Gimme a Call

by Sarah Mlynowski

  I peek through the blinds and out the window. Wow. This isn’t a backyard. This is a view of the entire city. I think I’m on Mount Woodrove. And—a tennis court! I have a tennis court! Do I play tennis? I guess I do. Maybe Frosh should join the tennis team too. I bet I have cute tennis outfits. I bet I have a whole room of tennis outfits—because I have the biggest house in town!

  Is there a house this big in town?

  I don’t remember seeing a house like this. Even from the outside. We must have had it built. And the view looks kind of familiar….

  Wait a sec. It’s the Morgan Lookout! On Mount Woodrove! Where Bryan and I tried smoking! And looking out over the lookout is a pool. An infinity pool.

  Wowza.

  There is someone in my infinity pool—a dark-haired, buff, tanned man in a tight black bathing suit. Why is there a dark-haired, buff, tanned man in a tight bathing suit in my pool? I drop my blinds and hurry down the stairs, careful not to slip. Now, how do I get outside?

  I scurry into the kitchen (huge, glossy, high-tech, with a marble island in the middle and all kinds of gleaming silver appliances) and wave to the housekeeper (who’s now wearing plastic gloves and scrubbing the sink).

  Meow!

  Huh? I look for the noise and spot a tiny cat with a leopard-like coat stretching her arms in the corner. Hah—I guess the house is so big that the cat doesn’t affect my dad’s allergies. Or maybe my dad and the cat have separate wings! I head through a back door that leads outside to a huge planted terrace.

  I’m going to have the best parties. I bet I’ve already had the best parties!

  I feel an unexpected twinge of weirdness—kind of sad that I don’t remember the superb parties I’ve already had—but keep moving. I almost run over my not-bigger-than-a-size-2-silver-bikini-clad mom. She’s wearing a matching sarong, huge white sunglasses, and jeweled flip-flops.

  Oh. My. God. My mom’s gone glam!

  “Where’s the fire?” she asks.

  “Hi!” I say, giggling. “Taking a swim? Enjoying the pool?”

  “Yup! I’m just taking another dip and then Alfonzo and I are going to heat up the barbecue. Have some pink lemonade.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I say. We have a chef named Alfonzo! How crazy is that? I pour myself a glass as she removes her wrap, drapes it over one of the deck chairs, flutters down the steps, and submerges herself in the deep end of the pool. The pool where the dark-haired buff man in the tiny bathing suit is now lying on an inflated orange raft. Could that be Alfonzo, our chef? Our super-hot chef.

  Mom glides through the water, toward the man, and plants a kiss on his lips.

  “Mom!” I scream. “What are you doing?”

  “Kissing my husband?” she says with a laugh, then splashes him.

  The glass of lemonade slips out of my hands and shatters against the deck.

  “Honey, are you okay?” She takes a look at my surely horrified expression. “What’s wrong? Are you getting sick? I hear there’s a bug going around.”

  Kissing her … husband? I feel light-headed, like I’m on a high-speed elevator shooting to the hundredth floor.

  Her husband? The hot guy is her husband? Alfonzo is her husband? What happened to her other husband? My dad?

  I think I might pass out. I need to get back inside immediately. I retreat into the house, out of breath and panicked. I need to figure out what’s going on. I hurry through the kitchen and into another room. Where can I find family pictures? What happened to my dad?

  I need my dad.

  I run through the house, looking for clues. Where are their wedding pictures? What about the shot of the two of them at their anniversary dinner that used to be over the living room mantel? What about our family shot at Disney? Do we even have a living room mantel?

  Where’s my dad? What if something … happened to him?

  I run back up to my room—don’t slip, don’t slip—and open all the remaining bedroom doors, looking for him. “Dad?” I whisper. “Are you here?”

  I find what must be my mom’s room—king-sized bed, dressing room … but there are no signs of my dad. Where are his brown bathrobe and Mickey Mouse slippers?

  I hurry back to my room and rummage through my stuff for an explanation. Tacked to the wall are hundreds of postcards. Who from?

  Dad?

  I unpin one of the Eiffel Tower.

  On the back it says Love you, honey! Can’t wait to see you this summer on the Riviera!

  My dad is in France? I’m going to the Riviera? Or maybe I’ve been to the Riviera? I turn to the picture of me and my dad behind my princess bed. Was that picture taken on the Riviera?

  Can’t. Breathe. Why is my dad in Paris while my mom is in the pool with her new husband?

  It makes no sense! My parents love each other! Sure, they’ve had their problems over the years, but they still love each other. Don’t they? I sink to my super-lush carpet.

  The lottery. It ruined my parents’ marriage.

  Where is my phone? I need to call Frosh right now and tell her to cancel. Last time I used it, it was right over … there. I think. The polished desk has no phone on it. So where is it?

  I run back downstairs. “Excuse me,” I say to the housekeeper. “Have you seen my phone?”

  “On ze glass table in ze den,” she says.

  Superb. Now, where’s the den? I sprint from room to room until I find a glass table.

  On this glass table is an iPhone. Huh. Normally I would be excited to find out that I am the proud owner of an iPhone. Except if that’s mine, then I would have gotten rid of my old cell.

  I feel faint and grab on to the edge of the table to steady myself. If I got rid of my old phone … if I replaced it with the iPhone …

  … I will never speak to Frosh again.

  And next time I see my dad, I’ll have to be speaking French. I hold up the iPhone with trembling hands.

  What. Do. I. Do?

  The photo on the screen of the phone is of a sexy Italian man. Alfonzo. Which means …

  Unless I have a highly inappropriate crush on my stepfather, this is probably my mom’s phone. Or Alfonzo’s. You never know. He could like himself a lot.

  It’s not mine.

  I search the rest of the house—the rest of the ginormous house. Where is my phone?

  Eeeeeeep!

  That was my phone! I know my phone! That’s the sound it makes when it’s running low on battery! When it’s down to one bar, it beeps every hour or so. I know that sound. Must find that sound! Where did it just beep from?

  Upstairs. It must be in my room. I run back upstairs—don’t slip, don’t slip—and start rifling through my drawers. Why do I keep so much junk? Everything I’ve ever written, read, or bought is in here. Everything but my phone.

  My bed. It must be in my glorious bed.

  I dive back inside the marshmallow and find it buried underneath one of the hundred pillows, princess-and-the-pea-style. Yes! My phone, my three-and-a-half-year-old decrepit phone is right here. Safe and sound. That was close. I cradle it in my hands. I’m so smart. Even though I could have bought a new glamour phone, I must have kept this one because I knew how useful it would one day be. I glance at the battery. Only one bar. I wonder why that is. I definitely charged it last night. Didn’t I? Let me worry about one problem at a time. First I have to call Frosh and get her to fix this mess.

  Instead of ringing, it says, “Hiya, this is Devi. I’m out and about and can’t take your call—”

  Ack. Why isn’t she answering? There’s no time for this. There’s no time for voice mail! It’s already almost seven. The drawing is at ten.

  I redial. Voice mail, again. Where could she be?

  chapter twenty-eight

  Thursday, September 15 Freshman Year

  I’m getting kind of excited. I’m going to be rich! In five minutes, when they air the numbers, I’m going to be very, very rich. How rich? Money-spilling-out-of-my-Prada-purse rich.

  Any minu
te now.

  What will I buy first? Izzy Simpson clothes!

  I knock on my parents’ bedroom door. “Turn on your TV. They’re going to announce the numbers.”

  My mom and dad are already in bed, Dad in his bathrobe and Mom in her pink pj’s. Dad got home early tonight—nine-thirty. Maybe once we win, he can relax a bit. It’s nice to see them in bed together—although I wish they were cuddling. They could definitely use some couple time. Maybe now they can take a romantic vacation together. For more than a long weekend.

  “What numbers?” Dad asks.

  “The lottery numbers.”

  “Your daughter claims we’re going to win,” Mom says.

  Dad laughs. “If she does, can I quit work and stay home with you?”

  “If we win, I’m opening a bakery. Banks’s Bakery. You are welcome to stay home.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll stay home and play chess.”

  “I want to stay home too,” I say, falling back onto their bed.

  “So where’s this lucky ticket?” Dad asks.

  Whoops. “In my purse. One sec!” I run back to my room and look for my bag. I hear my mom turn on the TV and get the station ready. I rifle around for the ticket. Imagine I lost it? No, here it is! Here we go! My fingers also graze my cell. Another whoops. I forgot to turn it back on after the movie. I click the power button and see that I have messages.

  Fifteen messages.

  Uh-oh.

  First message: “Where are you?”

  Second: “Answer the phone!”

  Third: “Don’t buy the ticket!”

  Um …

  Fourth: “You probably already bought the ticket, right? That’s why everything changed. We have a real problem!”

  What does this mean? What should I do? I need her to call me this second! What if she’s trying to call right now? And she can’t, ’cause I’m listening to the messages?

  “Come on, hon!” Mom calls.

  I walk toward their room. Slowly.

  One step. Two.

  I pause outside their door. Now what?

  “They’re starting right after the commercial,” Mom says. “Get the ticket ready!”

  Ring, cell phone, ring! What am I supposed to do? I step inside.

  “We’re back in thirty seconds with the winning lottery ticket numbers,” the announcer says.

  Uh-oh.

  “Devi, what numbers are we rooting for?” Dad asks.

  “Five,” I say nervously. “And then—”

  My phone rings.

  Oh, thank goodness.

  “One sec, I have to take this,” I say, clicking it on. “Hello?”

  “You answered! Finally! Where were you? Never mind, never mind, there’s no time! You didn’t win yet, did you?”

  My eyes flick from the TV to my parents sitting comfy in the bed to the ticket flapping in my hand. “In like ten seconds.”

  “Rip it up!”

  “What?” I must have misheard.

  “Rip it up! You don’t want to win! Trust me.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t do that. Not now.”

  “You have to,” she orders.

  “It would, um, look really weird.” I can’t make a whole production out of the lottery and then rip up the ticket.

  “And we’re back,” says the announcer. She has shiny bobbed hair and a perfect smile. I bet she had braces. “For tonight’s NY6 drawing on Thursday, September fifteenth.” Inside the glass box she’s standing behind are six numbered balls spinning above air hoses.

  “I heard that!” Ivy screams. “You can’t win! Make it stop!”

  The first ball pops out of the vacuum and perches on a ledge. The announcer gives us all a big toothy smile. “And the first number up is five.”

  My parents whoop.

  “What do we have next?” Dad asks.

  “Um … we have …” Oh, shoot. What do I say?

  The second ball pops. “The next number up is sixteen.”

  Mom looks at me expectedly. “Don’t we have that? For Dad’s birthday?”

  “Um …” Ahh! “Not sixteen.”

  “Seventeen!” Ivy screams into my ear. “Say you have seventeen!”

  “Seventeen,” I repeat, shaking my head.

  “I could have sworn you told me sixteen,” my mom says. “So close.”

  “The third number up is … forty-four,” the announcer says.

  “Tell them we have forty-five,” Ivy orders.

  “That just sounds dumb,” I say into the phone. “Forty … three,” I say instead.

  “Oh, sure, that sounds much better,” Ivy mutters.

  “Are you going to explain why we’re doing this?” I whisper.

  “Yes. Later. But right now, just don’t win. No winning. No Alfonzo. And destroy the ticket as soon as you get a chance. Got it?”

  “But what about my new clothes? What about tuition? And who’s Alfonzo?”

  “Just do it!”

  Eeeeeeeep!

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “It beeps every hour,” she says.

  “Do you need to charge it?”

  “Frosh, can you focus on the task at hand, please?”

  I go through the rest of the numbers, calling out slightly different ones.

  “So that’s it?” Mom says with a loud exaggerated sigh. “Told you, Devi, you might as well have thrown the dollar away.”

  “But then we wouldn’t have had this lovely bonding time,” I say with a tight laugh. I stuff the ticket into my pocket.

  Back in my room, I study the lottery ticket in my hand. I think of all the amazing stuff I was going to buy. Clothes! Cars! Fancy trips! Am I really going to rip it up? Seems like a crazy thing to do.

  Although Ivy did make it sound important … and I guess we can always buy a new lottery ticket next week. I hesistate before sadly ripping the ticket into a million pieces and letting them flutter into my garbage pail like confetti. Very sad confetti.

  I don’t know who this Alfonzo character is, but he owes me a new Izzy Simpson wardrobe.

  chapter twenty-nine

  Thursday, May 29 Senior Year

  Ouch! I’m climbing down my marble staircase, minding my own business, when—poof—hello, carpet burn. A girl could break her neck like this. Once again, I’m on my old carpeted stairs. All the changes have reversed themselves. I’m back in my boring old house. With my boring old view. Boring old Dad? Holding my breath, I hurry to my parents’ room and knock. “Hello?”

  “Come in, honey,” Mom calls.

  I push the door open. Mom’s reading a novel; Dad’s sitting, wearing his bathrobe, his back propped up by pillows. His slippers are happily waiting for him at the foot of the bed. I can’t help smiling. “Hi,” I say. I dive face-first onto the bed and throw my arms around both of them in a hug.

  When I finally get back to my room, I plug my phone into the charger and climb onto my perfectly soft, perfectly lovely, boring old bed.

  chapter thirty

  Saturday, September 17 Freshman Year

  On Friday night, I saw 101 Possibilities with the girls. I still had fun, even though I knew the ending.

  Today I’m supposed to spend the day doing my chemistry homework, and reading economics, and practicing my French conjugations, and studying for my upcoming algebra test and my upcoming American history test, and starting my paper on Jane Eyre, but then Karin calls me and invites me to go to the mall, so I go. She lends me her American history tapes, which she’s already listened to. Now all I have to do is listen to them.

  But I need the weekend off.

  Of course I don’t tell Ivy that. She is all freaked out, because the phone doesn’t seem to be charging. “I don’t get it,” she says later that evening. “I’ve plugged it in for two nights straight. Why isn’t it working?”

  “What do you think will happen if it dies?” I ask her while getting dressed for Kellerman’s house party. “Will your life keep changing every time I do something d
ifferent?”

  “It didn’t change before we started speaking,” she said. “So I’m thinking it’ll stay static if we stop. I’m guessing my life only changes when you do something differently because of our conversations, you know? Anyway, it’s not going to die. I’m going to figure out how to fix it. But for now let’s use it sparingly.”

  Mom drops me off at Karin’s first, and we do our whole getting-ready ritual: makeup, the dabbing of perfume, head check for dandruff, and breath test. This time I add a new one.

  “I wish my boobs looked like yours,” I tell Karin, checking myself out in the mirror.

  “I don’t know why you keep saying that,” she says, blushing.

  “They’re the best shape! Trust me. Girls around the world would kill for your cleavage.”

  “Hmmm,” she says, taking a peek at herself in the reflection.

  Joelle’s mom picks us all up, and off to the party we go. We’re looking adorable, if I do say so myself, boobs and all.

  “Jerome Cohen’s here,” Karin whispers to Joelle. “You have to talk to him.”

  “Definitely,” she says, her eyes twinkling.

  “He’s really cute,” I tell her, but I’m thinking, If Jerome’s here, does that mean Bryan’s here? Not that I care. Okay, I care a little. “We should go talk to him!”

  We maneuver our way over to the couch, where Jerome is hanging out with two other guys. Sadly, there’s no Bryan in sight.

  “Hey,” they say.

  “Hey,” we say.

  La, la, la.

  What do I have to do around here to get a conversation started? Drop more salsa on the couch?

  “Having a good weekend?” I ask them.

  “Not bad,” Jerome says, drumming his fingers against a side table and giving me a cute smile. Not exactly “dimples”-worthy, but still cute. “You?”

  “Great,” I say. La, la, la.

  “Do you girls know Nick and JT?” Jerome asks.

  We all say hello and introduce ourselves. Nick mumbles hello but doesn’t look up. He’s obviously shy. I can kind of see why too: his skin is really bad. His nose and chin are covered in rashlike pimples. Poor guy. His over-gelled hair and flannel button-down aren’t helping matters either. He’s shuffling his sneaker-clad feet.