Are You Still There (12 page)

I pet her hair like she's a puppy or something. I know it's corny, but I can't think of anything else. “You wanna talk?”

“Nah.” She shakes her head. “Thanks for asking though.”

And because I don't know what else to say, I add, “Drama sucks.”

I stay in her room for at least an hour, stroking her hair. I turn on some music. I can't stop wishing she'd tell me what's really going on. And I can't stop wondering how well I really know my own sister.

I know it's sneaky but I don't care.

I'm going to snoop.

I wait until the following night when Chloe's out with friends and my parents are on a date. I search Chloe's room first. I yank open her closet doors and examine the row of holey jeans and ridiculous T-shirts. I pore through her desk drawers, realizing what a total slob she is. I sift through her panties and bras in her dresser drawer. I don't know what I'm looking for exactly. Weed? Razor blades? Cigarettes? Cloves? Those morbid Sharpie-filled playing cards? I don't find any of those things.

I scan the walls. There's not an inch of uncovered space. Chloe uses pushpins to tack up everything and anything she thinks is cool. Whenever she's got something new to add, she has to take something else down. There are posters from different bands, movie tickets, Pooh Bear and retro early childhood stuff, menus from her favorite restaurants, and random pages from magazines.

As a last-ditch effort, I lift up the side of her mattress. There, wedged underneath, is a diary. A locked diary. I never would have pegged Chloe as a diary kind of girl. As much as I would love to read whatever she's writing, I know I can't open the book without breaking the lock. So I wedge it right back under the mattress and creep out of the room.

On to the next snooping area.

I crouch by my dad's safe and twist the combination. On the top shelf there are two photocopies of cards clipped together. The original plus an additional one. Even on my best, most-perfect-daughter day, there's no way I could have not looked. I don't even feel bad about it.

It's a joker again. This time the Sharpie has been used to draw him an extra arm, holding a lit bomb. The block letter words edged around the outside say, I
can obliterate the entire school with the push of one button. Oblit-er-ate. ¿Comprende, amigo?

I feel a rush of panic shoot through every vein in my body. The Spanish scares me. Like, why did he write in Spanish at the end? Miguel's sweet face pops into my head. But every college-bound kid at Central takes Spanish or French for at least two years. Not to mention about a fifth of the students live in bilingual homes. So it can't mean anything. But still, this note is pretty scary. What if my dad is wrong? To me, it sounds like this guy will try again no matter what. And Chloe and I and all our friends will be sitting like ducks on a shooting range, waiting to be pegged.

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 12

If my teachers could see

The meticulous notes I'm keeping,

They'd moan and cry about

My wasted potential

And how far I could “go” if I really applied myself

Toward something that “really matters,” like school.

They'd kick themselves for

Overlooking me all these years.

I'm taking notes on people,

Studying them.

Talking to them and dissecting their reactions.

Figuring out what makes them tick.

Figuring out how to draw them into my plan.

I will coax them in

Until their feet are glued and they are stuck.

They are way too stupid to think of taking off their shoes.

18

MID-DECEMBER

“Maybe I can fix you up,” I offer to Beth at lunch. “Apparently I'm quite the matchmaker.” I point to Bruce and Katie, sharing their lunches.

“No time, Gabi. No time.” She's eating her own Oreos today. “Must stay focused. Life is a race. Don't want to fall behind.” Apparently this includes talking in truncated sentences.

“I'm dating someone,” I blurt out.

“What?” She sits, frozen. “Who?”

“You don't know him. He's not in any of our classes, but I wanted to introduce you. Maybe we can all eat lunch together.”

“Well, that'd be awkward.” She shifts to face me.

“Not if we add to our group. I can bring a few friends to join us. It'll be fun.” Although as I'm saying it out loud, I realize that merging my two factions of friends may be mission impossible.

I catch a glimpse of Miguel by the far tree, laughing it up with some buddies. “Here. Do you see the tall guy over there, wearing the white tee?”

“Yeah,” Beth says slowly, like I'm explaining a complicated calculus equation and she doesn't quite get it.

“That's him!”

“That's who?”

“The guy I'm dating!”

Beth turns to me with worry etched across her forehead. “Oh Gabi.” Her eyes soften. “You don't have to get all desperate on me. Lots of girls don't have their first real boyfriend until college. You're not behind schedule.”

I swallow hard, feeling suddenly scolded. “I'm not worried about being
behind
schedule. I wasn't looking for a
boyfriend
. I just like him.”

Beth makes a disapproving sound. “You don't need that kind of drama. No wonder you're losing focus on your classes. Besides, he looks like a player.”

“He's chill,” I insist. “I'll get him to bring one of his buddies. Haven't you ever wanted a Latin lover?”

“Only if he'd teach me Latin. I could bump up my SATs.” Beth busies herself packing up. “Gabi, I'm busy. I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but I don't have time to make new friends. Plus, why bother when I'll be away at college in a year? Besides, they asked me to chair the lunchtime Green Team meetings. So I won't be around at lunch anyway.”

“That'll look good on your college apps,” I say, knowing her early action applications were sent in long ago.

“Exactly my thinking.” She pats my shoulder, looking sad.

As she walks off, my throat tightens up and I want to cry. I feel like I'm losing my best friend. Maybe I am.

When the phone buzzes, we all jump. The shift has been busier than usual, probably because people are beginning to realize the helpline is really a resource.
Like, hello? We actually exist
.

It takes me a minute to realize that it's not the helpline number, but the back line, RAPP, that's ringing. No one knows RAPP exists except for us, the people on the line. The first three numbers are the same as the line's number, which are 555, and the last four numbers are 7277, which spell out RAPP. Miguel pointed out to me that it also could spell PASS or SAPP or PARS or SARP, but RAPP sounds the coolest. The RAPP line buzzes instead of rings, just in case we're on a call. It buzzes again.

Garth picks it up. “What's up?” he asks into the phone. “Oh, hey, Cruz.” He listens, then turns to us, his eyes all lit up like we just offered him a tofu steak or something. He tucks the receiver under his chin and says to us, “Raging party tonight. BYOB. Cruz's house. Wanna go after our shift? It should be really kicking by then.”

I lean into Miguel on the futon. It's the four of us. Miguel and me because it's our shift, and Janae and Garth because it's more fun that way. Janae has her head in my lap, and I'm braiding a small section of her hair.

“I'm up for it. Let's go!” Miguel wraps his arms around me. I breathe him in. Fabric softener plus spearmint gum.

Garth grins and tells the receiver, “We'll be there, bro.”

Janae sits up, rigid. “Sounds like kid stuff, if you ask me. Why would we want to sit around watching everyone get plastered off their asses?”

Her cheeks are pink, and she almost looks like she's about to cry. Of the four of us, I'd assumed Janae was the only real partyer. I've never been to a hard-core party like this in my life—the kind you see in made-for-TV movies, with everyone loud and drunk, and people chugging beer through beer bongs and girls dancing to music so loud it rocks the floor. This is not the kind of party a good girl (like me) attends. I can't
wait
to go!

“I've got to pee,” I announce, standing up.“Buddy system.”

“What's up, Janae?” I ask after we slip out of the office. The halls are darkened, except for the emergency overhead lights.

“Nothing.” She walks next to me, scuffing her feet against the floor.

“Come on, Janae. I think I know you pretty well by now. Something's up.”

She pauses for a moment, and all I hear is the squeaking of our feet. Then she says, “I can't party anymore. My dad sent me away to rehab ten months ago.”

“Oh.” This I didn't expect.
Rehab?

“That's where I learned to bead jewelry,” Janae drags her fingers against the wall.

“Wow.” I see Mom's face in my head all of a sudden, tsk-tsking because here I am surrounding myself with friends who've been to county school and rehab. “Congratulations?”

“Yeah. Well, when I first got out, I didn't know who to hang with. Most of my old friends still party. They say they understand, but they don't. I thought that by hanging with you guys, I wouldn't have to deal with the whole party scene. I know I can't slip up, because my dad will send me away again.”

“Oh.” We push into the girls' bathroom. “Why don't you just tell Garth that? He'll totally understand.”

Janae stands in front of the mirror, messing with her hair. She flips her hair one way. Then the other. “I'll scare him off.”

“What?”

“He's like a … a quality guy. I don't want to scare him off. If he knows how screwed up I am, he'll jam.”

I stare at her reflection. “Okay, first of all, no. He won't
jam
. And second of all, we're all screwed up, so welcome to the family, and third of all, who cares?”

Janae whips eyeliner out of her back pocket and relines her eyes. It doesn't look much different than it did when she started, but I don't say anything. Instead I put my hand on her shoulder. “Me thinks you need a prank to lighten the mood.”

“What?”

“You and Garth have this prank war going on, right?” I pause long enough to let her nod, and she does, with a confused look on her face. “So come up with some crazy prank—you know you love that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, but what? Hot sauce in his beer?”

“Won't that turn it red?”

“Maybe.”

“You could plant your bra in his jacket pocket when he's all buzzed and then accuse him of cheating on you.”

“Ooh.” Her grin spreads all wide, and I can tell she's imagining it. “You're sneaky for such a goody two-shoes.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I try to fake being pissed, but I can't help smiling and I know she's right. “Let's go together then, and I won't drink either. Beer makes me gag anyway. We'll stick together and hang out with the guys. Then we'll show off our master prankster skills. You think you can pull this off?”

“I'll be so good I'll even have you convinced.” She winks.

Our
Are you still there?
text comes in at 8:55, right on schedule.

I'm here

Nothing.

I text again.
I have to leave at nine tonight.

Nothing.

19

The “rager” party is just a dark house on the beach, with people crammed in so tight that there's scarcely room to breathe. Cruz's parents are out of town. There are cars lined up and down the street, double and triple parked. We pull into a spot about a block away. I can hear the bass of the music from there. Janae has thickened her makeup, and her face is plaster-stiff, almost like she's wearing an invisible mask of powder and mascara. If she moves her face, it might crack.

Garth and Miguel keep poking each other, like they're kindergartners again and just can't keep themselves still. I slip my arm through Janae's as we walk. She squeezes it. I squeeze back.

The house smells. Mostly like B.O. A little like spilled beer. And a faint odor of puke.
Lovely. This is what I've been missing?
Cruz is shoving someone out the porch door. “No smoking zone, buddy. You can only smoke outside.” The guy is stumbling and nodding.

Cruz sees us and frog-jumps onto Garth's back.
“Mi familia!”
He shouts to Miguel over the eardrum-shattering music. “Help yourself to the keg in the back. Free beer for family only. You guys count.”

I am flattered for a moment in a strange kind of way. That he considers us family. Strangely enough, I feel the same way. Something about it—the secrecy, the excitement, having a common goal, I don't know. But I feel like Cruz is family too, and I've only said maybe twenty words to him in my whole life.

We all follow Cruz through a dark hallway and into the kitchen. It takes about five minutes to figure out that there is only one refreshment at this party. Beer. There are no pretzels or chips or bottles of water. Just beer. The kitchen looks like it used to be decorated all fancy, with old-fashioned pictures of roosters and matching hand towels and baskets of fruit. But today it's dirty. Wet and muddy footprints tracked all over the tile floor in twisted patterns. Beer spilled across the counter, making it shiny and wet. Plastic cups everywhere, some half full, some empty.

Cruz pours large plastic cups for Miguel and Garth, who politely pass them to us. I shake my head slightly and say, “We're sticking with water tonight.”

“Seriously?” Miguel looks guilty. Like somehow us not drinking means he can't drink.

“Go ahead,” I tell him. “Have fun. We don't mind. We'll be your chaperones tonight.”

Garth is already chugging. He nods and offers us a thumbs-up. “Good thinking. You'll be our designated drivers tonight, and we'll swap next time around.”