“Okay, fine. But first tell me what you did.”
“Just went to a party.”
“That’s it?” She sounds disappointed.
“A party that got broken up by the cops.”
“Oh.” She still sounds disappointed.
“Come on, Chloe. You haven’t done much worse yourself.” I almost smile. Wouldn’t Mom be proud? Here we are competing against each other. I think she’d always hoped we’d compete over grades or looks or anything really. Instead, Chloe opted out of the competition. Forged her own mold. Now we’re competing over who’s more of a rebel.
“I haven’t been caught doing much worse. That doesn’t mean I haven’t done worse.”
I consider her. This is the sister-to-sister connection we need. Finally I can talk to her about how she’s really doing, only I’m not sure where to start. I pull my legs in toward myself and shift to face her. “Don’t tell me you’re smoking weed.”
“I tried it.”
“Chloe …” I sigh. She’s so sassy that it’s hard to read her true feelings. “You’re too much. You’re not on the brink of some kind of hormonal teenage breakdown, are you?” I pause. “Are you okay?”
She smirks. “We covered this already. I’m not just okay, I’m fine. Fine boobs, fine ass, fine—”
And then I feel the need to shut her up. So I tell her, “Well, I got escorted home in a cop car.”
“Really?” Her face lights up like I just bought her a bag of clothes from Hot Topic.
“Really. And I did kiss a hot guy. In front of about thirty people.”
“No way! Maybe we have more in common than I thought!”
And then I decide I am just a teeny, tiny bit proud. And a whole hell-of-a-lot confused.
I am dead asleep when my cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. At first I’m not sure whether it’s real or a part of my dream. I try to wake up, and it feels like I’m pulling myself through water.
My eyes are bleary but I recognize the number right away. Janae. I pick up the phone to read her text. Wonder when Garth will check pockets and find bra?
I don’t have the energy to think about this, even though I know she’s trying to cheer me up. What if his mom finds it? In hamper?
She texts back right away. LOL. Then a few minutes later she texts again. You okay?
I respond. Been better.
The phone buzzes again, and I expect to see Janae’s number. But it’s Miguel. I’m sorry. The text reads. Lo siento.
I don’t text back, even though my fingers are itching to reach for the keys. Instead I lie there in the dark with my comforter wrapped around me like a cocoon, feeling the tightness in my throat that means I want to cry, but somehow I can’t.
And then I get pissed. Royally pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? He probably broke Eric’s nose. I don’t even really know him. Who knows what else he’s done. What else he could do.
I’m an idiot. Blinded by him because he’s a good kisser? I mean, come on. Am I really that stupid? It’s over. I should’ve known this wouldn’t last. I should’ve known better than to let myself get sucked into high school drama. Sheesh. I pull the comforter over my head and hate my life.
Stranger’s Manifesto
Entry 13
Ever been to a party?
A high school rager? A kegger?
It shouldn’t surprise you that
I don’t get invited formally.
My only invitation is
The pounding of the bass from down the street,
The smell of beer and puke in the air.
Sometimes I go anyway
To try to pretend I fit in.
I time my arrival for after
People are sufficiently drunk,
Plastered enough to think I belong.
And before the
Wailing of police sirens
Breaks the whole thing up.
Crazy things happen at parties.
The regular rules of the world
Don’t apply.
21
When I get home from clinic the next night, Mom is grating squash for some kind of casserole. I can tell she’s pissed by the rate of her grating. I know this because I stood outside the kitchen for a few minutes, trying to get the guts to walk in. The grating was slow, tired. Grate … grate … grate. Like that. But now I’m in the kitchen, avoiding eye contact, opening the fridge to study its contents. And she’s grating faster, probably because she knows I’m there and she has a zillion things she’d like to say, but she won’t break down and say them. Grate-grate-grate-grate-grate.
I grab something so she doesn’t bark at me for standing there with the fridge door open, wasting energy. We all have to do our part to be green, don’t we, Gabi? she’ll say. I shut the door and sit at our distressed kitchen table, feeling more than a little distressed myself. I open the blueberry container and eat one at a time, wishing I’d picked something else. They’ve been in the fridge for a few days and the skin is soft, so when they burst in my mouth it’s a slow, leaky kind of thing instead of a strong, big burst like it’s supposed to be. I chew slowly. I think antioxidants.
Mom’s back is turned, hunched a little, although she’s always after us to stand up straight.
“I really am sorry about last night, Mom,” I say. “I messed up.”
Now the grating is supercharged. GrateGrateGrateGrateGrate.
“People are allowed to make mistakes, Mom. That’s part of growing up, isn’t it?”
When she spins toward me, I automatically shrink back, like she’s gonna throw the grater at me or something, although she’s never done such a thing and I doubt she ever would. What I see etched in her face surprises me. It is not anger and disappointment, like I’d thought it would be. It’s something else. Sadness maybe. Regret?
“Someday, when you’re a parent, you’ll understand,” she says. She sets the grater on the kitchen table too hard, and little flakes of grated squash rain down. Her tone hardens. “You’re just like any other teenager, Gabi. You’ll think you’re invincible until you find out you’re not.”
“God, Mom. You act like I’m going to run out and do something irreversible or something. I’m a pretty good kid. Nothing I do is going to be irreversible.”
“Nobody ever thinks it will be. That’s the whole untouchable fallacy of youth.”
Whatever. “Look. I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll be more careful, okay?”
Suddenly her hand is gripping my wrist. Hard. “You are the only Gabi I have. I’ve centered my whole life around you two. Given up the things I wanted for me.”
No one asked you to, I want to whisper. We’re big now—you can go back to school. Or back to work. But I don’t say a word.
“You better be careful. The world is full of invisible booby traps.”
I want to laugh at the word “booby.” It sounds so foreign coming from her mouth. I don’t though. Not even a giggle.
I get seventy-three texts today. All with the words, I’m sorry. I don’t answer a single one.
“He hasn’t said anything about the bra.” Janae whispers to me the next day at lunch. “Not a word. Maybe they just found it in the wash and thought it was his sister’s.”
“Possibly,” I tell her, focusing on peeling my orange and specifically trying not to look toward where I know Miguel is sitting. The lunchroom feels like a battlefield with land mines everywhere. I don’t want to accidentally make eye contact with bruised-up Eric either. Although I rarely see him in the cafeteria. He’s probably one of those guys who eats lunch in the debate room. Maybe Beth’s eating there too. She’s clearly avoiding me. Except for in class, when she keeps her nose in a book, I haven’t seen her at all. Life is getting complicated.
“But what a waste!” Janae complains. “That had the potential to be one of the best pranks I’ve ever pulled.” She grabs my hands, orange and all, and turns me toward her. “Plus that was an expensive bra!”
I nod blankly.
“Oh, c
ome on, Gabi! Snap out of it.” She waves her hand in front of my eyes. “Just go talk to Miguel.”
I shake my head.
“You’re being a total bitch. No offense.” She takes the orange out of my hands and sets it on the table. “So he screwed up. Aren’t you the one who told me that we’re all screwed up?”
I nod again, but she’s not convincing me.
“So Miguel’s got a temper. So he’s a fighter. You got to be if you grow up in the barrio. But he was defending you, right? What did you want him to do, let some guy attack you and just stand there like a lump? I’m telling you this as a friend, so hear it. Get over yourself, or you’re gonna miss out.”
“I think we might be too different,” I tell Janae. “We come from totally different worlds.”
“Opposites attract.” Janae picks the orange back up and breaks it into pieces for me. “Besides, look at him. He’s pining over you.” I glance up and see him, all puppy-dogish, and then I look back down. “You’ve got to share a shift with him anyway. Have you thought of that?”
“You’ll come with me, won’t you?” I ask.
“I’m probably enabling, but what the hell. Yes, I’ll go with you.” She sighs, like I’m impossible. “Here, eat this orange. You’ve got to keep up your strength.”
We dump our stuff in the trash and head out of the cafeteria, only to come face-to-face with our school mascot, the statue of a bare-chested warrior, wearing a lacy white bra. Janae’s bra.
Janae squeals and hugs me. Despite my mood, I can’t help but laugh.
22
Every time I see Eric, he pretends the night at the party never happened.
At first I think he doesn’t remember. That the whole thing was one big, drunken blur.
That he doesn’t know how his nose got bloodied and his face bruised.
But he doesn’t ask me to study anymore.
He doesn’t stand next to my desk and offer me tips.
And he doesn’t look me in the eye.
Ever.
“Helpline, this is Torrie.” I’m experimenting with new aliases. I glance at Miguel to see what he thinks, but he keeps reading his magazine. After a total of 233 I’m sorry texts, he stopped trying. Suddenly there’s this coolness about him, like there’s some kind of on-off button to his heart, and all he had to do was flip the switch to disengage from me forever. Now I am rethinking my decision not to respond to any of his texts.
My thoughts are flying so it takes me a while to realize no one is talking. I say again, “Helpline, this is …” I forget my pseudonym. Janae leaps over to the pad of paper and writes Torrie with an exclamation point. I’ve got to start writing my name down when I say it. “This is Torrie.”
Silence on the other end.
I have less patience than I used to. In my six weeks on the Line, I’ve had my share of crank callers. “Hello? Anyone there?” I am just about to hang up, when I hear something that stops me. Sounds like sniffling.
“Sorry. I’m here.” The voice is soft.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“What does it matter?” I recognize her voice. I probably have a class with her. I hope she doesn’t recognize mine.
“It matters,” I insist, even though I know how hokey that sounds.
“That’s a load of crap. Nothing matters, but some people matter even less than others. I am one of those special someones who doesn’t matter to anyone.” There’s sarcasm there in an ugly kind of way.
“I bet there’s a friend out there who really cares about you.”
Janae waves her hands in front of my face, almost panic-like. She draws a big stop sign on my paper. You are not a shrink. Stick with what we practiced. I stick out my tongue at her. She returns the favor.
The voice laughs, all brittle and angry. “There are no such things as friends. There are people who pretend to be your friend so that they don’t have to sit alone at lunch. But no one really cares. If you think they do, then you’re as suckered as the rest of them.”
“It sounds like you’re feeling really discouraged,” I say, following Janae’s advice.
“No shit.”
And then I feel mad. Because here I am, talking to this girl on the phone, trying to be supportive, and she gets sarcastic with me? “What are you hoping to get from calling tonight?”
“What?”
I reword and try not to sound as irritated as I feel. “How can I help you?”
“You can’t help me. No one can help me.”
“How can you help yourself?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling you. Don’t they train you guys?”
I grit my teeth. Help! I write on my paper. Then Janae writes the smartest thing. So smart, I promise myself I’ll remember it for another time. I read it to myself once, and then I read it out loud. “You took the time to call tonight, which shows me that a part of you wants to help yourself.”
She makes this strange noise, this mmhmm that brings to my mind an instantaneous mental image. Of a girl. A girl that I know.
I am talking to Chloe’s friend. To Mel. The one who reminds me of Eeyore. The one who smiled when she asked if we’d ever touched our dad’s gun.
I soften my tone. I’m not trained for this. Paisley told us if we recognize a caller, we should pretend we don’t. Proceed like normal. But now that it’s happening, I feel panicked. “What were you hoping would come from your call tonight?”
“Honestly? Nothing. I have no hope that you can talk me out of anything. I just want to share the misery.”
I have to reach deep into the recesses of my mind to come up with a response. “It sounds like you’re looking for some kind of connection.”
“I guess. I wonder if that’s what she was looking for too.”
“She?”
And then I get another flash. This is the same voice I spoke to during my first call. Mel was the caller talking about Jo Moon, the girl who hanged herself. Mel, who thinks friends are not really there for her. Mel who smiles when she thinks about guns.
I take a risk. “Would you be interested in a referral to a community counseling center?” Because this girl needs a shrink.
“Why? You tired of talking to me? You trying to shove me off on someone else?”
This takes me totally off guard.
“Well, guess what? I’m tired of you too.” And with that, she hangs up. How rude!
Moral dilemma. I know the caller. But the Line is confidential—so what am I supposed to do with this information? It’s not like I can go to her house and follow up. Crap.
“You all right?” Janae’s voice is sharp. Worried.
I’m shaking. I try to straighten the desk, but my hands are shaking too bad. Miguel puts his hand on my arm, and I grab on to it with both of my own. I don’t know if I’ve forgiven him, but I do know it feels good to have his touch. His hands are warm and rough.
“Just some girl wanting to vent. I wonder how many times she’s called the Line. I know I’ve spoken to her at least twice myself.”
“Do you want to call and consult with Paisley?” Janae asks. “We’re supposed to debrief if we’re upset.”
“I’m okay,” I lie. I don’t want to tell anyone that I recognized the caller. Not until I figure a few things out for myself. Like who I can truly trust, for one. This will take time. Because I’m suddenly struck with the realization that I have no idea who the hell I can trust in this crazy world. The bomber is out there somewhere. Maybe it’s no one I’ve ever met. But what if it’s someone I know? What if it’s someone I think is my friend? What if it’s one of my sister’s friends? What if it’s even a grown-up with a revenge agenda?
I’m ninety-nine percent sure I can trust everyone in this room. Even though I’m pissed with Miguel for breaking Eric’s nose, that doesn’t mean he’s not a trustworthy person. And Janae is reaching best-friend status here really quick. But still there’s so much I don’t know about her. Garth’s the one I’ve known the longest, and that br
ings with it some kind of automatic trust. But he’s also the one I know the least.
Bottom line, the only person I know I can trust a hundred percent is myself. And so I say nothing. Mel has called before. She’ll call again. I will pocket this piece of information. And watch. And wait.
Ping! Are you still there? It’s 8:55.
I’m here.
Nothing.
Miguel types, We close at nine. Maybe tomorrow you can text earlier?
Nothing.
“Can I buy you a piece of pie?” Miguel asks as we walk out at the end of our shift. He shoves his hands in his pockets all deep, and for a second he reminds me of a little boy.
“I don’t eat pie,” I tell him, partly because it’s the truth and partly because I don’t want to make this too easy.
“Come on. Pie is supposed to be this American favorite. You know, like apple pie, pumpkin pie, lemon meringue …”
“The boy has a point,” Janae interjects. She’s a few steps ahead but clearly eavesdropping.
“You should at least pretend to mind your own business.” If I could see Janae, I’d kick her. But it’s so dark I can’t even see my fingers when I hold them up.
Garth jingles his car keys. “You call it, Gabi. Because I’ll drop Miguel at home if you’d rather skip the pie.”
And then of course he’s got me. Because I want to make up with Miguel. Even if it means sitting at some lame coffee shop with a piece of stale pie.
“Nah. Wouldn’t want to force you and Janae to give up your alone time,” I tease.
And so twenty minutes later I’m sitting in a dark corner of an all-night coffee shop. Miguel rearranges the packets of sugar and sugar substitute for the third time. He doesn’t talk. I’m not going to make it easy for him. The waitress comes and stands towering over us, putting on the pressure for us to order. I scan the menu and pick a scoop of fruit sorbet. Miguel orders chocolate cream pie.
“So you weren’t kidding about the pie,” he says, smoothing his napkin across his lap. “I have to ask. Why don’t you eat it?”
Are You Still There Page 11