“I’m confused,” she says. “And I’m hoping you can explain it to me. The message on your voice mail—your outgoing message—that was my message!”
“Huh?” Crazy Grumpy Stalker Girl makes no sense. I sit down at my desk, lean the cell between my ear and shoulder, open my new bottle of polish, and spread out my left hand.
“The one you left on your voice mail! ‘Hiya, this is Devi’!” She raises the pitch of her voice, I guess in an effort to sound like me. Although—okay, s-t-r-a-n-g-e—she kinda already does sound like me. “That was my message!”
What? “You have the same message on your voice mail?”
“I did. Three and a half years ago.”
“Uh … okay.” My neck starts to tingle. I ignore it and apply the plum polish to my pinky nail.
“You have to tell me the truth,” she insists. “Are you really Devi Banks?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re a freshman?”
“Yes.” Next finger.
“At Florence West?”
“Yes.” For the last two weeks, anyway. Not that I’m giving this weirdo any additional info. My stomach is kind of jittery. The girl is nuts. Incredibly nuts.
“This is insane,” she says. “Incredibly insane.”
Now my hand is tingling. “Can I go now?” I mumble. I just dripped polish down my finger. Crazy Girl is ruining my concentration.
“No! What time is it there? Seven?”
I carefully turn my neck to glance at the alarm clock without dropping the balancing phone. “Yes. Seven-oh-four.”
“Here too. This is so wild! And what time was it when I first called you today?”
“Um, lunchtime?”
“It was today, right?”
This is too much. “Alrighty. I gotta go.”
“No! Wait! Okay, I know I sound psycho. But … Devi?”
“Yes,” I say. Psycho? The girl is certifiable. “That is still my name.”
“Right. See, I was at the mall and I dropped my phone into the fountain. And I had been thinking about all the things I would tell myself in the past. And now I’m talking to you.”
“What,” I say slowly, “are you talking about?” I would hang up, should hang up, but she sounds so familiar.
“Don’t you see?” she says, sounding like she’s bursting with excitement. “I’m pretty sure I’m you. In the future.”
chapter five
Friday, May 23 Senior Year
How strange is this?
I jump out of my bed and start pacing up and down my carpet. “Freshman Me? You there?” Why isn’t she saying anything? “I know—we need to test this out,” I say. “Maybe you should rip down some of the wallpaper or something, so I can see it. Or leave me a note. I could be wrong about this, obviously, but I don’t think I am.”
No response.
“Hello?” I say.
“Shoot,” she says. “I spilled my nail polish all over the carpet.”
“You did?” I ask. My heart leaps. “Where?”
“Near my desk,” she sighs. “My mom is going to kill me.”
I drop to my knees and examine the area around the desk legs. Oh. My. God. There is an hourglass-shaped brownish stain on the carpet! A stain that was not there before! She’s really me! “I see it!” I scream. “I see the stain! You spilled nail polish and I see it!” That so wasn’t there five minutes ago! It’s her! It’s really her! I mean it’s me! It’s really me! My brain is whirling. Not only did I call myself in the past, but if I can see the spilled polish, then changing her present affects my present. “Do you know what this means?”
Silence.
“Hello?” I ask. “You still there?”
“Still here,” she says.
“You believe me, right?”
“Of course I do,” she says. “So, what am I like in the future? Do cars fly?”
“I’m so glad you believe me!” I exclaim. “I wasn’t sure how you—I mean, I—were going to react. I mean, I know it’s tough to believe, but what other explanation could there be? You have to admit it, our voices sound exactly alike, no? Well, not exactly, since mine’s more mature, but close enough. I mean, if I can believe something like this, so can you, since you are me. Yay! But to answer your question, cars don’t fly. It’s only been a few years. I’m only a senior. Tell me, what day is it today over there?”
“It’s Friday, September ninth,” she squeaks.
“Seriously? That’s so wild. September ninth freshman year?”
“Um, yup.”
Talk about Freaky Friday. “It’s Friday here too. End of May.”
“Of course it is!” she says in a super-chipper voice. “Where is here again?”
It must be confusing for her too. “Four years later! Actually, three years, eight months. I’m a senior.”
“Right-o.”
“Hmmm, I wonder why I got you on Friday, September …” My hands feel cold. I can’t believe this is happening. I know what today is for her. “It’s Celia’s party tonight, isn’t it?”
She pauses. “You know Celia?”
“Of course I do! I still go to school with her. Unfortunately. So it’s her party tonight, right? Isn’t it?”
“It … is.”
Oh. My. God. I know how to really test this. I know what I have to do. I’m going to change the past. I’m going to fix everything. “Okay, listen to me,” I say carefully, sitting down on my computer chair. “Don’t go.” I have a plan. For the first time in four years, I have a plan. A brilliant one!
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t go,” I repeat. “Stay home. Watch TV. No—organize your closet! You’re going to change everything for us!”
“Sure. No problem. I have to go,” she says. “My call-waiting is beeping.”
Huh? We’re having an important conversation here! Why would she possibly want to take another call? What could be a better call than one from your future self? “Who is it?” I ask incredulously.
“My sister,” she says.
“Maya?” I ask. “Seriously?”
“How do you know my sister’s name?”
I laugh. Maya is calling! A younger Maya, of course. It must be a younger Maya, because the last time I looked forward to talking to Maya was probably three and a half years ago. All right, that’s not entirely true, but it feels like that. “Okay, go talk to her,” I say, “while you still can. I’ll call you later.”
Freshman Me doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. She’s absorbing. As soon as it soaks in, though, she’s going to have a lot of questions.
Which is good, because I have all the answers.
About an hour after I get off the phone with Freshman Me, my mom knocks on my door, then opens it. “How’re you doing?” she asks, all concerned. She’s still in her work outfit—black pants and a white blouse. The top button of her pants is already unbuttoned. It’s the first thing she does when she gets home. That and eat my dad’s leftover pizza. We used to share clothes, but those days are long gone.
I’m obviously not going to tell her about my magical cell phone. She’d just think the breakup has tossed me off the deep end.
I open my closet and pretend to be rifling through it. “I’m kind of busy,” I tell her.
She sighs. “Well, if you want to talk, I’ll be in the living room.” Translation: she’s going to plant herself on the couch and watch the Food Network, like always.
About ten minutes later, the house line rings, and I hear my mom pick up. Then she yells upstairs: “Devi! Phone!”
My heart stops. For me? My cell isn’t working…. Could it be …
“Who is it?” I ask, standing up.
“Maya!”
Oh. Maya. Mom must have told her about Bryan. I’m sure Maya will try to rub it in now—she was right, my whole life shouldn’t be about Bryan, blah, blah, blah. I pick up the house extension in my room. “Hey.”
“I just heard the news,” she says. “I just wanted to tell you that it�
�s probably for the best.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Maya. That’s just what I need to hear.”
“No, I’m serious, Dev. It’s about time you’re on your own. You’re way too young to be so serious with some guy.”
Well, no worries, Maya. In a few minutes, the whole dating-Bryan thing will never have happened. Because of my brilliant plan.
“You need to explore your options,” Maya continues.
“Didn’t realize you were the dating expert,” I say a little bit meanly.
“I’m not saying I’m an expert. I’m just saying—”
“What?”
“Never mind. If you’re going to yell at me, can you put Mom back on the phone?”
“I’m not yelling,” I say extra calmly.
There’s a long pause. When did it get so weird between us, anyway?
“So, are you packing up?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “Excited to travel?”
“I am excited. Nervous about law school, but psyched to have some time to roam. What are you doing this summer? Now that you’re not with Bryan, want to come backpack Europe with me?”
Am I hallucinating, or does her voice lose a little of its certainty when she asks that? She couldn’t be nervous about asking me … could she?
Of course not. She’s probably not even serious.
“Yeah, right,” I say. “As if Mom and Dad would let me backpack.”
“They’d let you come with me. Maybe not for the whole summer, but for a few weeks. You could meet me in Italy. Check out the real Florence.”
Imagine, Maya and me traveling by train across Europe, staying up late in youth hostels, making up songs and singing at the top of our lungs in foreign countries … although she’d probably end up lecturing me half the time. Flirting with too many boys, not caring enough about the museums, etc., etc. “I don’t know.” A few weeks alone with my sister? We’d probably want to strangle each other. “I was planning on …” Hanging out with Bryan. Occasional shifts at Bella. “Working.”
“Are you saving up to try to move into a dorm?”
“We were—” I stop in midsentence. Bryan and I talked about maybe one day getting a place off campus. “Maybe,” I say instead.
“You would love the dorm,” she says. “I had so much fun my first year of college.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know how great the dorms are at Stulen.”
“You could always transfer. You can put a little more effort into your grades now that Bryan isn’t around.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. Not that my mom ever bugs me about my grades. Nope. Only Maya. I close my eyes. “Listen, I have to go.” I don’t want to spend the next hour being lectured about all the ways I’m screwing up my future. Especially since I’m fixing it all on my own. With my brilliant plan.
“Okay. Just try not to obsess about Bryan breaking up with you.”
“I won’t,” I promise. Because as long as Freshman Me doesn’t go to Celia’s party, I’ll be breaking up with him first.
chapter six
Friday, September 9 Freshman Year
“Smile!” Joelle orders, holding out the camera and cramming me, Tash, Karin, and herself into the frame. “Okay, let’s go,” she says after the flash goes off. She strides toward the front door of Celia’s ginormous house.
“Wait!” Karin cries, grabbing my arm. “Is my makeup okay?”
“Perfect,” I tell her. “How’s mine?”
“Fabo. My mom’s lipstick looks gorge on you.”
I give her a big fake smile. “Does it make my braces more or less obvious?”
“Less. Definitely. How’s my breath?” She exhales.
“Minty. Mine?” I breathe out.
“Like a fresh fall day.”
“Are you guys always such freaks before parties?” Tash asks, adjusting her glasses. She’s wearing the same thing she wore to school today—jeans and a black shirt.
“Yup,” we both answer, clinging to each other’s arms. It’s our pre-party ritual.
Joelle pushes her shoulders back, strikes an I’m-hot-stuff pose in her red minidress, and rings the doorbell. I’m not the biggest fan of red. But Joelle makes it work.
“Would you like a breath test?” Karin asks Tash as we huddle outside the door.
“I’ll pass,” she says.
When no one answers, Joelle turns the doorknob. It opens onto a marble entranceway packed with Florence West students—some of whom I recognize, most of whom I don’t. Harry Travis is standing with Kellerman and Sean Puttin by the stairs. Harry’s eyes are extra blue and his cheeks are extra rosy. Definitely hot. Sean flicks up his collar. He’s super preppy—always looks like he’s about to play tennis. And Kellerman might be the only guy in the room wearing sweatpants instead of jeans.
I peer around the room, wondering if Bryan’s here.
“Joelle, Tash, hi,” Celia says, gliding toward us in low jeans and a strapless black top. “Joelle, you look like you’re here for a Christmas party. Adorable. And, Tash! I’m so glad you’re here. My parents keep their booze above the fridge and no one here is tall enough to reach.”
“Hi, Celia,” Tash says dryly. “Do you know Karin and Devi?”
Her forehead crinkles. “Debbie?”
“Devi,” I say.
“That’s a name?”
“It’s short for Devorah,” I explain, feeling my cheeks burn.
“Adorable,” she says, twirling and sparkling. She’s definitely wearing glitter on her shoulders. Next she turns to Karin. “You have adorable hair. I bet it would look amazing if you blew it straight.”
“Oh, um … thanks?” Karin responds uncertainly.
Celia blows us a kiss and disappears into the living room.
“Is my hair too curly?” Karin whispers to me, her brows furrowed.
“Ignore her,” Tash says, and closes the door behind us. The lights are low, the R & B is blasting, and I’m pretty sure it’s at least a hundred degrees in here. I slip off my sweater and cram it into my purse. I hope that in all this evening’s craziness, I remembered to put on deodorant.
I wasn’t even sure if I should come to the party after the prank call I got.
What kind of horrible, obnoxious person calls another girl and tells her to stay home and organize her closet instead of going to a party?
Maya convinced me to come anyway.
“It’s probably someone who wasn’t invited to the party and doesn’t want to be the only person stuck at home,” Maya insisted during our call. “Ignore. Go. Stop answering your phone.”
So here I am. I always listen to Maya. She is the smart one. I’m the pretty one. She takes after my dad, I take after my mom. Not that I’m pretty by a Florence West standard. Just a Banks standard.
Maya hates when I call her the smart one. “You’re just as smart as I am,” she always tells me. “You just need to focus on school instead of only boys.”
I miss having her in the next room giving me constant advice. During our quick pre-party phone call, my stomach ached at the sound of her voice. “When are you coming home for a weekend?” I asked.
“Already? I just got here!”
“But I miss you! It’s not like Mom or Dad will make up new words to songs and sing them with me in the backyard at the top of their lungs.”
“So visit me. Wanna come for Columbus Day weekend? Supposedly the dorm throws crazy parties. Lots of cute boys,” she added, laughing.
“Yes!” I hollered.
“We’ll look for tickets,” she promised, before saying she had to get off to get ready for a dorm party.
I hoped she’d stake out a cute boy for herself. Last year, I peeked at her diary—she should not have left it under her mattress if she didn’t expect me to read it—and I discovered that she had never kissed a boy on the lips.
While I had already kissed two boys on the lips.
Maybe Maya will find a boyfriend at her party.
I follow Tash into the living room.
Maybe I’ll find a boyfriend at this party.
I’m sitting on Celia’s couch, minding my own business, laughing, giggling, whatever, about to deposit a tortilla with a dab of salsa into my mouth when I hear “Hey, Sands!”
Bryan Sanderson, the spiky-haired, passionate yet average baseball player with the fabo smile, is standing in the doorway to the living room. He’s wearing faded jeans and a soft-blue T-shirt layered over a long-sleeved gray one.
As my stomach does a little jumping jack, my chip somehow frees itself from my fingers, flies through my legs, and lands on Celia’s living room sectional.
Celia’s white suede sectional.
Splat! Omigod. Why would someone with a white suede sectional serve salsa? If I had a white suede sectional, I’d serve only white party foods, like french onion dip and cauliflower. Better yet, marshmallows. Is serving salsa not asking for trouble? Why would a couch be white, anyway? What if you have dirt on your jeans? Or an open pen in your pocket? What then?
No, no, no. I mustn’t blame the victim, aka the couch, for my inability to eat and spot a cute guy at the same time.
What do I do, what do I do?
I slam my legs together while keeping them elevated—to avoid smearing the stain—and debate my next move. Jump up and try to clean the couch? Act clueless? Confess to Celia?
Deep breath. Deeeeeeep breeeaaaaath. First I must assess the damage. Perhaps I imagined the whole thing. Perhaps I in fact ate the chip but, because the salsa was so mild, I barely noticed. Yes!
I reopen my legs and peek through. No! The chip is still there, planted on the couch cushion like a flag. I oh-so-casually reach below and yank it out, praying that it hasn’t left behind any rogue salsa. Has it?
There is a fortune cookie–shaped red smudge on the couch.
Shoot.
I glance up to see if anyone else has noticed the disaster.
“Isn’t it ridiculous?” Joelle is saying, her arms flailing. Karin is laughing, head bobbing along, and Tash is quietly chomping on a peanut.
Why didn’t I have a peanut?
None of them are paying attention to me in the slightest. None of the million other people in here seem to have noticed me either. Maybe my braces give me the superpower of being invisible.
Gimme a Call Page 3