Never Been Texted

by Linda Joy Singleton

A boy (or is he a short man?) steps out from behind the counter. His face is cherubic yet his eyes, the shade of twilight sky, are ageless. I shake my head, even more sure this can’t be real. Any moment a camera crew will jump out and announce this is a freaky reality show. But in the long seconds I stare at the boy-man, no one else appears.

  “Welcome to W.I.S.H,” he says in a child-like voice. “May I be of some usefulness? Please call me Farley.”

  “Um, you work here?” I ask still trying to figure out how a store can suddenly appear in a neighborhood I thought I knew well.

  “Assisting those who call upon me is too satisfying to be considered work. I prefer to call it play. Your dog has extraordinary eyes.” When he bends down to pet Toffee, I hear purring. Not just from Toffee, but from the boy-man, too. “I haven’t seen a Queen Bee in forever.”

  “The breed is new,” I correct him.

  “Nothing is ever truly new.” He smiles, showing off pearly teeth much too large for a child.

  Old or young, this guy is weird, and I back away toward the door. “Uh, I should go.”

  “Isn’t there something you wish to buy?” Farley gestures around the dazzling tech displays.

  I slip my hand into my pocket, feeling a few coins and only two dollars. Blake pays me ten dollars a week, and most of it is already gone. I shake my head. “Sorry, but I can’t afford – “

  “No one can beat my prices,” he insists. “What are you wishing for?”

  An odd question, and something in his child-like expression makes me want to be honest.

  “A cell phone,” I admit in a whisper. “But I can’t – “

  “Never say can’t. Everything is possible. I’ve lived here and there for quite a long time and know more than you’d think. You remind me of another young girl I met…how long ago?” He counts off on his fingers. “Over twenty years, it must be. I sold shoes back then and matched her with her heart’s desire—crystal sequin high heels. Her name was…let me think.” He taps his chin. “Oh yes, how could I forget? Leena.”

  I jump back, startled. “That’s my mother’s name. Or was.” I brace myself for the usual words of sympathy that are always well-meaning but only deepen the ache.

  “She had a Queen Bee with her, too,” Farley says in a surprisingly cheerful voice. “I never forget the ones who come with pets.”

  “She loved animals. Like I do,” I add softly.

  “You can never go wrong when you gain an animal’s trust – or take advantage of one of my special offers.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the display. “Check out the magnificent phones. Do you see anything you like?”

  I see plenty I like, but surely nothing I can afford. All shapes, colors, and styles of cell phones. They blink and flash, and a blue phone actually seems to float in the air. When I touch a rainbow-colored phone, my finger shines like a rainbow, too. One phone has no keyboard, only a screen where a famous movie star grins and invites me to touch his face.

  Then I see mauve. Marvelous mauve. Attached to this phone is a sign that reads: Bargain Price.

  I reach out tentatively, gently, longingly, and lift the phone. I look for a price. There is none.

  When I glance up, Farley is watching me.

  “Ah, so you found your phone.”

  “There’s no price listed, but I’m sure I can’t afford it.” I shake my head. “I don’t have much money.”

  “You don’t need much.” He grins. “Only $2.47.”

  Now I’m positive this is a trick or a scam or a reality show ambush, because when I pull out my money it adds up to exactly $2.47. Is he a mind reader? Am I being punked?

  Still, the phone, a perfect shimmery mauve, fits like it belongs in my hand. I’ve envied Rory sharing texts with her boyfriend and long to share messages with someone special, too. Crazy, I know, since a phone is an object and doesn’t come with an app for romance.

  Before the clerk changes his mind or I wake up to find out this is a dream, I give him the money. His grin widens as he asks me to sign the service plan, which has tiny print, but he assures me it’s free for a month.

  “In a month from now, at midnight, the contract expires,” he adds with warning. “But a lot can happen in a month, don’t you agree?”

  I nod, calculating my weekly wages and hoping it’ll be enough. I’ll worry about that later, I think as I leave the shop holding Toffee’s leash in one hand and my perfect mauve phone in the other.

  As I walk away from the shop, I glance back and see only darkness where there were shop lights. Suspicion hits me, right in the gut like the flu. Nothing is ever free, and phones cost way more than two dollars. It’s a scam. This phone must be a fake; just a shell made to look like a phone.

  One way to find out.

  I tap the keys for Rory’s number and hear ringing.

  “Who is this?” Rory answers cautiously, clearly not recognizing the caller ID.

  “Me,” I say.

  “Ashlee!” She squeals loud enough to wake a corpse. “You got your new phone!”

  “Well, sort of. I think so.” I start to grin. “I don’t even know my number.”

  “It’s 555-1200.” She giggles. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “You only have to wait ‘til school tomorrow.”

  “It’ll be torture.”

  “You’ll survive,” I tease, tugging on Toffee’s leash so she’ll slow her pace.

  “Not without immense suffering. But this is a huge moment, and we have to mark this milestone right. You’re going to get your first text. Hang up and I’ll text you now.”

  “Already hanging up.” And I do.

  I’ve barely lifted my finger off the phone when there’s a musical tone like wind chimes. I look down at the phone number. Then I look again.

  There’s a text, all right.

  But it isn’t from Rory.

  The time came when the king announced a royal ball to which all maidens of noble birth were hereby summoned. (Jacobs)

  Toffee squirms on her leash, twisting around my ankles as I stand on a corner of a dark street, staring down at the illuminated words on my new phone.

  Where are you? Why won’t you talk to me? Call. Please. Prince

  I don’t recognize the phone number or know anyone named Prince. I’ve met dogs named Prince and remember hearing of a retro rock star with that name, but not anyone who lives in Castle Top. Still he (or she?) oozes sadness, and I’m tempted to text back. But what can I say? “Wrong number” is accurate but too harsh, dumping more on someone who is already hurting. I understand too well the sting of rejection.

  My fingers hover over the tiny keys, unsure what to do.

  I jump when my phone rings its musical tone again. Rory’s number. I quickly read the message:

  I’m your #1 text. Yay me!

  Smiling to myself, I delete the real first text from my thoughts and reply to Rory: Thanks. See you tomorrow.

  Slipping my marvelous mauve phone into my pocket, I tug on Toffee’s leash and turn onto our street.

  Cretin greets me with the usual growls when I open the door. Although smaller than most Q-Bee’s, he sounds fierce. I ignore him, but his growls intimidate Toffee, so I tell him to shut up then scoop my darling girl into my arms and carry her into my bedroom. I shut the wicked stud dog out.

  With my stepdad gone, I don’t have to return Toffee to her cage, and she lick-kisses my face before curling up on her favorite purple pillow.

  My phone erupts in a wind chime tone, and when I check it’s the wrong number. Prince again. Only one word this time. Please. And my heart breaks for the poor guy. My fingers hover over the keyboard, so very tempted to reply. But what can I say? I’m not the one Prince wants to hear from, and I have no idea who is. Sighing, I put the phone on my desk.

  After making a ham sandwich, which I share with Toffee, I reach into the bottom drawer of my desk for the secret I’ve been hiding from my stepdad. College applications. I’ve aced advance placement classes and can graduate ea
rly, but Blake says money is tight so I can’t ask him to pay my college expenses. Besides, I have the suspicion he wants me to live with him forever, slaving in the kennels.

  I’ve been applying for scholarships. Nothing yet, but Mom always had her own twists on famous quotes and used to say, “You only fail, if you fail to apply.” I won’t give up until my “apply” is an acceptance. My deepest ambition is to become an animal therapist – a profession Blake thinks is bogus. To him animals are only merchandise, but I know they have feelings and I understand them better than Blake ever will.

  I like the look of the words “animal therapist” on my application. I imagine myself in a business suit, or maybe a cute dog-print smock, swiveling in my office chair to face my first client. A little dog with a large dog complex who yaps 24-7 or a timid mastiff who cringes at shadows. I already know a lot about training dogs, but not so much about dealing with people. Rory thinks I’m over sensitive and quick to anger. “Give the human species a chance,” she says. Usually this lecture follows an unfortunate encounter with too-popular-to-live Beatrice Palmquist. Our mutual hatred began at the start of freshman year when she came to the kennels to buy a Queen Bee and found me rolling up urine-drenched newspapers. She plugged her nose and said she’d never buy a dog from a “stinking loser” then spread rumors all over school that I reeked of pee, nicknaming me P.U. Ashlee.

  Now when most kids look at me, they only see a negative label. It sucks. Someday I’ll prove to everyone that I can achieve great things. I just have to get a scholarship.

  I stay up late and wake up even later to the shrill beeps of my alarm clock. After tossing my clothes on, I go into the bathroom for the unveiling. Slowly, I unwind the gauze from my hand, brush away dried henna flakes, and then gently scrape off the excess paste and apply olive oil like Rory told me. The fairy-bird has lightened to a lovely maroon, and when I move my palm the wings seem to flutter. So love it!

  I’m running late so I quickly feed and water the dogs then pop back into the kitchen to toast a bagel. I grab my backpack and race out of the house. Cretin seems more hostile than usual (is he jealous that Brutus is off doing mating-duty while he’s left at home?) and he charges after me. While Q-Bees don’t bark, their whining can be shrill and annoying. I order him to go back. He looks up at me and then deliberately pees on my left sneaker. Damn! My only clean pair of shoes. No time to wash it in the machine so I rinse off my shoe with a garden hose and run three blocks to school, my soggy shoe slapping on the sidewalk.

  I burst into homeroom as the final bell rings. Rory raises her pierced brow in question. I roll my eyes, a gesture that translates to “Don’t ask!” then slip into my desk and cross my right leg over my left to hide my soggy shoe. Rory covertly texts to me: Talk to U @ break.

  At break, as I walk to the locker Rory and I share, I give a quick look at the kids buzzing excitedly around the communal bulletin board. Another exclusive club starting up, I guess with disinterest, turning away to spin my locker combination. I glance back and cringe when I hear the snarky voice of Beatrice Palmquist.

  “…already entered,” Beatrice says all self-important, like she expects the entire school – make that the universe! – to stop and listen whenever she speaks.

  “You deserve to win Talent-Mania,” her sidekick, Hannah, coos in the mindless way of a cult-follower.

  “And I will,” Beatrice says with such certainty that I’m instantly suspicious. How can anyone be that sure of winning?

  I peek over my shoulder, and it’s like seeing double, only Beatrice is a fierce lion to Hannah’s mouse. Both girls have inky black hair and wear identical jade-green shirts over short hip-hugging skirts that show lots of skin. They’ve left the bulletin board crowd to whisper behind a pillar only a few feet from me.

  “I’m sure you’ll take first place. Well, almost sure.” Hannah’s voice falls so soft I have to strain to hear. “Katelyn Booker will be hard to beat.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Hannah. Remember what I’ve told you – negativity equals self-defeat.”

  “Have you heard Katelyn sing?”

  “Haven’t and don’t care to.” Beatrice gives a sassy snap of her ruby-red polished nails.

  “Katelyn had a role in an off-Broadway musical,” Hannah persists, twisting a strand of her black hair. “She could win.”

  “First place is mine. I’ve been practicing affirmations since Ms. Farrow gave me this amazing library book, Winners Always Win. It’s like it was written just for me. Every morning I stare in the mirror, visualizing myself wearing a glittery crown in the parade, and recite, ‘I will win because I am a winner.’”

  “The winner gets a scholarship,” Hannah adds a bit wistfully, which surprises me because her parents own a big-deal car dealership in Empire and she waves her credit cards like fashion accessories.

  “I don’t care about prizes. For me, winning is all about pride,” Beatrice says in this faux modest voice that makes me want to puke. “My music and voice instructors say they’ve never seen a more talented student. It’s a huge responsibility being a role model for other kids, and I take it seriously. Everyone expects me to win, and I won’t disappoint them.”

  “It doesn’t hurt that you’re going out with the mayor’s son.” Hannah giggles. “Derrick will make sure his father picks you for the win.”

  “You’d think so, but Derrick asked me not to enter.”

  “No!” Hannah gasps. “He didn’t!”

  “Oh, yes, he did. He says it wouldn’t be fair since I’m so tight with his family.” Her tone cuts to razor sharpness. “But I’ll teach him a lesson in fairness.”

  Hmmm. This is getting interesting. I pretend to search my locker. Everyone knows Beatrice is practically engaged to Mayor King’s son, an agreement between their parents when Beatrice and Derrick were infants. It would be a romantic love story if Beatrice wasn’t such a bitch (no disrespect to female dogs).

  “Derrick deserves to suffer for treating you so horribly. What are you going to do him?” Hannah asks like a vampire thirsty for a bloody battle.

  “Nothing…much. But when I’m through, he’ll convince his father – ooh, what’s that hideous smell?” Beatrice sniffs the air.

  “Something stinks all right.” Hannah sniffs, too. “Ewww! Like a sewer.”

  I sense their gazes turning in my direction, and bury my head in my locker.

  “Of course it’s her. P.U. Ashlee,” Beatrice mocks with a laugh that doubles as Hannah joins in. “Stinking up our school.”

  I wish I could crawl inside my locker and slam the door.

  “I know you can hear me. I can certainly smell you. What’s that perfume? Eu de urine?”

  Don’t turn around. Don’t turn. Don’t.

  But I do, and shame flames through me when Beatrice’s gaze zeroes in on my shoe – the left one with the faint yellow Cretin stain.

  “Disgusting.” Hannah puckers her face.

  “Some people have no concept of hygiene,” Beatrice says haughtily. “Peeing on your own shoe is pathetic.”

  “Too long of a line in the ladies’ room?” Hannah jokes.

  “Good one, Hannah.” Beatrice high-fives Hannah then whirls around like a jungle cat lunging for prey and yanks my arm so hard I’m forced to face her. “Well, aren’t you going to say something? It’s rude to eavesdrop, no matter how fascinating our conversation. Whatever you heard, you better not tell anyone.”

  “You mean your plan to use your boyfriend to help you win the contest?” I blurt out, more pissed off than intimidated.

  “Spreading lies is dangerous,” Beatrice says with a predatory gleam narrowing in her black eyes.

  “Like I care about your dumb competition.” I slam my locker as the warning bell rings, and I mentally curse Rory for not showing up. She can usually stop me from losing my temper when outrage boils to dangerous levels.

  “And why should P.U. Ashlee care?” Hannah nudges Beatrice. “It’s not as if she can enter. That requires talent.”r />
  “Which she lacks.” Beatrice nods. “Unless peeing on your own shoe is a talent.”

  They burst into giggles, and my skin flames with quick-fire temper. Don’t lose it, I warn myself. Don’t say anything. Don’t.

  “Maybe I will enter the contest.” The words spring from my mouth, and I want to shove them back in. But it’s too late.

  “Really?” Beatrice draws the word out, narrowing her eyes. “Can you sing or dance or play a musical instrument?”

  “My talent will be a-a surprise.” To me, too, I think miserably.

  But I don’t back down. I stride over to the bulletin board where I write my name on the sign-up sheet.

  I’m entered.

  As I practically run to my next class, my text tone chimes. I’m sure it’s Rory apologizing for standing me up. She better have a good excuse. Only the caller ID isn’t Rory’s.

  Pleeeeeze. Need to see U today. 4 @ Stone Face Fountain

  Rory is waiting for me in our next class and explains she couldn’t meet me during break because she got caught talking during a test.

  “I wasn’t cheating or anything, just showing Maria my lizard henna, which wowed her so much she’s going to pay me to decorate her wrist. This could become a huge career move for me. We were discussing designs when Ms. Carson came over and accused me of cheating. Maria is an A student and I’m not. I tried to explain, but Cut-Throat Carson didn’t believe me. So, guess who has detention tonight?”

  “That’s rough,” I say.

  “Outrageously unfair. Still, sorry for not meeting you at our locker.”

  “No prob.” I shrug, not wanting to talk about Beatrice and Talent-Mania. I’ve already decided to go back to the sign-up list to cross off my name. I mean, seriously, me perform in a talent show? I’ve never had even one music lesson, and the Q-Bees howl in protest when I sing in the kennel.

  Beatrice is right. I’m talentless.

  “Where’s your new phone? I’m dying to see it.” Rory leans across her desk and holds out her hand. “Just how marvelous is mauve?”

  I give her my phone, and I swear she has an internal GPS for drama because she immediately clicks on the texts. Her eyes widen as she reads the text from Prince.