Free Sad Desk Salad by Jessica Grose

website shows that Darleen is a Republican in a pretty red district. Her platform is the usual “yay babies, boo taxes” GOP agenda. If she can win the primary, she’s got the election in the bag.
    I open the e-mail to find a link inside. Is this for real? I try responding to the sender, asking that question, but my e-mail bounces back. Could it really be one of Darleen’s perfect children, fucking up on the World Wide Web?

Chapter Four
    I click on the link, which brings me to a password-protected YouTube URL. The e-mail informs me that the password is TheInvisibleWoman. I hesitate for a second—is this going to be a virus that infects my computer with endless porn pop-ups?—but my curiosity outweighs the fear. I click over to the site and type in the password.
    A grainy image of a standard dorm room appears on my screen: two uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs and a well-made bed topped with a Laura Ashley quilt. The only light in the room appears to be coming from a kitschy lamp shaped like an owl, which is perched right next to the bed. I hear a barely post-pubertal man’s voice say, “Come here, Becky. I have a surprise for you.”
    If this video is legit, then its star is Rebecca West, the rebellious, robot-making MIT wunderkind, and it will be Chick Habit gold. In all the press Darleen received, Rebecca was always cast as the true success story: She was not only the most accomplished but her spunkiness (she stood up to her mom sometimes!) proved that Darleen’s draconian parenting tactics did not break a child’s spirit.
    Darleen and the four girls appeared on the Today show around the time How to Raise a Genius came out. I remember Ann Curry turning to Rebecca and asking her if she ever regretted spending so much of her childhood inside learning a dead language rather than outside playing with her sisters.
    Rebecca smiled condescendingly at Ann and said, “I don’t regret a thing.”
    Now, on-screen, a lithe, slightly gawky blonde comes into frame. The video quality is mediocre, but she does look just like the cardigan-clad girl from the Today show sofa. This time the prim sweater has been discarded in favor of a lacy bralette and what appear to be bathing suit bottoms. I have to smile at her ensemble. This is definitely collegiate “I haven’t done laundry in two weeks” chic. But I’m also impressed with its brashness—Becky is definitely not thinking about her dear old mom or the Today show in this moment, prancing around half-naked in front of a camera.
    Suddenly a textbook covered in tidy lines of cocaine slides onto the table in front of the camera. I try to make out the book’s title. It looks like it’s called Understanding Intelligence .
    “Surprise!” the guy’s voice exclaims. Becky’s face lights up and she does a little victory dance. A twenty-dollar bill is pushed toward her, and she rolls it up with expert precision, her snub nose wrinkling with the effort. “You go first,” she tells the guy off-screen. “You paid for it this time.”
    The camera is put down for a second and all I can see is the Laura Ashley pattern up close while a deep snort reverberates. Becky’s companion picks up the camera again and points it right at her delicate face as she snorts one line, then two, then three. “Hey, hey!” the guy says. “Slow down, sister. Save some for tonight.”
    Becky picks her face up from the textbook and looks directly at the camera. As she dabs at her nose with her fingers, I notice what a guileless face it is. She’s got a wide, open expression and a smattering of freckles across that baby nose. She’s so pale that even in the terrible lighting you can see the faint blue veins on her forehead, which is surrounded by fine hairs so blond they’re almost white. I take a screen shot of her face, so that I can compare it with other photos later if I decide to post this.
    “Fine.” She sighs and puts down the rolled-up twenty.
    “Since I just gave you all that sugar,