"I don't exist," she explained to me softly.

"Why?" I yelled to the heavens. "Why you? Why me, the mother of you? What have we done?"

I found out about the smear campaign when I read a batch of saved e-mails my daughter left open on the family computer. She'd never done that before, so I figured she wanted me to read them. She did and I did and it hurt. The electronic missives went beyond mean to breathtakingly evil and they were attached to extensive buddy lists. It seemed that everyone knew about this except me.

I should have known. The phone never rang anymore, my daughter's grades were dropping and she had a hard time getting up in the morning. I constantly asked what was up. Finally, e-mails in hand, I asked again, "Are the girls mad at you?" She stared at me with old, sad eyes and said, "Yes."

What to do? Press for information? Sympathize? Call the mothers? Or do I do what I want to do and murder a bunch of girls for being spiteful adolescents?

Sound bitter? Well, I was a girl once. I survived -- just barely -- being left out of a chick clique. I know that sisterhood can suck. Plus, I've read Margaret Atwood's "Cat's Eye" and Mary Pipher's "Reviving Ophelia," and I know that raising girls is not for the fainthearted. But even an educated veteran of girlie bullying doesn't think it's going to happen to her daughter. And when it does, she realizes that the only thing to do is hope, pray and stick pins in dolls -- whatever gets you through.

I sought counsel from a wise and crusty high school teacher who advised that I stay out of it, adding, "What doesn't kill her, makes her stronger." OK, but what if it did kill her? It crossed my mind more than once when I couldn't wake my daughter in the morning. My heart racing, I would bend over to feel her morning breath on my cheek until finally her eyes would open and she'd begin telling me all the reasons she couldn't go to school.

The car pool line was the worst part of the day. I would pull up to see my daughter standing alone on the curb, scanning cars with wounded eyes. The rest of the girls huddled a regulation 10 feet behind her. Every time one of them climbed into a car, the rest would wave goodbye, making phone call hand signals and typing motions signifying, "Call me, e-mail me, we'll get right back on it as soon as we get home."

My daughter would walk slowly to our car, a tight smile glued on her face. She'd get in, lock the doors and turn her body toward the window. Then she would cry great gulping sobs of despair and misery and hopelessness. Sometimes, I'd want to laugh, sputtering something like, "Oh baby, if you think this is bad ..." Mostly I'd grip the steering wheel in cold, white rage.

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