Are You Still There (21 page)

“Those sound like Mom's words, not yours.”

He takes a monstrous bite of scrambled eggs, and I think he's buying time. “We're both worried about it.”

I translate for him. “So Mom's freaking out, and you, Chloe, and I have to go along with it to appease her. What about what the rest of us want? Or are we just all her puppets?”

Dad doesn't answer. Just takes another bite of his eggs and chews.

Decision made—those cards will stay in my pocket for now.

If it's Eric, I need to know.

If it's Eric, I probably messed him up big time with that incident at Cruz's party.

If it's Eric, maybe I can stop him.

I wait by his locker, watching the swirl of people around me bumping into each other, teasing, and pushing their way down the hall. A bunch of football players are messing with this shrimpy freshman, threatening to shove him in a locker. He looks like he's about to wet his pants.

I throw an apple at one of the football players, a good shot too, because I smack him square in the neck. He turns toward me, slapping his neck like he just got stung by a bee. I pretend to be twisting the combination on Eric's locker. The guy looks around, wondering where it came from. The warning bell rings and the football players all meander off, leaving the shrimp alone. He saw my shot apparently, and he offers me a mini smile of relief, then turns and books it in the other direction.

“You're in my way.” Eric elbows past me. His elbow bumps into my boob, but I think that's by accident. “Oh. Sorry.” He half meets my eyes.

“It's okay.” I edge back in front of his locker. “Eric, I want to talk to you.”

“Well, that's a problem, because I don't want to talk to you.”

He's not gonna make this easy. “Come on, Eric. I don't want you to think you're alone.”

“I'd have to be an imbecile to think I'm alone.” He tips his head toward the swarm of kids all heading to their classes. He snorts, and his eyes are hard. I realize this might be the first time in my life that I've really felt like someone hates me.

“That's not what I mean, and you know it.” I'm about to say more, but someone tugs on my hair from behind.

I whirl.

Miguel. He has horrible timing. But I wonder if maybe his timing was on purpose, because I see the way he is watching Eric.
“Vámanos
, Gabi. You're gonna be late.”

I turn back to Eric, and his face is dark. “Go, Gabi. Just go.”

Miguel tugs on my arm and leads me toward first period. “I don't like you talking to that guy,” he whispers in my ear.

“Well, you're not in charge of me, now are you?” I snap.

He turns me around a corner and pulls me to face him. “Look, Gabi. I'm not trying to be controlling. I'm just trying to look out for you.”

“Not to diss your machismo, but that's not your job. I can look out for myself.” I leave him standing there and slide into my seat a fraction of a second before the tardy bell.

That sure went well.

When I get home I see that Mom has left a note for Lucia on the kitchen counter, next to a check. “Work on the grout in the master bathroom. Spend extra time on the guest room, guest bath, and windows.” Her handwriting loops around in perfect circles. Next to the note is a check.

Apparently Lucia being Miguel's mom hasn't made her any easier to talk to. Mom's right back to avoiding as much interaction as possible. It's not like she can stop using Lucia to clean the house just because she's the mother of my boyfriend. But on the other hand, it
is
pretty awkward to have her keep scrubbing our toilets.
Sheesh
.

I briefly consider writing this note to her: “Dear Mom, I've been accepted to the school of your dreams. But I'm turning it down because I'm in love with the house cleaner's son.” I think she might go into cardiac arrest on the spot. Maybe I should tell her personally so I can dial 911 when she collapses.

So I search for her in the house, the Georgetown acceptance letter in my hand. Lucia's vacuuming upstairs, so that means Mom will be as far away from her as possible. I find her in her downstairs office, typing on her computer.

“Mom?” I ask, creasing and re-creasing the letter with my fingernails. “Do you have a minute?”

She stops typing and swivels toward me on her chair. She looks over her glasses at me. “What's up?”

I almost change my mind. I almost go back to Plan B, leaving a note for her on the kitchen counter. The vacuum stops upstairs. “It's about school.”

Furrows immediately appear on her forehead.

She takes off her glasses and carefully folds them up. She starts to speak, and then puts a finger to her mouth and seems to think for a moment. “Senior year is academically intense, sweetie. You need to drop a volunteer activity?”

“Mom, I'm tired of doing everything to make someone else happy. I'm ready to think about what I want. What makes
me
happy.”

Suddenly a glimmer of recognition shines in her eyes. “Oh. I understand.” She glances at the folded papers in my hands. “You're discouraged. Did you hear back from one of the universities?”

I feel frustration building up behind my eyes, and I hope it doesn't explode into tears. I don't want to cry right now. Maybe I should have written this all down. She isn't hearing me. “I got in to Georgetown,” I say softly. “Early action.” I watch her eyes light up, brighten with anticipation. “But I'm not going.”

I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.

31

Ping!
We're midway through our shift, and the Line is hopping with activity. The new text reads,
Maybe I finally found a winner.

I can tell immediately that this is from my “man problems” texter, because the computer links the previous texts to the current one. That helps for continuity. Mostly the repeat texters have been in communication with other shifts, so I can read what they wrote as well.

Right on! How do you feel about it?

Good. Mostly. Pause. Afraid to be burned, of course. But good.

Thanks for letting us know. What makes him a winner?

He's more mature. Not into playing games.

That all sounds good.

Yeah. Treats me good. For now anyway. That can change.

What will you do if that changes?

Run like the wind.

Sounds like you really thought this through.

Yep!

I crunch an apple while I scroll back into this texter's previous conversations. She's texted about five different times, all with relationship issues. I don't want her to get dependent on us—she should be talking to someone who knows her. So I text again.

Is there anyone you trust that you can talk to about these kinds of things?

Maybe. My sister is princess perfect, but it looks like she's loosening up. Maybe she won't judge me the way I thought she would.

Do you think you'll try talking to her?

Maybe.

Good luck!

I don't have time to think about it much longer, because the phone rings. Man, we're busy.
Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing
. “Helpline, this is Grace.”

I know it's him before he speaks. I can tell by the hesitation in his voice and the way he clears his throat. “Funny, you sound a helluva lot like the Gina I spoke to the other night. You sure have a lot of girls working this line with
G
names.”

“Cut the crap.” Out of my peripheral vision, I can see Janae, Miguel, and Garth snap their heads up. They edge closer to me.

“Well, that's not very supportive.”

“Look, I don't know who you are, but …”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I close my eyes as I listen to his voice, trying to place it. It doesn't sound like Eric, not unless he can change his voice quality. He's playing games with me now. I say again. “No, I don't know who you are, but I want to help you.”

“Well, that's a crock of shit.” The voice laughs, and the laugh grates on my ears in a familiar way. I do know that laugh, but I can't place it. Listening to the voice without the face makes me feel like I'm finding my way in the dark. “You're slow on the uptake, aren't you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody cares, that's what I mean. I've given plenty of people the opportunity to step up, and no one has.”

“I don't understand.”

“You're no different. Are you?”

I must hesitate too long in my answer, because he clicks off.

Miguel spins my swivel chair toward him. “Gabi?” he asks, touching my shoulders. I can't meet his eyes. He knows me too well now. “Gabi, what was that?”

I look at Janae. Maybe it's okay to tell? The bomber couldn't be anyone in this room. Right? Unless there are several people working together to pull off this whole thing. Like maybe it's too big for one mastermind, but a few people working together can pull it off? But that sounds so conspiracy theory. That doesn't happen in real life.

So I spill. I spill about the playing cards. I spill about the caller. I spill about the connection to Jo Moon, and I spill about my theory. That he's coming back to finish the job. Because he thinks we didn't get the message.

“His message is be nice to people?” Garth sounds angry. “And he's trying to get this message across by terrorizing a school?”

“I'm not saying it makes sense.”

“Remind me again why we aren't going to the cops.” This comes from Miguel, who doesn't usually have a whole lot of faith in cops.

“What would I tell them, for one? All I have are theories, not facts. Plus I read confidential material that I wasn't supposed to see. That's probably a prosecutable offense like tampering with evidence or interfering with an investigation. And if Dad knows this guy's sending cards directly to me, he'll pull me out of school.” Why do I feel like I'm defending myself? “But if we get any real proof, we'll go straight to the cops. I promise.”

“Gabi?” Miguel touches my arm. “I'm all for you going to this school, but if someone is targeting you directly, your dad needs to know.”

Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing
. We all stare at each other. “Helpline, this is George.” Garth picks up the phone.

The voice is so loud I can hear it from sitting next to him. It sounds like the caller has his mouth pressed up against the receiver. “I'm watching you.”

“What?” Garth stiffens.

“I'm watching you.”

“Who is this?” Garth demands.

“I'm watching you.”

Garth slams the phone down so hard my ears throb. “What the hell is this?” he asks me, as if I know. “None of us signed up for this. We're here to help people, not field threatening phone calls.”

“That was a different voice. He was talking so loud I could hear him,” I tell Garth. “That's not the bomber.”

“Well, maybe he has a partner.” Hmm. Conspiracy theory anyone?

Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing
.

We all jump. This time it's RAPP. A fellow helpliner calling in to chat. Garth puts the phone to his ear. We all watch as his face loses color. He doesn't say a word, just holds the phone out for us to hear. “I'm watching you.” The same voice. Whoever-the-hell-it-is knows the number to our private line. Whoever-the-hell-it-is might know the location of our secret office too. We are sitting ducks. I think immediately of the playing cards with the duck bottoms.

Garth slowly hangs the phone up. “Uh, Gabi? Now might be a good time to call the cops.”

32

Two hours later we're sitting in an interrogation room drinking soda and eating pumpernickel pretzels. Dad pushes through the heavy door and then grabs a chair, flipping it around so he can sit facing us with his chin on the backrest. I watch his eyebrows. They're all bunchy and stern, which is not a particularly good sign.

When we called him from the helpline office, I made my friends promise on their lives not to tell that I'd read the cards in his safe. All we were reporting was that we'd been threatened and that we thought we'd spoken to the bomber. If Dad knew I sneaked into his safe, he'd never trust me again.

Of course I was completely exposing our roles on the helpline, but at that point we didn't care. We'd thought about just dialing 911, but we didn't know how that would play out. Cops invading the darkened campus? Totally exposing all the privacy the Line had worked so hard to create? We decided it made the most sense just to call my dad. We gave him directions to the helpline office, and he came to pick us up, along with three plainclothes detectives from the squad.

“We were able to obtain the phone records from the incoming calls tonight.” Dad spreads a piece of paper out on the table. “You were right about the caller being the same. The last call on the helpline and the call on the back line were from the same number.” He clears his throat and looks mostly at me. “This was not a sophisticated caller. He called from his own cell phone.”

Garth lets out a heavy breath, like he's got all this pent-up energy inside and now it is deflating. “Well, that's good, right? Now we can catch the guy.”

Dad considers him. He drums his fingers on the table. “We'll bring this guy in and assess the situation. Certainly he made a threatening call. But does anyone see an inconsistency here?”

“I do,” I volunteer. “That caller is not the bomber.”

“How do you know?”

“Because our bomber is sophisticated. He doesn't want to get caught. This caller phoned from his own cell phone. That shows zero planning and zero sophistication.”

Dad doesn't exactly smile, but I see his eyebrows shift position and I know he is proud of what I just said.
Cop-in-training
, he probably thinks. “Exactly.”