Catfishing on CatNet Naomi Kritzer (reading strategies book txt) 📖

“Why do you think CheshireCat is an AI? I mean, how did you find this out?”

“They told me after I got all freaked by the screwdriver. Remember when the screwdriver showed up?”

“Steph, there’s no way. They’re a hacker, that’s all. They figured a few things out and they’re making other stuff up.”

“Like what do you think they’re making up?”

“Well, obviously they actually figured out your location, but I bet a hacker could do that. But all the stuff about following your dad around? They could have just made it up. All of it. We know he’s scary. Does it matter whether the stuff about driving to Sacramento is true?”

“Do you think I’m making this up?”

“No! No, of course not, Steph. I think CheshireCat is probably older than we are, probably for real a hacker, and they told you this story that they’re an AI to cover up something they’re doing that’s actually illegal.”

It had not occurred to me that when I told someone about CheshireCat, they would think I was gullible.

“They knew Ico’s number and real name,” I say.

“Maybe they got it from the admins?”

“They said they literally are all the admins.”

“Did you actually check that with Alice? I mean, maybe it’s true, that still doesn’t mean they’re an AI.”

I have not checked it with Alice, but that much, at least, is easy. I open my computer back up and send a message to Alice.

“Hi, Alice,” I say. “Can you confirm for me that you’re CheshireCat?”

“Of course this is me,” Alice says.

“Rachel is skeptical of the whole AI thing,” I say.

“Oh!” Alice/CheshireCat says. “That’s funny. I guess that’s reasonable, though! It’s arguably an extraordinary claim. Do you think I should prove it, or do you think I should just leave her thinking I’m a hacker? Because if you think everyone will believe I’m just a hacker…”

“SHE IS READING THIS OVER MY SHOULDER,” I type.

“Tell them I want proof,” Rachel says, her tone skeptical.

“She wants proof,” I type.

“Okay,” CheshireCat says. “Tell her that her father’s phone is currently at the IGA and based on the purchase receipts going to his email, she can expect him to arrive home with a gallon of milk, a bag of ground coffee, a pound of deli meat, and a 1.5-quart container of rocky road ice cream.”

Rachel falls back a step, her eyes really wide.

“He should be home in less than five minutes unless he’s detouring somewhere. It’s going to be really awkward if he eats the ice cream himself on the way home. Is that a lot of ice cream to eat in one sitting? Human stomachs hold slightly over one quart, so in fact you could probably CONTAIN that much ice cream, but I would not expect the experience to be enjoyable.”

Rachel puts the kettle on the stove and then goes and looks out the back window toward the garage.

“Does that sound like stuff he’d get?” I ask.

“He doesn’t usually get ice cream,” she says.

The car pulls in just as the water’s coming to a boil, and he comes up the back steps with a gallon of milk and a plastic bag. Rachel unlocks the back door and opens it to let him in.

“Did you get ice cream?” she blurts out.

He holds up the bag. “Rocky road!”

Rachel whirls to stare at me wide-eyed as she closes the door behind him. Upstairs, I hear a door close, and then her mother’s footsteps on the stairs. She’s wearing another paint-spattered oversized work shirt, and two tiny feathers drift away in her wake.

“I brought you ice cream,” Rachel’s father says warmly, and she gives him a kiss.

I kind of can’t deal with this. Any of it. Even if they’re going to give me a bowl of the ice cream, I just can’t, so I ignore Rachel’s plaintive glare, grab my laptop, mumble, “Excuse me,” and bolt upstairs to Rachel’s bedroom.

Upstairs, I take out my cell phone to see if my mother has texted me. She hasn’t. I don’t know for sure that she has battery power or anything, and although I could probably get Rachel to drive me over to the hospital right now for a visit, I’m afraid that going back will just increase the chances that they’ll get her info and put her under her real name. Even if my father tracks me down, he won’t know where my mother is, and he probably won’t go looking at the hospital. It’s actually probably a decent place to hide. As long as she’s there under a pseudonym.

I think for a while about what text I can send her that she’ll find reassuring. I don’t think I want to tell her that my father might be on his way. She can’t leave the hospital yet, and if she’s freaking out and trying, that doesn’t seem like it would be good for her.

Finally, I text:

Staying safe with a friend.

Txt me when you’re awake.

Love S

I stare at my phone for a while, but she doesn’t text back. I’d been hoping I could ask for the password for her computer, but I don’t think that’s going to happen today.

Rachel comes upstairs a few minutes later with two bowls of ice cream. She hands me one.

“Okay,” she says. “I guess I believe that CheshireCat is really an AI. Or … something.”

“Something?” I ask. “Like a wandering wizard or a demigod or…”

“The God of the internet. There could be a God of the internet.”

I think this over. “I think maybe CheshireCat is the God of the internet.”

“What sacrifices does CheshireCat require?”

“Cat pictures! Haven’t you ever noticed that the internet loves cat pictures?”

“I can offer it bird pictures…”

“CheshireCat likes bird pictures, too.”

“Hand-drawn henna art?”

“Oh, yeah.” I touch my arm. “Has it been enough hours?”

I slip out of my shirt, and Rachel rips open the little moist towelette of fixative and runs it over the art on my shoulder and arm. She opens up her closet so I can get a good look in