member but never set up an accessible Web
site. She seems to have been deeply involved in searching
categories for particular types of individuals.”
“Oh my God,” I say, hand to my mouth. “She was trolling.”
Shane chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe it’s called
Trapped
67
‘browsing,’ Mrs. Garner. Simply a way to search through the
millions of entries for someone you might find interesting.
The folks on MySpace often affiliate themselves with groups
or common interests. Just like people tend to do in real life.”
The Facers file contains dozens of images of young men,
mostly posing with their computers or leaning against their
cars. One has his shirt off, showing tattoos on his arms and
chest. Another, his new nipple ring. There are several motor-
cycles and a hang glider proudly displayed by boys who look
ready to die at a moment’s notice. All of it heart attack
material for the mother of a teenage girl.
“This is interesting,” Shane says, clicking on the photo of
the kid with the nipple ring.
“It must have hurt,” I say, wincing at the very thought.
“No, I mean what’s missing. Your daughter saved this
image, but there’s no indication she ever messaged this par-
ticular individual.”
“Thank God for that.”
“It’s true for most of these images,” Shane says, making
eye contact. “She was culling pictures but not necessarily
making herself known to the subjects.”
“But what does it mean?” I ask.
Shane shrugs. “Hard to say. Might just means she liked
the pictures. Maybe because they fit her definition of a Facer,
whatever that is. Kind of a wise guy, out-there type, maybe?
Any thoughts? Have you heard her use the word?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. The cool words change from day
to day, you know?”
“We can Google it later, if it seems to be pertinent. Right
now I’ll concentrate on the file contents.”
Shane scrolls through my daughter’s secret life, or her
fantasy life, all of it reduced to thumb-size snapshots. I’m
68
Chris Jordan
standing over his broad shoulders, close enough to smell his
deodorant—kind of a pine scent—aware that under normal cir-
cumstances this level of intimacy with a stranger would be, for
me, uncomfortable. But these are not normal circumstances. Far
from it.
“You think that’s how she met this Seth person?” I ask
“Because she saw his picture—his Facer—on the Web site?”
“Yet to be determined,” says Shane, manipulating the
keyboard with all ten fingers, a level of typing skill never
mastered by yours truly.
“Ah,” he says, as another folder opens. “Here we go. This is
linked to a message Kelly mass-mailed to forty-six recipients.”
He deftly places the e-mail in the center of the screen,
enlarges the font so we can both read.
Young, aspiring pilot looking for flight instruction. Willing to
help with cleaning, maintenance of aircraft. Ready to learn.
I’m too stunned to speak.
“You notice she doesn’t mention her age or gender, other
than to say ‘young.’”
“I never knew. Never had any idea.”
“That she wants to learn how to fly?”
“Any of it. Willing to help with cleaning? I can’t even get
her to vacuum the hallway! She takes care of her own room,
that’s it.”
Ready to learn. The question is, and it breaks my heart to
think it, was she ready to learn more than flying? Was this her
very clever way to make herself interesting to grown men?
“Four,” Shane announces.
“Four?”
“Responses to that particular e-mail.”
Trapped
69
The first response comes up with a snapshot of a guy who
has to be in his thirties. Deep in his thirties, with crinkled eyes
and a jaunty handlebar mustache. Wearing a distressed-
leather flight jacket as he poses in the open cockpit of an old-
fashioned airplane. Two wings, like Snoopy used to fly.
“That’s a Waco,” says Shane. “Famous stunt biplane. Big
bucks.”
“Stunt plane? You
site. She seems to have been deeply involved in searching
categories for particular types of individuals.”
“Oh my God,” I say, hand to my mouth. “She was trolling.”
Shane chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe it’s called
Trapped
67
‘browsing,’ Mrs. Garner. Simply a way to search through the
millions of entries for someone you might find interesting.
The folks on MySpace often affiliate themselves with groups
or common interests. Just like people tend to do in real life.”
The Facers file contains dozens of images of young men,
mostly posing with their computers or leaning against their
cars. One has his shirt off, showing tattoos on his arms and
chest. Another, his new nipple ring. There are several motor-
cycles and a hang glider proudly displayed by boys who look
ready to die at a moment’s notice. All of it heart attack
material for the mother of a teenage girl.
“This is interesting,” Shane says, clicking on the photo of
the kid with the nipple ring.
“It must have hurt,” I say, wincing at the very thought.
“No, I mean what’s missing. Your daughter saved this
image, but there’s no indication she ever messaged this par-
ticular individual.”
“Thank God for that.”
“It’s true for most of these images,” Shane says, making
eye contact. “She was culling pictures but not necessarily
making herself known to the subjects.”
“But what does it mean?” I ask.
Shane shrugs. “Hard to say. Might just means she liked
the pictures. Maybe because they fit her definition of a Facer,
whatever that is. Kind of a wise guy, out-there type, maybe?
Any thoughts? Have you heard her use the word?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. The cool words change from day
to day, you know?”
“We can Google it later, if it seems to be pertinent. Right
now I’ll concentrate on the file contents.”
Shane scrolls through my daughter’s secret life, or her
fantasy life, all of it reduced to thumb-size snapshots. I’m
68
Chris Jordan
standing over his broad shoulders, close enough to smell his
deodorant—kind of a pine scent—aware that under normal cir-
cumstances this level of intimacy with a stranger would be, for
me, uncomfortable. But these are not normal circumstances. Far
from it.
“You think that’s how she met this Seth person?” I ask
“Because she saw his picture—his Facer—on the Web site?”
“Yet to be determined,” says Shane, manipulating the
keyboard with all ten fingers, a level of typing skill never
mastered by yours truly.
“Ah,” he says, as another folder opens. “Here we go. This is
linked to a message Kelly mass-mailed to forty-six recipients.”
He deftly places the e-mail in the center of the screen,
enlarges the font so we can both read.
Young, aspiring pilot looking for flight instruction. Willing to
help with cleaning, maintenance of aircraft. Ready to learn.
I’m too stunned to speak.
“You notice she doesn’t mention her age or gender, other
than to say ‘young.’”
“I never knew. Never had any idea.”
“That she wants to learn how to fly?”
“Any of it. Willing to help with cleaning? I can’t even get
her to vacuum the hallway! She takes care of her own room,
that’s it.”
Ready to learn. The question is, and it breaks my heart to
think it, was she ready to learn more than flying? Was this her
very clever way to make herself interesting to grown men?
“Four,” Shane announces.
“Four?”
“Responses to that particular e-mail.”
Trapped
69
The first response comes up with a snapshot of a guy who
has to be in his thirties. Deep in his thirties, with crinkled eyes
and a jaunty handlebar mustache. Wearing a distressed-
leather flight jacket as he poses in the open cockpit of an old-
fashioned airplane. Two wings, like Snoopy used to fly.
“That’s a Waco,” says Shane. “Famous stunt biplane. Big
bucks.”
“Stunt plane? You
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