Gimme a Call

by Sarah Mlynowski

  The play. The school play. Mamma Mia! is this year’s school play. Right. I knew that. And I’m in it. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “Do you want to wait for her?”

  “No, no, I need to get home. Just tell her I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Will do,” she says, and closes the door behind her.

  I laugh to myself. Hello, overreaction. Tash is still a student at Florence West. She just happens to be in the play. Too bad I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out if she’s still going to be premed. I reach into my purse for the car keys. No car keys? I peek through the car window and see them still in the ignition. Now what?

  I’d call my mom or dad to get me, but we only have the one car. And my cell phone doesn’t work.

  I flip open my phone and hit send. “Frosh,” I tell her, “write this down in your notebook in big letters, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says nervously. “Hit me.”

  “When you drive over to Tash’s house on Wednesday, May twenty-eighth, senior year, do not—I repeat, do not—”

  “Do not what?” she asks, sounding panicked. “What did I do?”

  “Do not leave your keys locked inside the car.”

  She giggles. “Got it.”

  chapter twenty-two

  Wednesday, September 14 Freshman Year

  “I think you should forget theater and do a sport instead,” Ivy tells me later that night. “How do you feel about soccer?”

  Not that I’m opposed to dropping the play, but with yearbook and trying to get As in all my classes, it sounds like I’m going to be pretty busy without taking on a new sport. But I guess I should listen to her. It’s not like she’s going to tell me what to do forever. Just until she gets into the school she wants. I mean, I’m guessing we’ll keep talking forever. Why wouldn’t we? But she’s not always going to be this bossy. Right? I open my notebook to a blank page, find a pen on the living room table, and write down SOCCER. But then I imagine myself running after a ball. And tripping over the ball. Not sure if I’d be able to focus on running and kicking at the same time. “That sounds too hard.”

  “Don’t be such a wimp,” she scoffs.

  I roll over on the couch. Easy for her to say. “Excuse me, but how many teams are you on?”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “I’m not coordinated enough for soccer. I need a sport where you focus on one thing at a time. What about baseball?”

  “No baseball,” she says shrilly. “Absolutely not. You hate baseball.”

  “I do?”

  “Trust me, you do. And you’ve never picked up a bat in your life.”

  “But I watched the tryout the other day and it seemed kind of fun.”

  “Perhaps you like watching it when cute boys play,” she snaps. “But you don’t like it. Next.”

  What has she got against baseball? Oh. She must be anti–anything Bryan. “Bowling?” I ask to test out my theory.

  “Nooooo.”

  Yup. I have to play a sport but it can’t remind her of Bryan in any way. Guess kissing is out. Not that it’s a sport. Not that I would know.

  “What about golf?” she asks. “You and Maya used to play mini golf, remember? You liked it. Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “There’s only a bar left on the cell. I forgot to charge it. Where’s my charger? Here it is. Problem solved. Now back to you, Little Miss Golfer.”

  “There’s a girls’ golf team?” I ask.

  “No. I don’t think so. Wait!” she says, her voice rising with excitement. “You’ll create a team. That will look amazing on your college applications.”

  I bury my face under a throw blanket. “Excuse me? How would I do that? I barely know how to play; how can I start a team?”

  “You’ll talk to Zetner. It’ll bump up your gym mark. They already have a boys’ team, so it shouldn’t be that hard.”

  “But I’ll be the only one on the team!”

  “You’ll find more players. You can put posters up around the school. You could even raise money for the team. Have bake sales and stuff. Mom will help. She’ll love it—give you guys a chance to bond.”

  I hesitate. It would be kind of cool to start my own team. I’d get to design the uniforms. Hello, adorable pink golf skorts! “Fine. Except I still have no idea how to play real golf.”

  “You hit the ball into the hole. Easy peasy.”

  “I guess you’re right. Dad plays, so how hard can it be?”

  “Are you adopted or something? He doesn’t play.”

  “Yes, he does. He played this summer. In that accounting tournament. He has a T-shirt from there and everything.”

  “You know, Frosh, you might be right. He did play. Once or twice only, but he did.”

  “He doesn’t play anymore?” I ask.

  “No more company golf tournaments after you’ve been laid off.”

  My heart plummets. “What? Dad got laid off? When?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I screech. “Ivy, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because there’s nothing you can do!”

  Now it all makes sense. “That’s why Mom got a job?”

  “Yeah.”

  My head pounds. “When does it happen?”

  “Sophomore year,” she admits.

  “Poor Dad,” I say.

  “I know. It sucks.”

  “So what does he do instead?”

  “He went into business for himself,” she says, a bit too vaguely.

  Now my head is really pounding. “Are you lying? Does he still not have a job?”

  “Kind of,” she admits.

  “Can I call you back?” I ask. Without waiting for an answer, I hang up. I turn my phone off before it starts to ring, and run up to my parents’ room.

  They’re both in bed. My mom is watching TV and my dad is working.

  “Hey,” I say, ever so casually.

  “You still up?” my mom asks. My dad is sitting beside her, his laptop resting against his knees.

  I nod. “Just want to see what you guys are doing.”

  “Relaxing,” my mom says. “At least, I am.”

  My dad blows me a kiss without taking his eyes off the screen, and my heart breaks a little. He’s working so hard, and for what? For nothing. “Dad,” I begin, “how’s work?”

  “Busy,” he says, scratching the side of his head. “As always.”

  “Have you ever thought about finding another job?”

  “Why would I do that?” he asks.

  “Because … because … yours seems really hard.”

  “You can’t be afraid of hard work,” he tells me.

  “She isn’t,” my mom says, lowering the volume on the TV. “You should see her studying these days. She’s like a different person. She’s like—” She stops before she says, “Maya.” “A superstar.”

  “What did you want to be when you were a kid?” I ask, kneeling against the mattress.

  “A professional chess player,” he tells me, lifting his eyes from his screen.

  I giggle. “Besides that.”

  “A dad.”

  I giggle again. “Besides that.”

  “An orthodontist.”

  “Seriously? Have you seen the food that gets caught in my mouth?”

  He shrugs. “I like straight teeth.”

  “But yours are crooked,” I point out.

  “I’d be my first patient.”

  “Well, maybe you should take some night classes.” If he starts now, maybe by the time he gets laid off, he’ll be able to find a new job. Or at least take off my braces.

  Mom laughs. “I don’t think you can just take a few classes and become an orthodontist.”

  “I should hope not, considering how much the kids’ orthodontia costs,” Dad grumbles. “Dr. Martin certainly won the job lottery.”

  “Except for the fact that he has to stare into people’s mouths all day,” Mom says.

  Dad nods. “
Good point. I think I’ll stay where I am. What’s wrong with being an accountant, anyway?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing at all.” I back out of their room and sit on the stairs. I need to think. Dad’s going to lose his job. We’re going to be broke, or close to broke.

  We need money. Lots of money. If we had lots of money, then it wouldn’t matter if Dad lost his job.

  But where are we going to get lots of money?

  Dad’s words come to back to me.

  The job lottery. The lottery. I can win the lottery. Ivy will give me the numbers and then all our problems will be solved.

  chapter twenty-three

  Thursday, May 29 Senior Year

  As soon as we pull up outside Tash’s house the next morning, I know something is different, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  First, she sashays to the car. Tash, sashaying. Arms swinging, hair whipping in the wind, hips swaying. I’ve never seen Tash sashay. Ever.

  She opens the car door with a big smile. “Hi, ladies.”

  Second, she’s wearing contacts. And eyeliner. She looks amazing. Is this because of the play? It must be. How can I find out without asking, “So, have you been in school plays for the last three years? Is that why you’re looking so sexy and confident?” It’s weird to have your best friends changing every second. Not that it’s weird for them. They don’t seem to know that their lives keep changing, so I shouldn’t feel guilty.

  Not too guilty, anyway. And isn’t it possible that this change is for the good?

  If only there were a record of the last few years. Something that would keep track of plays and who was the star and whether I got my golf team off the ground—or off the green.

  “Dev,” Joelle says, turning in to the school parking lot, “we still have some extra yearbook cash. Do you want to order Chinese for the staff today?”

  Right. There is a record. And I’m coeditor of it—the yearbook.

  Joelle pulls into a free spot in the school’s student parking lot, to the left of a blue Jetta. Bryan’s blue Jetta. My back stiffens. Oh, no. He’s still in the car. I’ve been avoiding this moment for four days. Deep breath. I can do this. We all get out of the car at the same time. And now he’s right next to me.

  “Hi,” I say, swallowing hard.

  He casually locks his door, like nothing is weird at all. Just another normal day at school. La, la, la. “Hey, all,” he says.

  Hey, all? That’s all I get? Hey, all?

  He smiles at Karin and then at me. I stare. I can’t help it. I know he went out with Karin. I know he never went out with me. But doesn’t a part of him remember? I search his face for recognition.

  Rationally, I know that he doesn’t have the same memories I do. I know he doesn’t remember being with me. I know that this Bryan didn’t go out with me.

  But part of me always thought that what we had went deeper than that. That something inside him—a part of his soul, maybe, and yeah, I know that sounds cheesy—was connected to me. Was tied to me. Would remember me.

  I search his eyes. They blink.

  Nothing.

  He has no idea who I am. Who I was. He doesn’t remember me at all.

  Feeling sick, I hang my schoolbag on my shoulder and slam the car door.

  chapter twenty-four

  Thursday, September 15 Freshman Year

  Before going to my first class, I visit Mrs. Kalin, the guidance counselor in charge of Interact, and I sign up. Last night, Ivy made me promise to sign up for some volunteer work, but she also assured me that involvement is pretty minimal. Meetings are Mondays at lunch.

  Of course I told her about my lottery plan, but she was not so into it. Too risky. “Dad’s fine,” she insisted. “We don’t need to win the lottery. We don’t want to mess with the future that much.” Booo.

  On my way to class, I pass the school play postings. Tash and I made the chorus. Practices are Tuesdays and Thursdays after school.

  I reluctantly speak to Mrs. Zetner after second-period gym.

  “A girls’ golf team—that’s a terrific idea,” she says while dribbling a basketball. “I love seeing student initiative. I might be able to find some extra money in the budget if you think there’s enough interest. And I have a coaching opening Mondays and Wednesdays after school. Why don’t you put up some posters and we’ll meet next Tuesday at lunch?”

  “Actually, I have yearbook on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Can we meet next Friday at lunch?”

  On my way out, I get a text from Ivy.

  Oh. My. God. You have no idea how superb my arm muscles are. We are seriously hot. Golf rules!

  I am glad for my arm muscles. I am glad that just talking to Mrs. Zetner has made the girls’ golf team a reality. But this is what my weekly schedule will look like:

  Mondays: Interact at lunch, golf after school.

  Tuesdays: yearbook at lunch, play after school.

  Wednesdays: golf after school.

  Thursdays: yearbook at lunch, play after school.

  Sundays: more play rehearsal.

  I’m exhausted just thinking about it. When am I going to do homework? When am I going to hang out with my friends? When am I going to sleep? Why do I have to do all the work and Ivy reaps all the rewards?

  Omigod, I just used the word “reap,” and not even on purpose. Why? Because last night Ivy also thought I should spend an extra hour learning SAT words. It is completely inequitable.

  Joy is out sick today, so instead of yearbook during lunch, I bring my food to the art room and make posters. None of my friends are interested in playing golf—Karin says it sounds boring, Joelle says she’d rather hit herself in the head with a club, and Tash says she has terrible aim—but they all help me with posters, because they are awesome. Ivy is a freak for ever losing them.

  “So, I hear you have a boyfriend,” Joelle says to me while sketching.

  My cheeks flush. “Where did you hear that?” I ask.

  “I hear everything,” she says, and then laughs. “I don’t get it—you couldn’t just tell Bryan you were washing your hair, like a normal person?”

  I sigh. “I told him I was sick but he brought me chicken soup.”

  “Persistent,” Tash says, cutting the edges of a poster.

  He gave up pretty quickly, if you ask me.

  “I won’t blow your cover,” Joelle promises.

  “Why don’t you want to go out with him, anyway?” Karin asks me, arm deep in pink glitter.

  “He’s just not the right guy for me,” I say.

  “I think he’s cute,” Karin says. “I’d go out with him.”

  I almost drop my sparkles. She cannot go out with him. Ivy would freak. I would freak.

  My phone vibrates before I can respond. “I just have to take this,” I tell the girls.

  “Oh, sure,” Joelle says. “Leave us to do all the work and go take a break. Who are you talking to, anyway? Your pretend boyfriend?”

  My cell vibrates again. “Maya,” I lie. Speaking of Maya, she left me a message a few days ago and I haven’t had a chance to call her back yet.

  “And anyway,” Karin says to Joelle, “you’re loving this.”

  Joelle nods. “That’s ’cause I’m a postering genius.”

  She is a postering genius. Unlike us, she can actually draw. Every poster features an adorable cartoon of a high school girl in midswing.

  “Good news,” Ivy tells me.

  I enter the hall and close the door behind me. “You got into UCLA and I can take a nap?”

  “Not that I’m aware of as of yet. But Tash is still going to Brown. She’s just double majoring. In premed and theater. She’s balanced. She’s playing the mom in Mamma Mia! this year, and last year she played Roxie in Chicago. Unlike you, who continue to be in the chorus, year after year, she’s a natural.”

  Four years of chorus? I’m pathetic. But Tash … I peer through the glass window in the door and spot her slumped over her poster. Who knew?

&nb
sp; “You have to see her, Frosh. She’s so happy. And confident. Getting her to audition was the best thing you ever did.”

  I feel a wave of pride. “Fabo! But I can still drop out of the play, right? I mean, I’m doing golf and Interact and yearbook, so I can drop out of the play.”

  “I guess so. I definitely don’t want to have to actually be in Mamma Mia! in two weeks. And come on, you started your own golf team. Who can beat that?”

  I straighten my shoulders. “It really worked? The golf team?”

  “Yup,” she says. “You are officially team captain of the Florence Tabbies.”

  “Wait—we don’t get a cat, do we?”

  “No, of course not. Dad’s allergic.”

  “Then why do I call the team the Tabbies?”

  “I don’t come up with this stuff; I’m just reading it to you. The team wins some sort of championship junior year, by the way.”

  Awesome! I’m a golf superstar. “How do you know all this?”

  “I’m looking through the proofs in the yearbook room. And flipping through old yearbooks.”

  That is seriously freaky. I look at my watch. Lunch is almost over. “Hey, shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “Yearbook editors can take some freshman/sophomore lunches. And anyway, there are only a few more weeks of school.”

  The bell rings. I hear it ringing through the phone too. “I have to go.”

  “Later,” she says.

  Tash, Joelle, and Karin are putting the posters against the windowsill so they can dry.

  “Thanks, guys. You’re the best.” I gather up our lunch remnants and toss them into the trash. Karin and Joelle are up ahead when I turn to Tash. “Listen, Tash, I’ve been thinking about the play, and I’m not sure I’m going to have time to do it. You know, with starting my own golf team.”

  She shrugs. “No biggie.”

  Phewf. “So you don’t mind doing it on your own?”

  “What? Me?” She turns pale and shakes her head. “No way. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I was dying to do it. It was just a whim. I still can’t believe I tried out.”

  Uh-oh. “No, no, no, you have to be in it.”