Goodnight Tweetheart Read Free Page B

proved to be nothing more than the publishing industry’s equivalent of a one-hit wonder—a possibility that grew more likely with each passing day.
    She glanced at the log-in information Hillary had sent. Several of her writer friends were already all abuzz about Tweeter or Flitter or Titter or whatever the heck it was. From what she could gather, it involved communicating only in sound bytes that consisted of 140 characters or less.
    Prompted more by her lingering reluctance to haul her weary body into the bathroom than out of genuine curiosity, Abby clicked on the link Hillary had sent, then used the log-in information to access her account.
    According to the page that popped up, she was now “Abby_Donovan” and she already had seventeen Followers. Having “followers” made her feel like some sort of kooky religious cult leader. Instead of using her pub photo as her profile pic, Hillary had left it a neutral brown square. Which pretty much summed up the way she was feeling at the moment.
    An empty box invited her to answer one simple question—“What’s happening?”
    Her fingers hovered over the keys, torn between typing, “None of your business” and “I’m throwing myself a pity party. Bunny costume optional.”
    Hoping her readers would possess both a sense of humor and a sense of irony, she finally settled on, “I’m sipping Cristal on the beach at St. Tropez with Brad Pitt.”
    Nothing. Apparently users of Twitter had better things to do with their time than applaud her shallow witticisms.
    She drummed her fingers on the MacBook’s touchpad for a minute, then typed, “Hallooo…? Is anybody out there?”
    She refreshed her screen two times in quick succession. Still nothing. She decided to try one more time before retreating to the steamy oblivion of the shower. A message popped up on the screen, rewarding her persistence: “R U a virgin?”
    Taken aback, Abby studied the cheery little profile pic of a plump bluebird that appeared to belong to one MarkBaynard for a long moment before cautiously typing, “That depends. Are you auditioning for TO CATCH A PREDATOR?” and hitting the Update button.
    MarkBaynard’s response was almost immediate: “Glad to see you have such highbrow taste in entertainment.”
    A reluctant grin curved her lips as she typed, “What can I say? ROCK OF LOVE: TOUR BUS reruns can’t be on every night.”
    “Yeah & who hasn’t dreamed of marching up to some pedophile & saying ‘My name is Chris Hansen from DATELINE NBC & your sorry ass is toast’?”
    “Ha!” Abby typed, hitting the exclamation mark with a triumphant flourish. “So you HAVE watched TO CATCH A PREDATOR!”
    “Only when PBS is having a pledge drive. But I digress—R U a Twitter virgin?”
    “This is my first time,” Abby confessed. “But you’re not being very gentle with me.”
    She was growing increasingly comfortable with the rhythm of their exchange on the screen. It was like being in a tennis match with their words as the ball. Before she could draw back her racket, he lobbed another volley across the Internet:
    MarkBaynard: What can I say? I like it rough. So how did you end up here? Attention span too short for Facebook?
    Abby_Donovan: I didn’t like the answers to those silly Facebook quizzes. They kept telling me I was the love child of Marge Simpson & Marilyn Manson.
    MarkBaynard: Maybe you’re just secretly one of those people who would rather have Followers than Friends.
    Abby_Donovan: Yes, it’s part of my diabolical plot to achieve world domination.
    MarkBaynard: If you start hanging out over here, won’t your Facebook Friends miss you?
    Abby_Donovan: Those people weren’t my friends. If they had been, they wouldn’t have sent me all those annoying quizzes.
    MarkBaynard: A true friend never asks you to feed their imaginary fish. Or fertilize their imaginary crops.
    Abby_Donovan: Although with a little coaxing, I might be persuaded to take home your imaginary kitten. So how is