Are You Still There (22 page)

“Can you identify the caller from the second-to-last call on the helpline number?” I ask.

Dad looks down at the sheet. “The one that came in at 7:57?”

I think back. “What time did the final call come in?”

“At 8:05.”

“Yeah. The one at 7:57.”

Dad taps the paper with his finger. “Huh.” He looks up at me. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I think
he's
the real bomber.”

Dad clears his throat. “That one came in from the pay phone directly in front of the school.”

“He was there,” Janae whispers. “He might have even still been there when we left, watching us.”

Some people use car rides to talk. But not my dad. He switches on National Public Radio the second he starts the engine. If you try to ask him a question, like
how much longer
, or
can we make a pit stop
, he holds up his hand like he's a crossing guard. I learned long ago not to try to make conversation in the car.

So it surprises me when he doesn't turn on the radio. Instead we drive in silence for a few blocks until he finally says, “What do you make of tonight? Of us bringing that kid in?”

“He was scared to death. I believe him—he didn't mean any harm.” I picture Eric, sitting there at the interrogation table, all white and shaky. He confessed immediately that it'd been a bad joke. That he wanted to join in our prank war (and repay a certain someone for publicly rejecting and humiliating him—although this went unsaid) and thought it'd be funny to call the Line and give us a scare. That he'd called back fifteen minutes later to tell us he was just kidding, but that no one had picked up. This is because we'd already had our mini freak-outs and were then on the way to the police station. Eric swore up and down he didn't make any earlier calls tonight. He made both calls from his cell phone in his bedroom and hadn't left the house until being brought in.

“That's my sense too.” Dad clears his throat. “What I'd like to know is what makes you so sure that the caller before him was the real bomber.”

This feels like a trick question. This feels like him trying to get me to confess that I've been breaking into his safe. I roll down the window, partly because I suddenly feel hot and partly because I need to buy time. “It's a gut feeling, Dad.”

“Okay. I have those all the time. Tell me more.”

I search for my words very carefully so that I don't accidentally give myself away. “This guy is brilliant, right?”

“It appears so, especially if it's a kid.” Dad rolls the window back up. “I believe it was no accident that the initial bombs did not deploy.”

“Right. It was a warning.” I lean my forehead against the cool glass.

“But a warning for what?”

“I think he'll try again. I don't think he wants to hurt anyone, I really don't. But he may feel he has to up the ante.”

“Gabi.” Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “You're a bright girl. I think you're on to something. I'm also quite concerned that there may be another incident. So concerned, in fact, that I'm unsure whether you should continue to attend Central High.”

“I have to stay at Central,” I say, moving his hand off me. He places it back on the wheel. “Look, Dad. It would be total hypocrisy to tell the world Central is a safe school and then to pull your own kids out. If something goes down, people will accuse you of knowing something. Do you know something?”

“I know a lot of things. And I have a helluva gut instinct on this one. But I don't know anything I can do something preventive with. And I have no idea who this kid is.”

I speak softly, not sure I really want to say this. I do anyway. “I think he knows who I am.”

“What?” Dad stops driving in the middle of the road. Just takes his foot off the pedal and looks at me.

I point to the road. “Keep driving. I'll explain but keep driving.” His eyes linger on me, but he does turn back to the road. I decide on a half-truth. “I think he knows who I am, and I think he'll try to contact me. He's left me a couple messages.”

“What kind of messages?”

“Do you remember those playing cards I gave you? The ones with the writing in Sharpie?”

His head snaps toward me and the car veers. I think maybe my chances of dying in the car with him trump my chances of being blown to smithereens.

“Eyes on the road,” I remind him.

“Yes,” he says, his voice tense. “I wasn't able to pull any prints from those, except for yours.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure they were left for me to find.” He looks at me again, and the car wheels cross the divider.

“Dad!” I scold him. “Watch where you're going!”

He straightens out the wheel. My mind is spinning, and I'm trying to think as fast as possible. In this moment, I decide not to tell him about the one with the queen and the hearts. That would be my ticket to homeschooling. I sneak a peek at Dad. His brow is bunched.

“Listen, Dad, I'm pretty sure he called tonight. I told him on the phone that I want to help him. That I want to help him find a way out.”

“Gabriella.” Dad says this in a tone that makes me feel five again. “I'm going to assign an undercover officer to follow you.” He turns the wheel quickly. “And one for your sister too.”

“No way.”

“Yes, way. You're my children, and there is no way I'm going to allow you to be in harm's way for the sake of an investigation. No way in hell.”

“He's smart, Dad. He'll know if you have someone following me.”

Dad is quiet, driving. He doesn't speak for at least three minutes. When he does, his voice is tight. “Gabriella. You have to promise me that if he contacts you again, you'll tell me right away.”

“I promise,” I say immediately, but I think I might be lying. I'm not sure why. “Give me a week. If I can talk to him or reach out to him in some way, I think I can stop this.”

Dad shakes his head, harder than he should while he's driving. “God damn it. Where did you get your superhero complex?”

“Uh … that'd be from you.”

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 18

I have to admit

That it's fun

To watch everyone scramble.

It reminds me of when I was a kid

And I'd drip water into a

Stream of scurrying ants.

Drip.

Scramble.

Drip.

Scramble.

Watching someone else's frenzy

Is way more entertaining than

The crap they have on TV.

I feel sorta like Clark Kent must feel.

Because he has to

Fake being normal

So much of the time.

Listening to people make small talk about Superman

And inside he's got this big old secret

He's probably bursting to tell.

Only—

I am definitely not Superman.

I like to think of myself

More as Robin Hood.

But I bet the world will think of me

As something supremely sinister.

The Joker? Count Dracula? A Death Eater?

I wonder what people will think

When they read this journal.

I have a feeling my explanations

Will fall on deaf ears.

No surprise, really.

It's pretty damn clear that

I have no voice.

33

“How serious are you about this guy?” Chloe asks. We're having Miguel and his mom over for dinner tonight, but this time I'm cooking. Penne Arrabbiata. And we'll eat on the back patio so nobody has to clean.

“I don't know,” I tell her. “I like him.”

“A lot? A little?” Chloe rummages through the cabinet for the bottle of olive oil.

“I don't know. He's my first real boyfriend. I don't have anything to compare it to. But I've never felt this way about a guy before.” Chloe and I have been hanging out more ever since the Mel incident. Mel's come over a couple times since she got out of the hospital. She seems different. Better.

“How about you?” I place the colander in the sink and carry the steaming pot of noodles over to it. “You into anyone?”

She ducks her head. “Maybe.”

“Someone I'd like?”

She laughs. “Thank you, Mom. Yes, I think you'd give your vote of approval for this one.” She chews her lip. “Not sure if he likes me yet though. He's different from the other guys I've been with. Kind of shy.”

“That's okay,” I reassure her. “Shy is good.”

The doorbell rings. They're early. Miguel carries a casserole dish with tamales layered across. He holds it with a towel and does a fake curtsey, holding the pan up so that the tamales don't go sliding out.
What an idiot
. I kiss him, a quick peck but enough to breathe in his Downey freshness.

A lot
, I decide. I
like him a lot
.

I spin the combination to open my locker, lunch bag in hand. There's a playing card taped onto my math book. This means he has my combination. It's one thing to slip cards through the slats, but taping a card onto my math book takes this to a whole new level.

I whirl around, eyes scanning the kids around me, wondering if he's watching. He'd have to be, wouldn't he? Don't guys like him get off on watching someone else's panic? Does it make him feel powerful?

There is one dude watching me. I've never seen him before. Sort of preppy looking, like he shops out of a teen magazine. He's off in the corner, earbuds in, nodding his head to the music. As soon as I make eye contact, he looks away.

I hold my locker partially closed, so I can examine the card without anyone else seeing it. A joker. Drawn over in black Sharpie to look like a burnt-up skeleton. Remnants of a bomb on the ground. Those same block letters around the edges.
Would anyone care? Granted, I'm a jaded piece of shit, but I sure as hell wouldn't
.

I look back for that preppy kid, but he's gone.

Dad gets home late. I've been waiting up to show him this card. Apparently I'm not the only one. Mom corners him the moment he walks through the door. I stand on the top step of the stairs and listen.

“I've got it all set up,” Mom says softly. “The girls don't know yet.”

Dad sets down his stuff with a thud. “Okay, hon.” He sighs. “Change is hard. Let's hold off on telling them for a couple days, okay?”

Shit
. I slink back upstairs.
Private school, here we come
.

Maybe I won't tell Dad about the skeleton card just yet.

Stranger's Manifesto

Entry 19

Ever play the game of hearts?

Nope? No big surprise.

Neither have most kids with even a freaking
shred
of a life.

So let me enlighten you.

Two strategies to win.

One—play keep-away from those nasty hearts,

Like they got the raunchiest B.O. ever

And ditch that Dirty Dora.

Shouldn't be too big of a stretch for some of you.

Two—snatch up all those hearts like the greedy bastards you are.

But do it on the sly, sticky-finger style.

Either way, there's one key to success.

Bluff.

Hide your cards. Disguise your strategy.

Plaster that poker face on, then go for the kill.

Just like Life
.

Just like
my
game.

I've dealt the cards …

Only difference is that this time,

I
want
someone to call my bluff.

34

The school is ramping up for the moment of silence. Only the “moment” of silence has morphed into a memorial. The LGBTQ Club and the Red Ribbon/Suicide Prevention Committee have called a truce and will both be hosting the event. Did I call that, or what? They're both plastering the halls with their fliers and making announcements on the loudspeaker after the Pledge of Allegiance. Reminding everyone to come to the memorial, guilting us all if we don't, hyping up the importance of accepting everyone for who they are.
Yada, yada, yada
.

I see that preppy boy everywhere now, and I wonder if it's
him
. He definitely seems to be watching me, but trying to look like he's not. He looks old—he's got to be a senior, but someone I haven't noticed before. Wrestler-like, built rock solid with clean-cut hair. There's something big brotherly about him, so he doesn't scare me as much as he should. Still, I'm careful. I don't approach him. That'd be too risky.

Every time I open my locker I expect to see a new card. My heart catches as the combination catches, and I hold my breath. But all I see are books and crumpled papers. The bomber's getting trickier. Sneakier. Maybe he knows I'm trying to watch out for him. I find a card, face up, in my lunch bag.

A plain joker with a question-mark bubble coming out of his head. No words.

What does that mean? That he's questioning himself? That he's changing his mind?

I find another one stuck in my passenger-side car door. Same thing. A joker, no words, but a telephone stuck to his ear.

He wants me to know that he will be calling.

Soon.

Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing
. “You're up,” Janae tells me. “He wants to talk to you anyway.”

She's right, I know. We've had three hang-ups tonight. Each ten minutes apart. I'm the only one who hasn't picked up the phone. I know it's the bomber and I know he's waiting for me.

I sit down in the swivel chair. “Helpline, this is Tina.”

Pause. At least it's not a hang-up. “Is that you?” he asks, and I hear the anticipation in his voice. I'm not sure if I feel flattered or sick.

At first I want to play it off, like I don't know that he's been waiting for me. But come on, he's been planting playing cards in my locker and on my car. He knows who I am. What good does it do to play games with a madman? Especially one who's holding all the cards? So I say quietly, “Let's talk.”