Gimme a Call

by Sarah Mlynowski

  For Chloe, my little sweetheart

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you thank you thank you to:

  Todd Swidler, my ever-patient, always-supportive, extra-loving husband, who talked me through many, many drafts of this book.

  The people who made it happen: Wendy Loggia, my fabo editor; Laura Dail, my incredible agent; and Tamar Rydzinski, the queen of foreign rights.

  All the awesome Random House Children’s Books people: Beverly Horowitz, Chip Gibson, Krista Vitola, Kelly Galvin, Tamar Schwartz, Isabel Warren-Lynch, Kenny Holcomb, Adrienne Waintraub, and Jennifer L. Black.

  Richie Kern and the rest of the people at WME; Andy Fickman and Betsy Sullenger at Oops Doughnuts Productions; and the people at Paramount.

  Aviva Mlynowski, who sang my praises to the movie people—thank you, Squirt! Love you!

  To my amazing early readers (I could not have done this without your many insights … I was too pregnant and caffeine deficient): Elissa Ambrose, my mom, who read the book as I wrote it; Lauren Myracle, the master of praise and encouragement; Lynda Curnyn, for her reading and commenting overnight; Ally Carter, who reminded me to show instead of tell; and Jess Braun, for showing me where to add depth. Emily Jenkins, for telling me all the places to trim.

  Targia Clarke, for her help with Chloe.

  Love and thanks to my family and friends who kept me company while I wrote: Larry Mlynowski, Louisa Weiss, John and Vickie Swidler, Robert Ambrose, Jen Dalven, Gary Swidler, Darren Swidler, Shari Endleman, Emily Bender, Heather Endleman, Shaun Sarno, Leslie Margolis, Alison Pace, Bennett Madison, Cassandra Clare, Scott Westerfeld, Maureen Johnson, Justine Larbalestier, Lauren McLaughlin, Robin Wasserman (and thank you, Robin, for letting me interview you about Harvard!), Libba Bray, Farrin Jacobs, Kristin Harmel, Bonnie Altro, Jess Davidman, Laura Accurso, Avery Carmichael, and Bob.

  chapter one

  Friday, May 23 Senior Year

  I should just return Bryan’s watch to Nordstrom and go home. Instead, I’m sitting by the circular fountain in the Stonybrook Mall, staring at the window of the Sunrise Skin Spa. It features a poster of a wrinkle-free woman and the slogan Go Back in Time.

  Sounds good to me. If I could go back in time, there’s lots I’d tell my younger self. Including:

  In third grade, do not let Karin Ferris cut your bangs. Your best friend is no stylist. She’s going to accidentally cut them too short. And too crooked. And she won’t always be your best friend either.

  In fifth grade, do not put marshmallows in the toaster oven, even though it seems like a good idea. Toasty! Gooey! Yummy! No. When they expand, the tip of one of the marshmallows kisses the burner, and the toaster catches fire, and your entire family will forever bring up the story about how you almost burnt the house down.

  Sophomore year: don’t leave your retainer in a napkin in the cafeteria—unless you want to wade through three spaghetti-and-meatball-filled garbage bins to find it.

  This December: do not buy the Dolly jeans you like in a size 4 because you believe they’ll stretch. They will not.

  May twenty-first: do not buy Him a silver watch for a surprise graduation present, because then you will spend senior skip day at the mall returning it. Which brings me to the most important tip.

  About Him. Bryan.

  If I could go back in time, the most important thing I would tell myself would be this: never ever fall for Bryan. I would warn fourteen-year-old me never even to go out with Him in the first place. Or even better—the party where we officially met when I was a freshman never would have happened. Okay, the party could have happened, but when he called me later and asked me out, I would have said no. Nice of you to ask but I am just not interested. Thanks but no thanks. Have a nice life. Maybe I’d tell myself to stay home instead and organize my closet.

  Imagine that. Talking to my fourteen-year-old self. I wish.

  I spot Veronica at Bella Boutique, right beside the Sunrise Skin Spa. She waves. I wave back. “Devi! Come see my new stock!” she calls. “It’s stunning!” As if I’d listen to her. She’s the one who swore up and down that my jeans would stretch. “I’ll give you the employee discount!” she offers, even though I haven’t worked a shift since the winter holidays.

  “I’ll come look in a minute,” I call back to her. I rummage through my purse, find my phone, and dial for my messages. I want to hear the one he left this morning. Again. I’ve only listened to it once. Fine, seven times. I know: pathetic. But I keep hoping each time that it’ll be different.

  “Hi, Devi. It’s me.” Bryan’s voice is low and raspy, like a smoker’s. We tried cigarettes once, together, at the Morgan Lookout on Mount Woodrove when we were sophomores. But when we kissed, he tasted like a dirty sock, so that was the end of our smoking.

  Until our relationship went up in smoke.

  “I wish you’d answer,” his voice continues. “You always answer.” A pause as though he’s waiting for me to answer. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m really, really sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  The message is still playing in my ear, but I can barely hear, because now I’m crying, and my cheeks are all wet and my hand is all wet and how could he have told me he loves me when he obviously doesn’t and—

  Splash!

  Like a bar of soap in the shower, my cell phone has slipped through my fingers and landed in the fountain.

  Superb. One more thing to tell my younger (by two seconds) self: don’t drop your cell phone into a house-size saucer of green chlorine. I peer into the water. A flash of silver twinkles up at me. Is that it? Nope. It’s a nickel. The pond is filled with coins in addition to my phone. Are there really people out there who believe that throwing a nickel into the water can make a wish come true?

  Aha! I see it, I see it! I stretch out to reach it, but it’s a bit too far away. I lie down on my stomach and reach again. A little more … almost there …

  The cell phone gets pulled further out of my reach by the swirling water jets within the fountain. Ah, crapola—I’m going to need to get in there.

  Luckily, I’m wearing flip-flops. I look around to make sure no security people are watching, then stand on the bench, roll up the bottoms of my oxygen-depriving Dolly jeans, and step in.

  Cold. Slimy. When I look down, my toes are bloated and tinted green. Maybe the water is radioactive and I’m turning into the Hulk.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Harry Travis and Kellerman marching through the mall like they own the place. Harry—definitely one of the best-looking guys in our class—has dark hair, a muscular build, intense blue eyes, and the rosiest skin. He also has this sexy stubble going on—very rugged and hot. And Kellerman—everyone just calls him Kellerman—looks like he’s already part of a frat. He’s always wearing his older brother’s Pi Lambda Phi hat, and sweatpants.

  I duck down so that the coolio senior duo won’t see me. That would just make today perfect, wouldn’t it? The water soaks through the knees of my jeans. Crap, crap, crap! When the guys turn in to the food court, I find my footing and try to relocate my phone. And there it is again! Yahoo! Balanced on top of a pyramid of nickels. Got it. Yes!

  Now all I have to do is safely make it back to the side …

  Splat. The swirls of water push me over, and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my butt. Great. Just great. My eyes start to prickle.

  I heave myself up and back to the safety of the fountain’s edge, leaving a trail of shiny green droplets. I ignore my sopping wet jeans—maybe the chemicals will help them stretch?—and wipe my phone against my shirt, as if that’s gonna help. Please don’t be broken, please, please, please. I press the power button.

  No sound. No connection. No nothing.

  I spot Veronica staring at me. “You okay?�
� she hollers.

  Um, no? “I’m fine!” I wave, then turn back to the phone. I press power again. Still nothing. I press the one button. Nothing. The two. Nothing. Three, four, five, all nothing. Six, seven, eight, nine, the pound button, the volume button. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I kick the floor. My flipflop makes a squishy sound.

  I hit the power button. Again. Nothing.

  I hit the nine, the eight, the seven, the six, the five, four, three, two, one, the pound button, the volume button. All nothing.

  I press the send button. The phone comes alive.

  There we go. I have no idea who I called, but it’s ringing.

  chapter two

  Friday, September 9 Freshman Year

  The first time she calls, I’m sitting beside Karin Ferris and across from Joelle Caldwell and Tash Havens at our table in the cafeteria, the one in the back next to the garbage. Not ideal, since the location has a definite decaying-meat scent, but as far as I can tell, we’re lucky to get any table. Some freshmen are sitting on the floor.

  My two-week-old cell phone vibrates next to my half-eaten burnt grilled cheese and undercooked fries. Last week at orientation we were told that all us Florence West High School students—I’m finally a high school student! Crazy!—have to keep our cell phones on mute. There’s so much vibrating going on in here, you’d think the cafeteria was built over a subway. It isn’t, obviously. There is no under ground transit in Florence, New York.

  “Is that your sis?” Karin asks while slurping down a chocolate milk. “Tell her I say hi.”

  I get a quick glance at the Banks name on the caller ID and hit send.

  “Hey, Maya!” I say, trying not to open my mouth too wide when I talk, as I suspect that a wedge of cheddar might be lodged between my two front braces. I hate these things. Yes, I have clear brackets, so it’s not like I have a mouthful of metal, just a metal wire, but ever since I got them on last week, I’ve been constantly getting food stuck in there. Cereal, grilled cheese, undercooked fries—if it’s on a plate, it’s most definitely in my braces. “Hi!”

  “Hello?”

  “Finally! I’ve left you two messages this week! I know UCLA has a three-hour time difference, but I’m sure a smarty-pants like you can figure out how to get in touch,” I tell her.

  “Excuse me?” a girl says. A girl who isn’t Maya. Huh? I look again at the caller ID but now it’s blank.

  Hmm. I have no clue who I’m talking to. But her voice sounds familiar, so maybe I should. It’s like I’m watching a game show and I know the answer, I do, but it’s on the tip of my tongue and I can’t get it out. “Who is this?”

  “Sorry, I think I called the wrong number,” the girl says.

  “No problem,” I say, and hang up. I return to my grilled cheese.

  “So what are you guys doing this weekend?” Karin asks.

  “Nothing,” Joelle says with a sigh. She adjusts her denim mini and off-the-shoulder blouse. “There is nothing to do. Maybe we should take a shopping road trip.”

  “To where? Buffalo?” Tash asks.

  “Noooo, Buffalo is so lame. Let’s go to Manhattan.”

  “Shall we take our flying bicycles?” Tash asks, rolling her massive and stunning green eyes. I don’t know why she hides them behind glasses instead of wearing contacts. She hunches over when she sits too. I’d tell her to sit up straight and show off her height and supermodel’s body, but I don’t know her well enough yet.

  “I wish we didn’t live in the middle of nowhere,” Joelle whines.

  “You can’t be bored two weeks into high school,” Karin tells her.

  “I can and I am,” she says. “I’m thinking of joining yearbook. Anyone want to do it with me?”

  None of us respond.

  “You all suck.” She sighs. “I have to find out if there are any parties this weekend. See where my future husband, Mr. Jerome Cohen, will be.” She wiggles her pierced eyebrow.

  I would definitely not mind going to a party with cute boys. I haven’t had a boyfriend since Jarred Morgan, last year. We were together for four months. Before that was Anthony Flare. His name should have been warning enough. I should never have gone out with him. Karin liked him but she didn’t tell me until after the two months we were together.

  There are a few hotties in my classes. There’s Harry Travis, who has gorgeous eyes, but doesn’t hide them like Tash. His hair is dark, and he has the rosiest, softest-looking skin. He looks like he could play a TV heartthrob. And there’s Joelle’s Jerome Cohen, who’s obviously off-limits, being Joelle’s future husband, but still adorable in his low jeans and nineties band T-shirts. And there’s this one guy I’ve noticed in the halls a few times, whose name I don’t know. He doesn’t usually stay in school for lunch, and I have no classes with him, but he has cute spiky hair and a big smile. I’ve never been on the receiving end of the smile, but I’m working on it.

  My phone vibrates again. Another wrong number?

  Joelle picks it up and squints at the caller ID. “You’re calling yourself,” she says.

  I’m not sure what she means until I glance at the screen and see that it says my number. And my name. Now that’s just weird. “Hello?” I say again.

  “Oh, hi,” the same girl as before says. “That’s weird. I was trying to call my voice mail. I don’t know why I keep getting you.”

  “Don’t know why either,” I say. I hang up again and take another bite of my sandwich.

  The phone vibrates again.

  Joelle leans over the table. “Who is it?”

  I take another look at the caller ID. Still says my number. “Me again,” I say. I take a quick sip of my apple juice, trying but failing to unstick the piece of cheddar in my teeth.

  “There’s something wrong with my phone,” the familiar-yet-still-unidentified voice says. “I dialed my mom at work and I still got you. Can you tell me who I called?”

  “Devorah Banks,” I answer in my polite voice, the one I use with teachers, new people, and dogs. I don’t know why I use it with dogs. It might be because the very sight of their big mouths and sharp vampire teeth makes me break out in hives and I hope they’ll interpret my courteous tone as a peace offering.

  “Oh, good, you know me,” she says.

  “I do?” I ask.

  “Well … you just said my name.”

  I press the phone hard against my ear to try to block out the chaotic noise of the caf. Am I missing something? “What are you talking about?”

  “Who is this?” she asks again.

  “This is Devorah Ba—” I stop in midname. Why am I giving out personal info to a stranger on the phone? “Sorry, but who is this?”

  “Look,” she barks. “My jeans are sopping in green goo and I’m having a really bad day. Can you please just tell me who I’m talking to?”

  “Um …,” I say, and then giggle.

  I giggle a lot. When I’m nervous, when I’m happy, when I’m around boys, when I’m sitting in class. Seriously. On Monday, I was at Karin’s house and I pressed play on her tape recorder. She tapes all her classes, including American history (one of the two classes I have with her)—she’s kind of a perfectionist that way—and the next thing I heard was my giggling reverberating around her bedroom. Like a hyena. He-he-he-he-he-he. So awful. Giggling, in American history! There’s nothing funny about Ms. Fungas’s history class. Except her name, which is downright hilarious. Fungas! Tee-hee. There I go again.

  “Obviously you know me. You just said my name,” the girl on the phone snaps. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”

  Er. Is this some kind of scam? A telemarketer trying to get my information so she can steal my identity and charge a Thanksgiving trip to Panama on a fake credit card? If only I had a credit card. Maybe I should steal my own identity. Instead, I ask, “Would you like to tell me what number you’re trying to call?”

  “I tried to call my mom’s number at work! And before that I tried to call my voice mail! And before that I just hit
the send button!” she says, her pitch rising. “But each time, the display just has these weird symbols on it!”

  “Well, you called me,” I say, starting to get annoyed.

  Joelle waves at me from across the table. “Do you know who it is yet?”

  I shrug. “No idea.”

  “Then hang up,” she orders. “You’re wasting your minutes.”

  “I think it’s a prank,” I whisper back. I take another sip of juice to clear my braces.

  “Want me to tell him to get lost?” Joelle asks.

  “Her,” I say, correcting her, and reach across the table to hand her the phone. If someone wants to take control of the situation, I’m happy to let ’em.

  “Watch the—” Tash warns, but her voice is too soft and I hardly hear her.

  “What?”

  “I said watch the … French fries.”

  Too late. I’ve just dragged my beige sleeve directly through the ketchup-soaked fries.

  I jerk my arm and the phone back toward me … and right into my Snapple bottle. The bottle teeters—don’t spill, don’t spill!—then decides to go for it. It tips over, and gushes down the table.

  “Whoops!” Fantastic. Must not try to do multiple things at once. Talking on the phone while checking e-mail? I end up typing my conversation. That game in which you try to pat your head with one hand, rub your stomach with the other, click your tongue, and make the uhhh sound at the same time? If I tried it, I’d end up in the emergency room in a pretzel position.

  “Sorry! I gotta go,” I tell the stranger.

  I hang up and sprint toward the lunch line in search of napkins.

  The phone vibrates inside my backpack when I’m leaving school for the day. I dig around, but my cell has somehow ended up at the bottom of the bag, buried under seven hundred loose pieces of paper, my French conjugation book, Jane Eyre, and my American history binder.