Are You Still There (16 page)

“Gabi, come on.” She lowers her voice. “You're hanging out with losers.”

The
L
word catches me like a fish on a hook.
“What
is your problem?” I snap.

“What?” Beth turns to me, her eyes wide, like she seriously has no clue what just happened.

“God, Beth. What do you think gives you the right to pass judgment on all kinds of random people? Just 'cause they're not like you? That somehow makes them less worthy as human beings? What kind of holier-than-thou shit is that?” My voice is too loud. I try to rein it in, but fail miserably. “You're
mean
. And I'm
mean
for listening to you all these years and not telling you what I really think.”

Beth's face turns white, and I worry she might pass out. “Are you serious? Ask anyone on this campus. They'll tell you how nice I am. You know that.”

I can't stop myself at this point. All that I've wanted to say is just bubbling out like a science experiment gone wrong. “Yeah, but they don't
know
you. Not like I do. You think that because you took Bruce under your wing, that somehow gives you license to talk shit about everyone else? What a hypocrite!”

“Bruce is special. You know that.” Beth whispers this all softly, like she doesn't want anyone to hear.

“Sure, Bruce is special. And so am I. And so is my sister. And my boyfriend. And every person on this freaking campus. We're all special.” For a brilliant person, she sure is stupid.

“Come on, Gabi. I shouldn't have to censor with my best friend, should I?”

“What makes us best friends, Beth? Because I've sat here and listened to you spout off social commentary for the last four years? Because we cram for tests together? When high school's over, what are we gonna remember? How we aced a physics test? God, I hope there's more to me than that.”

Then Beth's eyes completely well up, and she flees to the girls' restroom. My eyes burn with tears.
Shit
.

I jerk my locker open again, this time all the way, and a landslide of loose papers floats down to my feet. I bend to gather them up, and as I stack them, two playing cards slip out of the pile, face down. I turn them over slowly, my heart thumping.

Two queens.

Same as before, black Sharpie scrawled over the images, making the bottom halves of both queens look like ducks. And their hair drawn long and flowy. Just like mine. And Chloe's. And Beth's. And eighty percent of the girls at Central.

Printed in neat capitals around the top edge are the words
pretty sitting ducks
.

I glance around to see if anyone is watching. The halls are empty. Who put these here? Did someone get here before me and slip them in through my locker slats? I try to remember who was near my locker when I walked up. Well, Beth, of course, but was there anyone else I recognized? Miguel and I have this prank war going on, but this isn't prank material. It's heart-attack material. I stand there, leaning against the side of my locker, chewing the heck out of my lip.

The tardy bell rings, scolding me.

I drop the cards in my backpack and stand there with my hand on the door, frozen.

I can't remember which book I need for class.

The helpline office is looking more like a college dorm room every week. We all keep adding to it—our own decorations, posters, our bracelet peace sign, and so on. Janae's on a call. She's got this reflection thing down and she sounds like a pro. She ends the call by giving some referrals for low-fee counseling centers. The girl is a natural.

Miguel jams out for a bathroom break. Shortly after, the phone rings again. Janae scoots away from it, and I pick up. “Helpline, this is Gina.” I write down the name Gina at the top of the page.

“Gina.” The voice is fake gruff, like a teenager trying to talk like a man. Or disguise his voice. “Is that your real name?”

This catches me off guard. I fumble around for an answer. “I'm here to listen.”

“Gina, were you on campus for the lockdown?”

I don't see any harm in answering this one. “I was.”

“Where were you?”

I don't like the way this is going. I try to shift directions. “What exactly did you want to talk about tonight?”

“I want to talk about how scared you were. Were you scared enough to piss your pants?”

Okay, so now this totally freaks me out. Because I did, you know. Piss my pants. Just a little, but still. “Why do you want to talk about that day?”

“Because I need to know if it worked.”

“What?” My voice is shrill.

“Did it have the effect I wanted?”

Omigod
. I am talking to the bomber. Or someone pretending to be him.
Help!
I write to Janae.
It's HIM. Use RAPP to call the police. Can we have this call traced?

Janae writes back with a question mark.

I ask, “What do you mean?” I think immediately of the two playing cards I found this morning, still sitting in my backpack.

“I think you know,” the voice speaks quietly. “And I don't think your name is Gina. Although it just might start with a G. Funny thing with aliases. People usually pick a name that has the same first letter as their real name.”

My mouth dries. Does he know who I am? “What made you decide to call tonight?” I'm stalling.

“Your voice is familiar,” he says.

“I just have one of those voices.” If he knows me, do I know him? “Let's get back to talking about what made you decide to call tonight.” I point at the sentence I wrote on my paper, and I nudge Janae. I need her to call the police.

“I
told
you. I need to know if it worked.” He pauses. “Can I stop now? Or do I need Phase Two?”

“Phase Two?” I ask. Janae leaves my side and I hear her picking up the RAPP line.

“The second act. I have it all planned out. The question is, can you stop me?” Now he laughs, sarcastic. “You are a
helpline
, aren't you? Can't you
help
me?”

“You need to talk to someone about what's going on.” Garth is scribbling on my paper, wanting more info. I ignore it.

“I
am
talking to someone. I'm talking to you.”

“No, I mean, a professional.”

“What I need to do is hang up the phone.”

“No, wait.” I plead.

“I know your tricks, and I'm smarter than you. I'm smarter than everyone.” Then he clicks off. And I am stuck with two thoughts in my mind. The first—
does he really know who I am?
He called my bluff about my name. He recognized my voice. The second—
Phase Two?

Janae whispers loudly, “Did he hang up? I don't have anyone on the line yet.”

“Never mind,” I tell her. “He'll call again and we'll be ready.”

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 14

Do you remember

Pressing your nose up

Against the toy-store window?

Wanting something so bad

You'd swear your heart was about to

Shatter into a zillion pieces

Just from the sheer pain of it?

And everywhere you looked,

Other kids had just the thing you wanted.

You watched, you craved, you seethed with the wanting.

You ached with the unfairness of it all.

I see it happening around me still.

People laughing. Kissing. Playing around.

And here I am, wanting that for myself.

Too bad it's no longer simply toys I want.

What I want is a little harder to come by

Than an overpriced toy-store buy.

In my world, I've learned that

No amount of pretty-pleasing

Does a damn thing.

That's why I've taken the situation

Into my own hands.

24

EARLY JANUARY

I wait until everyone's asleep except for Dad. I pad down the stairs quietly, my pajama bottoms soft against my legs. He's sneaking a massive bowl of ice cream from the carton he hid in the back corner of the freezer behind the frozen chicken that's been sitting in there so long it's crusted with ice.

“A little hungry?” I tease.

He startles, then smiles a guilty smile and holds out the spoon. “Want a bite?”

“Okay.” I take it from him, and for a second it feels like we're doing something really taboo, like sneaking a smoke. It makes me want to laugh. I want to ask him how a man who runs an entire police investigation has to sneak a bowl of pistachio ice cream in his own kitchen. But I don't. Instead I hold out the two sitting-duck cards.

His face changes instantaneously. He sets down the spoon. “Where did you get these?”

I lie. I don't know why. Something about the way he asks me makes me wish I hadn't brought them. “In the school parking lot.”

“Where in the parking lot?” He's in interrogation mode, and now I fumble, afraid of getting caught up in my lie and not sure why I'm lying in the first place.

“On the ground. I just picked them up.”

He turns them in his hands, holding only the edges, and I notice right away how clean they are. They don't look like they'd been dropping in a parking lot. Does he know I'm lying?

“Did you show them to anyone?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he says, seeming relieved. “Thank you for bringing them to me. I'll see if there are any fingerprints on them besides yours.”

He turns and heads to his office, leaving his bowl of ice cream on the counter to melt.

Chloe and I veg on the couch. She is painting her nails black. They were purple yesterday. I'm trying to cram for physics, but her T-shirt of the day keeps distracting me. Light yellow with two half-eaten chocolate Easter bunnies facing each other. The bunny with the bite out of his rear says, “My butt hurts.” The other bunny has the bite taken out of his ears. He says, “What?” Every time I look at it, I want to laugh.

“Don't you
ever
crack a book?” I grab the polish, wondering if I can pull off black nails.

“Not if I can help it,” Chloe says. “How 'bout you just do my homework for me? I'll let you borrow my ‘Smile if you're not wearing undies' shirt.”

“Tempting.” I spread the polish along the toenail, but the black clumps in the corners.

“Here,” She takes the nail polish from me. “I'll fix your nails and you do my math.”

“Even more tempting. Go find your math book.”

An hour later, Chloe holds scissors up to my forehead. “I can't believe you're letting me do this.” Painting my nails somehow led to cutting my hair.

“I can't believe I'm letting you do it either. I must have completely lost my mind.”

She wets my hair and combs it straight, then pulls it out between two fingers, measuring it against itself. “I won't go that short. That way even if I screw up, there'll be room for a professional to even things out.”

“You're really boosting my confidence here.” I'm glad I'm not facing the mirror.

Sniiip. Sniip. Sniip
.

“You're awfully quiet, Chloe. It's making me nervous.”

“Sorry. I'm concentrating.”

“How well do you know Mel?” I can't help myself.

Sniip
. “What do you mean? She's been hanging with our group since freshman year. You know that.”

“I know. I guess I'm wondering if she's, uh, stable.”

“Stable?”

“Yeah, like emotionally stable.”

Chloe comes around to my front and lifts my chin. “News flash, Gabi, none of us are stable. That's why we hang out together. We're all losers.”

“
You
are not a loser,” I remind her.

“Says who? Miss perfect AP student and volunteer extraordinaire?”

I start to roll my eyes, but I stop because I don't want to accidentally move my head and wind up with lopsided bangs. “A loser is someone who has no ambition. Or no morals. Nothing that matters to them. That does not describe you.”
Or Janae. Or Miguel
, I add to myself.

“Oh, so if I look up the word ‘loser' on Wikipedia, that's what it'd say?”

“Come on, Chloe. Please tell me you don't really think you're a loser.”

She stops cutting and studies her work. “Mom thinks I am.”

“Oh, stop it. She does not. But we're not talking about her. We're talking about you. Do you really honestly think of yourself as a loser?”

“I don't know. I'm certainly no Gabriella.” There's a hint of sarcasm there, and it makes me sad.

“Would you want to be me?”

“No, not really. But sometimes I like the things you have.”

“Like what?”

“Like the grades. The skills. The body. The sexy Latino boyfriend.” Chloe nudges me with the back of the scissors. I introduced Miguel to her last week at lunch.

“Chloe, you can have all of those things. Except for the boyfriend. You can't have mine. Besides, what about the guy you're dating? The older, but-not-illegal-older mystery man?”

“Don't want to talk about him.”

“Why?” I press.

“You're irritating me,” Chloe warns me. “Don't forget I'm holding scissors to your head. All I need is one little
oops
and half your hair is gone.”

“Very funny. I don't mean to come off like I'm lecturing. I'm just saying the only difference between you and me is the choices we've made.”

“And, um, like our entire genetic makeup. What about our personalities?”

“But you win on the personality,” I tell her. “I'm so boring. I hardly ever have an opinion on anything. You have an opinion on everything.”

“True.”

“And look at our rooms.”

Chloe smiles. “Yeah, I guess my room has a tad more personality.” Chloe's room is overloaded with random memorabilia, while my room, on the other hand, is totally devoid of any personal touches. Mom designed it for me. I had no opinion, just agreed with everything she suggested. Tiny green-and-peach flowers on the walls, antique desk with roll-up cover, peach rug, and a wall of collectibles.