clumsily get the key I elaborately hid, and unlock myself. Then I check my computer.

There's a new picture.

She's wearing my generic black thong. It shows a lot of ass, of course. It looks like my ass.

The elegant porn is her hands chained together at the wrists. A helpless female. That has to be the ultimate male fantasy.

She's wearing the chain I bought at the hardware. And the lock. So she found the key, unlocked the chain, then took a picture of herself with the chain. Then she locked herself back up and returned the key to the same place. I was totally jujitsued. She might be smarter than me.

And she was . . . whimsical. I can't be whimsical. I don't even know how. She can make me so jealous.

I make myself stop staring at the picture, then I get ready for school. I need more exciting clothes. Eventually I realize that she wrote something at the bottom of my note:

I can feel her anger. I would never say that to anyone, so she's not me, no matter how much her body looks like mine.

Before history class, Eric sits down next to me and starts talking to me. So, when Ahmad comes in, he can't sit next to me and talk with me. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Ahmad doesn't know what he's supposed to do. So, as always, it's awkward.

But I like talking to Eric – he isn't as smart as Ahmad or as gentle on the inside; but he also isn't as awkward and geeky.

Now I'm getting whistles in the hall. I don't even look to see who's whistling at me, I'm too embarrassed and I want to pretend the whistles aren't at me.

I sit down next to June at lunch and say "I don't want to talk about it."

"Did you really–"

"I do NOT want to talk about it."

"Lida, I think we have to." We sit there in silence, me glaring at her. Finally she starts. "It must be strange that some part of you wants to post erotic pictures on the internet."

"She has a fetish. You have no idea. Beyond strange."

"I feel your pain, Lida."

"Yeah." But I can feel SexySleepwalker's desire. I understand it. I just wish I wasn't the one being punished for it.

Then the same two guys join us, saving me from further analysis. June is just doing her job as my bff and trying to help. I know I need help. But I think this is beyond her skill set. And mine.

All of my teachers are surprised that I'm asking questions in class. To be honest, what seemed so impossibly daunting two weeks ago now feels as momentus as brushing my teeth. Yes, kids stare at me when I ask a question, but I have all of my clothes on. Asking questions doesn't raise my heartbeat.

It's getting close to my bedtime, and I don't know what I should do. I liked the effects SexySleepwalker was having to my life, but now she's ruining it. Should I try to fight her?

Yes, of course, but I don't know how. What do I know about her? Almost nothing. Just that she's whimsical and ironic and sexy. And I guess brave.

That's a lot to like. It's like watching a movie and wishing I was the heroine. But I'm just the stunt double.

Except I don't want to be exhibitionistic or self-destructive. She really does need psychological help.

But I don't like who I was before she existed. Maybe I could compromise with her – I could just let her have her own life and we peacefully coexist? I'll go to sleep a little earlier at night, we'll both appreciate that. But then she has to be nice to me too.

Should I leave out sexy clothes and props for her? I look around my room. I have nothing that provocative except for that one black thong, which she already used. I can see why she doesn't like me.

Thursday

I wake up. I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to know what SexySleepwalker did to me last night.

But I am jolted awake with energy and curiosity. And dread. And excitement.

There's a message for me.

Um, what? Ahmad has never touched me. I would let him hold my hand some day. Maybe we would someday do something more, like kiss. Or someone else might kiss me some day.

But that's all. Let him have sex with me? I can't imagine that. The word that comes to mind is NO. She has more mature desires than me.

I wink at Alain as he walks by me. Later he stops me in the hall and asks me out for a movie tonight.

I was hoping it wouldn't be that easy.

Ahmad got to class early to make sure he could talk to me. After school he takes me out to McDonald's. Apparently that's our thing. I would like to experiment with Wendy's or Taco Bell, or even just Burger King, but I don't know how to suggest that.

We've learned to talk about TV shows, teachers, homework assignments, and what we want to be when we grow up. (I don't really know, and I can't believe he does either, but it's something to talk about.)

So we're eating, and actually talking, and being together, and everything's perfect . . .  until an image of us holding hands pops into my brain.

The thought is disconcerting. Then I realize why . . . I want to be holding hands.

I don't know where that thought came from. Yes, I do – I was perfectly content until SexySleepwalker started talking about more. She's evil.

His hand might be sweaty. I would have a little difficulty eating with just one hand free. People might notice and wonder. I can't imagine actually liking it.

So I have a long list of reasons why I shouldn't hold his hand. But I still want to. A lot. SexySleepwalker has out-of-control obsessions that she has to satisfy. Now I have a glimmer of what that's like. Want, want, want.

I put my hand on the table in front of me, hoping he'll reach over and grab it. He doesn't, of course.

I move my hand closer to him, then edge it even closer, so that it's close enough he could reach it easily. He doesn't even look at it.

I move my hand even closer to him, so it's almost half-way between us. It's embarrassingly awkward to hold my hand out that far while I try to eat with my other hand. It looks very obvious. It looks ridiculous, really. I don't know what I'm doing. I feel so inadequate.

He looks down.

He sees my hand.

He notices. I can see his brain calculating – realizing that my hand is not anywhere close to where it should be. I can hear the little voice in his head saying What am I supposed to do now?

He doesn't know what to do. We keep talking.

Should I try to get more attention? I could flop my hand like a fish. No, that would just look stupid. I slowly pull my hand back, like my hand was just randomly wandering around the table.

We talk a little more, then I try again. I place my hand on the table; Ahmad is staring at it. I slowly move it towards him. Ahmad is transfixed.

But when it gets to the center of the table, he doesn't do anything. This time the inside of my wrist is up, like he's supposed to hold my hand. No one puts their hand on the table like that for any other reason except to get her hand held.

I imagine Ahmad reaching out to hold my hand, as if I can mentally force him to do what I want. But that doesn't work, it just makes me imagine how nice it would feel if he held my hand. I pull my hand back.

As he's walking me home, he grabs my hand. It feels like a surprise attack. He's grabbing my hand too hard, and he's not even holding it right. Totally awkward.

But I really like it. A lot. I think my hand is tingling. I like feeling his warm skin.

I adjust our hands to a more normal position, and he relaxes a little when the sun keeps shining and I keep smiling. He likes this new reality we've entered together, and I'm in heaven all the way home; he doesn't let go until we see my house and both pull away.

My parents look worried that a senior with a car is talking me to the movies.

I'm the same. But I agreed. He's here. It's happening. We can't stop it now.

The theater is mostly empty, so there are a lot of good seats, but he holds my hand and takes me to the back. We pretty much have this part of the theater to ourselves. As soon as the movie comes on, he puts his arm around me. So it's a first for that. I get two firsts in one day.

I don't want his arm around me. It feels like too much, too fast. Alain seems like a nice person, but I don't like him as a boyfriend. But SexySleepwalker does, and she's me, so I should be nice to her.

It's a first time for having a boy put his hand on my sweater and feel my breasts. It isn't exciting.

It's my first kiss.

It's a first time for a boy reaching under my sweater and touching the skin on my stomach.

It's a first time for a boy reaching under my bra and fondling my breasts.

It's a first time for a boy putting his hand on my thigh.

When his hand starts moving up my thigh, I put my hand on my thigh and block him from going higher. I am being nice to SexySleepwalker tonight. Really nice. I'm a nice person, and I don't want her angry at me. But what Alain was about to do was too much for me. I'm just a 10th grader.

When Alain asks me after the movie if I want to sit in the park for a while, I explain that the park is closed. He says he knows where to go so we don't get caught. I say I don't want to go, so he drives me home.

Pulls into my driveway. Turns off the car. What am I supposed to do? Is there something we're supposed to talk about? Is he going to open my door? I just sit there and wait to see what happens.

First time to have a guy unsnap my bra. While I'm frantically thinking what to do about that, it's my first time to have a guy's hands on my crotch. I am terrified.

I bolt out of the car, he says "Wait!" and I stop. He walks me to the door, hand on my back, guiding me. First time to feel a guy's hand drop onto my ass. I get my first kiss goodnight and my first tongue kiss. He promises me we'll do this again.

I bought a combination lock. I don't have any of SexySleepwalker's memories. If she doesn't have mine, she won't be able to open the lock.

But I'm pretty sure she has my memories. That's the only way the date with Alain makes any sense. How would she know about Ahmad? I don't think this is going to work.

But it needs to work. I cannot let her control my life. She's got serious problems. I cannot be letting Alain paw my body just because she wants that; I can't ruin my life just because she has problems.

I leave her a note.

I bought her a sexy, lace teddy that really doesn't hide anything more than my essential parts. I do not want to be in a picture wearing that, but I'm trying to be nice to her. I lay that out for her to use.

Friday

"Lida, are you up? You're late for school!" It's my mom, shouting at me from downstairs and waking me up. I look at the time. I overslept and I'm going to be late.

I'm not wearing my pajamas. Or anything – I'm naked except for my bedroom slippers. Oh oh. This never happened before.

My wrist is not chained to my nightstand. So she got loose. She must know everything I know. She didn't even pretend to put the chain and lock back where they were.

I'm scared. Really scared.

First I read the message she left me.

She hates me? No one else hates me, no one else even pays attention to me. I try to imagine some freaky isolated piece of myself hating the rest of me.

I can – it's not like I never hated myself.

I can turn Alain down. But what happens next? She controls part of my life. I can't stop her. Unless she leaves me pictures or a note, I don't even know what she does while I'm sleeping. And she could do anything, and I couldn't stop her.

I do not want to worry about her leaving the house at night. I do not want to wake up in the morning wondering what guys did to my body and she let them. I want to be scheming how to get some awkward boy to kiss me, not worrying about birth control.

I imagine a life of her sneaking out of the house. Me walking up very tired in the morning, semen leaking out of me. Sooner or later needing to buy a pregnancy kit to find out why I missed my period.

The teddy is where I left it, still neatly folded. That's a really bad sign.

I go to her Facebook page. She showed my face in the picture. Yep, she hates me.

I'm totally naked.

I stare at the picture, stunned. Her need is getting stronger. She's escalating.

She put on lots of makeup and I look really good. But I'm not hiding anything. Not my nipples. Not my vagina. Just my toes – whimsically, my bedroom slippers are in the picture.

And, just to make everything is perfectly clear, LIDA is still written on my stomach.

I have, in less than two weeks, gone from School Wallflower to School Slut. Ahmad might start avoiding me now – I am, in a way, now out of his league. I'll get lots of date offers, but they'll be from experienced seniors like Alain expecting a lot more than I want to give; SexySleepwalker, of course, has different desires.

I try to log into her account using the password screwu. That works.

She has 9352 friends. That many people are following her? That many people have seen my vagina and breasts?

I stare at the number trying to comprehend it. 9355. That's a lot of boys – and men, I guess – not even in my high school. So my body is going viral.

9356. So this is a total disaster. She must have acceptance set to automatic. 9359. Is she just going to let everyone see our body?

Of course.

My body has become public property.The only thing I have left that's private is my toes.

Then I notice she posted a message on her page, her first message. "A teddy doesn't start to be enough. I need sexy lingerie. A whip. A g-string. You get the idea. Oh, and car keys."

It's a message to me. I have to buy lingerie for her? And a whip and a g-string? That's going to be really embarrassing.

I don't have car keys. I can't drive. Anyway, I'm not giving her car keys. But it's really scary just that she wants them.

Now her thousands of sex-crazed followers can finally respond. Guys are promising to get her things, so I'm going to be overwhelmed with guys buying me lingerie, whips, and g-strings. And whatever they want to see in a picture. They'll give it to me in school, with a smirk. I'll find it hanging on my locker. They'll order it online and my front porch will be covered in packages.

They're also cheering their approval, asking her out, suggesting what her next picture should be, or just being really gross. It's a porn circus, and she has center ring. The occasional female applauds her bravery, or (more often) calls her out as a slut. One guy, I guess with a foot fetish, complains that he can't see my feet.

I look down at my bare foot. Someday it will get posted on the internet, and at least one guy is going to stare at it and masturbate. Ugh.

9360. I don't have time to read even a fraction of the comments. They weren't meant for me anyway.

I delete the picture. I delete the account.

It's too late, of course. Too many people saw that picture, too many copied it, too many are sharing it. That's the internet. Too many are enjoying it, too many will masturbate while they look at it. Too many immature teenage boys, who could not have a normal conversation with a teenage girl if their life depended on it, will objectify me as a naked female wanting them.

It's too easy for her to start another account. And I just made her even more angry at me. A message pops up: I can reactivate the account any time in the next 14 days. No surprise when that happens.

I hate her. I do. I'm going to write her a message tonight telling her screwu.

But . . .  I'm her. And she's me. I, Lida Reinhardt, posted that picture of myself. I took a frontal picture of myself, naked, my name in large black letters across my stomach, and I posted it on the internet, knowing thousands of guys would see that picture.

And I could have done worse to myself. I probably will.

I get dressed and slowly walk downstairs. "Lida, you're late for school. Eat your breakfast, then I'll drive you in."

"I'm not hungry. We can go now." I give up. I'm going to battle her. But I don't think I'm going to win.

School is as bad as I thought. No, it's worse. Better. Horrible. About half the guys stare at me in the hallway. It's easy to figure out why half of them don't – they haven't seen me on the internet yet. No doubt they will.

They shout out to me, or whistle. I keep my back straight, my head high, and I smile and wave back. That's what SexySleepwalker would do.

No, I don't know what she would do. That's what I decided to do. I am me, not her. I have to remember that.

"June, remember when we said there were no alternative realities?"

Some guy I don't know comes by, introduces himself, and asks me out for tonight. I tell him I'm busy. I know how I would feel to be rejected like that, and hate doing that to him, but I really don't want to go out with him. Or older seniors who are going to put their hands all over me. It's really no problem imagining what a date with him would be like. And I know what he's imagining.

He asks me out for tomorrow night. I give up and say yes. He gets my phone number, smiles, and leaves.

June says, "We're in an alternative reality, aren't we?"

"Yeah, and I don't think we're going back."

"You have to tell your parents."

"Then I get sent to therapy. And have to take meds, which probably won't work, but they'll give them to me anyway, then I'll get more when they don't work. Then they'll lock me in a mental hospital."

She looks aghast. "Really?"

"You can read about it on the internet. It's pretty gruesome what they do to me once they find out I have a rogue second personality I can't control."

"I didn't know."

"I don't want that. I want to be here eating lunch with you and dinner with my mom and dad. Not spending all day surrounded by crazy people. I don't want to be so drugged out I can't think."

The two guys come to eat with us. June mouths, "Talk later."

As Ahmad and I are walking to McDonald's, he makes another hand attack. This one is tentative and asking; his determination is gone.

I love feeling my hand inside his, touching his skin. I like watching him get more confidence as we talk. He hangs on for dear life – he doesn't want to get separated and have to do that again. That's just too cute.

As we are fumbling our way through our conversation, working on a new topic (life on other planets), I look at him. I still wish we tried different places. I still passively let him take me here.

But before, I was afraid to ask him to go somewhere else. Now, I can't imagine fearing anything. Ahmad's just some geeky 10th grader; I'm an internet sex goddess with almost 10,000 followers.

Being passive all the time isn't an option for me any more – too many guys want too much from me. But I can be passive with Ahmad. It's a luxury. I sigh and relax. McDonald's can be our thing.

Do I want to kiss Ahmad?

Holding hands is enough. It's good. No, it's perfect. I'm not ready to kiss him. I can imagine some day – some day I get an attack kiss, or a tentative kiss, or I kiss him, or were at some party playing some kissing game. And when I'm ready, I'll really like it. But right now, I'm ecstatic to hold hands.

Saturday

I wake up. June's next to me in my bed. I push on her shoulder to wake her up.

Her eyes jerk open and she sits up. "We talked!"

To my alt. It worked. She really talked to my alt! "Well?"

"She's crazy. No offense, Lida."

"None taken. She's not me." Except, of course, that she is.

"I was expecting her to be, like, a part of you. She was nothing like you."

"Will she stop posting pictures?"

She shrugs. "No."

"Fuck."

"Don't swear."

"We're at my house. You're worried about my mother hearing?"

"Has your mother ever heard you swear?"

"No."

"Then you should worry about it too. You want to look as good as you can to your mother. You, of all people, might need the good impression some day."

"Fine."

"Plus I had to listen to your alt swearing the whole time we talked. I'm really tired of it."

"Fine, I won't swear."

"Plus I think you need to establish clear distinctions between you and her."

"I SAID I WON"T SWEAR."

"Okay. Anyway, she has really strong needs. So, like, she won't budge on posting erotic pictures. She says she needs that. Actually, she said you needed that too."

"I don't need that. She's projecting."

"Whatever. She's crazy, Lida. Angry, then desperate, then sexy, then frightened."

"So she gets to ruin my life posting erotic pictures of me on the internet. Any limit?"

"Not really. Sorry."

"Gol darn it. What about the rest?"

June smiles. "I gave her the nuclear option. If she ever leaves the house, your parents find out about her, then you get meds. And if that doesn't make her go away, you get locked up and she can't do anything."

"Except that's not really a threat. I'm never doing that. And she knows my thoughts, so she knows I won't tell my parents."

June says, really seriously, "But I will."

"June, I don't want you to."

"I will, Lida. I will. I'm not letting that fucking bitch totally ruin your life."

I've never heard June swear before. But she really is my friend. It's amazing. "Thanks."

"So. You have to let her take pictures, but she won't leave your room. She agreed to that."

A huge weight is lifted from me. "She can only take over my body at night while I'm sleeping?"

"She thinks so. She wanted you to give her control during the day, but I said you didn't have any way to do that."

"So she might try to come out during the day."

It's like a cloud passes over June's face. "Yeah. But I think you can fight that."

"I don't know how."

"We'll find a way."

She really is on my side. And she's a powerful friend. I never saw that in her before; her life is changing too.

And then I start doing the math. If she can't leave the house, she can't meet up with anyone. No sex. No drinking. No rampaging. No pregnancies.

June looks me in the eye. "You have to get therapy."

"She said that? That's part of the deal?"

June looks me in the eye. "I say that." She gives me an unrelenting stare. I didn't know she could be this serious. She adds, "You don't have to admit to having SexySleepwalker in your therapy."

"Then why do I need therapy?"

"I don't know Lida. Look, you're perfectly normal. In school. Whenever you talk to me. But I think you need to figure something out." She shrugs, "It can't hurt."

"So you're threatening both of us?"

"Yes."

"I wish you were on my side more about this."

Her face falls. "I am."

"Sorry. Right. I get it. You are." I add, "You're a tough negotiator."

She smiles. "Thanks."

"Okay." I start to think about it. "My life is going to be really strange. And messed up. And self-destructive. But I guess it could be worse."

"Exactly."

"Thanks, June. Thanks for doing that for me. You're a real friend."

She doesn't answer? "June?"

She whispers, "One more thing. You have to let Alain do what he wants."

"You're kidding."

"She wanted that all the guys could do what they wanted. She started rambling about gang bangs and running naked through the school. She's crazy, Lida."

"Thanks for reminding me."

"So I whittled it down to Alain."

"Whatever he wants? That could be anything!" I'm starting to cry.

"I don't know, Lida. She's just a tenth grader. I don't think she knows what she wants."

"So I might not have to have sex with him?"

She sighs. "You most definitely have to have sex with him. She was rambling. She's crazy, Lida. There were a lot of other things she wanted Alain to do."

"Shoot. Heck. But just Alain?"

"Just one guy. That's the agreement. For now, it's Alain."

"Great," I say sarcastically.

"He's popular, handsome, and sexy. This really could be worse."

"So, I have to somehow convince Ahmad that I like him, and I have to some day get him to kiss me. Which is going to be really hard. And I have to somehow get him to kiss me while I'm also having sexual intercourse with Alain?"

"I don't understand boys very well, Lida. But I can see how that could be a problem."

"What am I going to do?"

"Can you tell Ahmad you have a second personality you can't control? Um, like Jekyll and Hyde?"

"He won't believe that."

"No one's going to believe that. When I wake up tomorrow, I don't know if I'll still believe it. But . . . look, Lida, I don't know what you're going to do with your real life. You're already starting to change. But they're nice changes."

"Thanks." I can see how she's right.

"But to live up to this agreement, you're going to have a slutty side. Everyone's going to know about it. I don't know how you expect them to deal with that. They're not going to understand."

"So my cover story is that I have a second personality?" I'm going to have a really tricky life. It's going to be horrible. No, it's not as bad as my life before.

"Um, yes?"

"That's just strange."

She shrugs. "Everything's strange. What about the deal? Can you have sex with Alain?"

I think about it. "I guess so, I do a lot of things I don't like to do. Like sit in a boring class. Homework."

"Maybe you can enjoy it?"

"I'm a 10th-grader, June. I don't even want to enjoy it."

"It'll be like a sex ed movie."

"Ugh. In too many ways."

Then I see the note. "She left me a letter?"

"Not that I know of."

"She must have been up again after you went back to sleep." I pick up the note and we both read it.

I say, "That sounds like her."

"Yep. She's crazy."

"With a lot of anger issues."

June sighs dramatically. "I get so tired of being called the c- word."

We both laugh – June has never been called that in her life. But I realize . . .  "This reality is going to be different for you, too."

"You think? Last night I spent an hour talking to a sex-crazed alternate personality who looked exactly like you."

"Sorry."

She shakes her head. "No, it's okay. It was interesting." She's growing into her new role. And I think enjoying it.

I point out, "And, there are boys in this new reality."

She flashes me a big smile. "And there's that."

"Oh My God!"

"What?"

I arch my eyebrow at June. "If she was up again . . . "

June excitedly finishes my sentence. "She could have posted another picture."

We eagerly run to my computer to see.