Project Produce by Kari Lee Harmon

should be about so much more than that? I wish there was a way to prove that not all men were like that, even though I’d pretty much lost hope. I smiled as an idea hit me. Maybe these girls could go on the journey with me in learning the truth about men, and I could gain some much needed help with this project. “So, you girls like games. Would any of you be up for a little challenge?”
    All three stared at me with renewed interest, and I filled them in on Project Produce, then they eagerly agreed to be my research assistants. If anyone could find some answers, I’m sure Callie’s Angels--my new nickname for the giggling puddles of estrogen--could.
    “Good luck, Angels.” I waved as Red, Brownie, and Blondie left the table in a giggling fit.
    So I finished my lunch alone, listening to the steady hum of conversation and the clattering of dishes, thinking about what the girls had said. That’d be the day I’d put my big insecurity on display by squeezing it into a pair of low-rise jeans. And if a guy wanted to see what I had for breasts, he’d need a microscope, tight shirt or not. Guess I wouldn’t score big anytime soon. Not that I wanted to. I shook my head.
    That Jackrabbit 2000 was sounding better and better.
    Having any size produce I wanted, without getting into trouble. Now there was a thought. I chuckled, then grabbed my backpack and headed outside to hail a cab.
    I might not exactly fit in with the majority of the population here on campus, but I blended in with Queens just fine. Besides, fitting in wasn’t what I came here to do.
    I came here to hide.

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
     
    Once outside of the college cafeteria, I rounded a corner and picked up the pace. As I checked out the people behind me, I plowed right into someone.
    “Ooof! Hey, watch it, lady,” a pimple-faced kid snapped, then bent to pick up his books scattered about the shoveled sidewalk.
    “Sorry,” I muttered as I adjusted my backpack high on my shoulder and peered one more time behind me. Chills zipped down my spine. Another freaky little geek sat on a bench by the bus stop, staring at me.
    Thanks to Dylan’s phone call Saturday morning, every man under five-foot-six gave me the willies. Dylan had mentioned he wanted to come check things out again. Hang out and see if the Midnight Molester would show up, since it seemed strange this flasher freak had started targeting tall blondes.
    Yeah, right . I’d seen plenty of cop shows. The NYPD didn’t have the manpower or the tax dollars to hang out with one of many victims in a city with a ton of criminals. Cop sirens went off every day. In fact, two just this morning. I was sure they had better things to do with their time.
    I was pretty sure he had something else on his mind, but I wasn’t falling for any man’s line again. I told him as much, so he’d backed off. I’d seen his car drive by all weekend, but he hadn’t called again. My heart squeezed, but I passed it off as heartburn and reminded myself this was what I wanted.
    “Here.” I bent and grabbed one of Pimple Face’s books, jammed it at his chest, then hauled my rear end down the street.
    As I let out a shrill whistle, I waved my arm until a cab pulled up by the curb. I hopped in and rattled off my address, collapsing against the seat in relief. I couldn’t afford a cab, but I was too freaked-out to care. Safe for the moment. I laughed. “Safe from what? Freaky little geeks?” I muttered, and the cab driver glanced in his rear-view-mirror with a buckled brow. Couldn’t blame him. I thought I was a little nuts, too.
    The cab pulled to a stop in front of my apartment. I paid the driver and slipped off my backpack to search for my keys. A few minutes later, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled with awareness. Glancing around, I didn’t see anything, but I was sure someone had followed me.
    Oh, God . What if Dylan was right? My throat went dry. It wasn’t midnight, but he’d said the molester had changed things