Are You Still There (6 page)

And the phone doesn't ring again all night.

We get a text though, five minutes to closing.
Are you still there?

Janae scrambles to sit down at the desk.
I'm here.

The texter doesn't respond, so after four minutes, Janae texts again.
I'm here if you want to connect.

Nothing.

Strange.

“Look.” Chloe corners me in my room, reaching her hand into her back pocket and struggling for a moment, probably because her jeans are so ridiculously tight. Finally she gets a small piece of paper out.

It's a playing card, similar to the one I'd found in my locker earlier. It's a queen, only someone drew on the card with Sharpie. The queen's mouth is re-drawn like a dark, open hole, and her eyes are enlarged into blackened circles, making her look demon-like. There is a crude bomb by her feet, and the words
Tick-tock, tick-tock
in neat block letters.

“Did you draw that?” I ask her sharply. “God, Chloe, after what we've all been through, that's kind of sick.”

“No,” she retorts, and I can tell from the way her eyes narrow that she's pissed. “I found this. I'm showing it to you because I
found
it.”

“Where? Where did you find it?” I'm suddenly worried about her. Maybe this whole bombing thing affected her more than I thought it did.

She hesitates a moment, picking at her black fingernails. She opens her mouth and then closes it, like she isn't sure she wants to tell me.

“Spit it out.”

“Dad's wallet. It was in Dad's wallet.”

I start to ask her what she was doing sneaking through Dad's wallet, but I can read it in her face not to go there.

So I don't ask.

I examine the card carefully, turn it over a few times, and then hand it back to Chloe.

“I guess you'd better put it back then.”

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 5

Last year

I gave the lunchtime “Games” Club a try,

Dorky as that sounds.

At least it was an air-conditioned place to park my butt

During the
agonizing
forty minutes of lunch.

But get this—while there were at least six simultaneous card games,

No one seemed to have space at their table

For
me
.

I'm not sure they even noticed me standing there.

Waiting. And waiting.

Until I was tired of waiting.

Until I whipped out my solitaire cards as a last resort

And dealt my own hand.

So it wouldn't look like I was sitting all alone.

So I wouldn't have to remember

What it was like when I
used
to have

Someone to sit with at lunch.

So I wouldn't have to remember that feeling of hope

That I might not be on the bottom rung

Of the popularity ladder forever,

Because I know all too well

That feeling can burst.

All it takes is someone with a sharp pin.

8

The next morning, Chloe is texting and eating breakfast cereal at the same time. “You're making a mess,” I inform her and swipe a rag across the milk-splattered tabletop. Maybe it's our near-death experience, or maybe it's because going through Dad's wallet makes her a budding delinquent, but I feel this sudden need to get to know my sister. Like, who is she texting so desperately at seven o'clock in the morning?

I grab a banana and sit close enough to see the screen. I must've gotten too close, because she snaps up the phone and presses the off button on top. Rats. She's got the phone password protected, so there's no reading her texts on the sly.

“When did you get so paranoid?” I throw out, more irritated than I should be. I am trying to
connect
with her after all, not piss her off.

We hear Mom vacuuming upstairs. Every morning she uses a little handheld DustBuster to snatch up any loose hairs after she's done washing, drying, and styling.

“Oh, around when Mom got so neurotic.” Which has been, like, forever. Chloe grins, and now she doesn't look pissed at all. She's hard to read, my sister. I'll have to keep trying. We connect best when we're making fun of our parents. It's a pastime.

In that spirit, I hold up the sticky note that Mom has left on the counter.
Wipe down fridge. Unload dishwasher. Water plants
.

Chloe rolls her eyes. “That's what I'm saying.”

The note is not for us. It's for Lucia, who comes once a week to clean. Her note sits on the kitchen counter, where Mom always leaves extra instructions and the check. Mom feels weird about having a cleaning lady, I guess, so she basically pretends Lucia doesn't exist. She manages this by avoiding all interaction with Lucia, except by sticky notes.

“Ya gotta love her, right?” I wink, re-sticking the note onto the counter.

“That,” Chloe says, sighing, “is debatable.”

Heat seeps through the bottom of the cardboard pizza “to go” box, warming my fingers. I just finished a mega cram session with Beth. It's seven thirty, and I'm bringing Garth “payback pizza,” sustenance for his shift tonight. There are four cars along the darkened street, probably belonging either to neighbors or to my fellow helpline members. We've agreed not to park in the lot so that we don't attract unnecessary attention to ourselves.

As I approach the building, I wish I'd parked closer. The overhead lights seem few and far between, and the darkness envelops everything. I can hear my own footsteps against the concrete. Suddenly I think about how stupid this is, coming here so late and by myself. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, but I think I hear someone behind me. I'm tempted to stop and whirl around. Instead I move faster. I clutch my car keys in my right hand, thinking I can use them to gouge someone's eyes out.

I push through the outside door of the C building and slip inside. If someone tries to follow me in here, I'll definitely hear him. There is no way to open that heavy outside door without being heard. I think I'll feel safer once I'm indoors, but it's dark inside too. Only the emergency lights dimly mark my path.

I grip my car keys so hard that my fingers hurt, and I barrel toward the storage closet-helpline office. I type in our secret code and then slip inside as quickly as possible. The bright lights nearly blind me.

“Welcome!” Garth opens his arms wide and accepts the pizza box from me. He tips up the lid, and the smell of spicy sauce and melted cheese wafts out. Janae was apparently invited too, because she's sprawled across the futon, shuffling a hand of playing cards. The sight of a queen, face up, startles me.
God, I'm jumpy
. I can't even lay eyes on a deck of cards without thinking of those creepy notes. Once Garth catches sight of me, his smile fades. “What's wrong with you?”

I'm embarrassed, but I can't hide my shaking hands. “Oh, I just got creeped out walking in.”

Janae nods. “It is pretty dark out there. Coming in alone mid-shift is probably not smart.”

Garth sets down the box. “My bad,” he apologizes. “I didn't even think of that when I texted you guys.”

“No worries,” I assure him. “I mean, you brought us food the other night and it was no big deal.”

“Yeah, but it was about an hour earlier, and it's a little different for me to be walking around late at night than it is for you … no offense.”

“There'd have to be at least four guys to take you down, huh?” Miguel swivels around at the desk. I hadn't noticed him when I walked in. How funny that I'd just assumed Garth and Eric were partners. Miguel's wearing those purple Vans again, and for the first time I notice that he's doodled all over them. Neat block letters in Sharpie, so small that I can't make out what they say.

“It's okay.” I stumble over my words. “I'm okay. Just being paranoid.”

Garth shakes his head. “Someone threatened to blow up our school two weeks ago. There's no such a thing as being too paranoid. If you both can stay until our shift ends, I'll walk you to your cars.”

I really shouldn't stay, but I don't want to walk out alone either. I look to Janae. “I can stay,” she offers.

I have a ton of reading for English, but maybe I can fake it in class even if I don't finish. “I can stay too.” I text Mom that I'm volunteering tonight, and then I settle back on the futon. Janae plays with my hair, and I listen to them talk about random things. I haven't just hung out in forever. I forgot how nice it feels.

Riiiiiing
. We all freeze.
Riiiiiing
. Garth and Miguel scramble to get themselves set up.
Riiiiiing
. “You can take it,” Miguel offers.

“Nah, you go first,” Garth volleys back.

I'm just about to pick it up myself when Miguel grabs the phone. He takes a breath and then speaks in that calm, slow voice that we've practiced. “Helpline, this is John.” The quality of his voice surprises me. It's deeper, thicker, and more fluid. I don't hear any trace of an accent. Miguel spreads the note-taking pages out so that we can all reach them.

“What a joke.” I hear the voice on the other end of the phone, far away but still clear enough to identify. Miguel holds the phone slightly away from his ear.

Miguel pauses for a moment, looks up to us, then goes on, “I'm here to listen.”

“Listen, my ass. You're here to spy.”

“Excuse me?” Miguel lets his accent slip a little.

“This is all a sorry-ass attempt to investigate people. I know you've got wiretaps.” Miguel looks up again at us.
Wiretaps?
he writes.

I lean over to scribble on the notepaper.
To record phone calls
.

“I'd—uh—I'd like to hear more about that.” Miguel stumbles. Garth draws a happy face on the paper.

“I bet you would.” The voice laughs. “You think I'm an imbecile? I know you're just a setup to try to catch the bomber.”

My heart catches. I look at Janae, and her eyes are wide. Miguel writes a big question mark on the paper.
Talking about bomber. Don't know what to say
. I lean over again to write. I can smell Miguel's cinnamon gum and something else, maybe aftershave. Miguel's got a little stubble going on. I write,
What did you call to talk about?

“So, uh, what would you like to talk about tonight?”

Again the caller laughs in a hardened way. His laugh sounds old, but his voice sounds like a high school kid. A bitter, angry high school kid. “I'd like to talk about what a shithole mess Central High is.”

Pause. “I'm here to listen.”

“What are you, a goddamn robot? Can't you think for yourself? You just gonna parrot back all the crap they taught you at whatever ridiculous little training class they made you go to.”

I see a fine line of sweat build along Miguel's upper lip. “You sound angry.”

“You'd be too if you had to deal with the crap I have to deal with.”

Miguel's voice is smooth as pudding. “What kind of crap?”

The caller cackles again. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

Miguel swallows hard, and I feel sorry for him for a moment. He takes a breath and says, “I'd like to help you talk about it.”

“I bet you would.” Another cackle. “All I'm gonna say is that things had better change around here.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nice try.” The caller slams the phone down and Miguel jumps.

We all sit in silence for a moment, digesting.

“Gabi, your dad's a cop,” Janae says slowly. I see Miguel's eyes flick toward me and back to Janae, surprised almost. “Do you think they're using us to gather information? Are they tapping these calls?”

Everyone looks at me expectantly. “Would that even be legal? To advertise this as a confidential helpline, and then tap and trace the calls? I don't think they can do that.”

“Not even to investigate someone who made a terrorist threat? Not even to save lives?” Janae presses. Miguel's rich, brown skin looks pale in the fluorescent light.

“I don't think so,” I repeat, but even as I say it, I'm not sure. Suddenly their eyes feel mistrustful, and I shift in my seat. “Would it make that much of a difference if they were? I mean, people can still call to talk about their problems. We can still support them. If the bomber calls, and the police figure out who he is, then isn't that kind of a good thing?”

Janae unclasps her ankle bracelet and examines it. “Do you think that guy who just called … Do you think
he
is the bomber?”

We all look at each other for a long time.

I think we're all grateful that the phone doesn't ring again. But just before we head out the door, we get a text, same as last night.
Are you still there?

Garth types back,
I'm here.

And then … nothing.

9

“Why do people run to watch a fight?” I nudge Beth. We watch excitement catch like fire, and kids racing toward the B wing, as if someone's tossing free money in the air. “We all know it's gonna get broken up. Yeah, someone might be bloody, but who cares?”

“It's our voyeuristic culture.” Beth takes a tiny bite of her sandwich. “That's the whole basis of reality TV. Everyone likes a good train wreck.”

“Not me.” I set down my Greek yogurt.

“Train wrecks are bad,” Bruce chimes in mid-crunch.

“Well, you're smarter than the rest of these idiots,” Beth tells him, and he smiles. There's a tiny bit of Oreo in his teeth, but he's still cute.

Some kid's barreling toward the fight so fast that he nearly collides with our half-clad Native American statue. “You ever wonder why our mascot is a ‘warrior'?” I ask.

“Duh. Because this was all Chumash land, way back when.”

Beth looks like she's about to launch into a history lesson, so I stop her. “Yeah, but don't you think they should've picked something more PC? Less violent?”