by Tom Leveen
I feel my eyebrows rise. So all this, and it’s just phone sex he’s after?
On the other hand, no pun intended, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world right now, even if it’s totally gross. It’s better than if he’s telling the truth about the cliff anyway. I could definitely hang up then.
“Why?” I ask him.
“Just so I can get an image in my head.”
Yep. So this whole suicide thing, just a ruse for a perv looking for a virtual hookup.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Why not?” Andy says, then immediately afterward, goes, “Oh! Sorry. No. That probably sounds like . . . Yeah, that didn’t come out right at all. God. How the hell do I make it through the day, y’know?”
He sounds genuine. Okay. I’ll let it slide.
“Longer hair,” I say, taking my time. “Past my shoulders. I usually wear it back, though. . . .”
The truth is, and I’m okay with this, there’s not much remarkable about me. I tend to blend in. I don’t think I’m ugly, but I don’t think I’m cute. Even my hair is an everyday brown. Shiny, maybe, but just sort of thick and straight and—I don’t know—unassuming?
I mean, is it any wonder that Lucas might have an eye on other people beside me? If he has an eye on me at all.
“Nice,” Andy says. Sounds like he forced himself to say it, though, like he’s still reeling from sounding like a creeper.
“Yeah?” I ask. “Why’s that?”
“I just think it’s . . . I dunno. Cool. Like that. Pulled back, I mean. I like it when girls pull their hair back.” He breathes out, once, harsh. “I am making no sense at all.”
I get a very clear picture of him right then. No way to prove it, of course, and I don’t particularly feel like asking him what he looks like, but, somehow, I know.
Black hair. Long.
Kind of skinny. And tall.
A long, hooked nose and high-as-hell cheekbones.
Brown eyes. I want to imagine them blue but can’t. I think that’s what makes me so sure my imagination is right; otherwise, I could make them any color I wanted.
He’s sitting with his hand draped over the steering wheel of his . . .
His—
“So what kind of car you driving?” I ask. Maybe he’ll slip up, give me a clue about where he is.
“A Sentra,” Andy says.
“Yeah? What color?”
“White. Plain, boring white.”
Interesting. I don’t know why I’d figured blue. I’m not going to tell him this, though.
“It’s my mom’s,” Andy goes on. “She’d . . . heh.”
“What?”
“I was just gonna say, ‘She’d kill me if she knew what I was going to do with it,’ but I guess that wouldn’t really matter, huh?”
I lick my lips. My tongue feels like a sandpaper caterpillar. This is my first real clue.
“Are there any . . . you know, like, landmarks nearby?”
He’s not buying it. “Tori, you can’t stop me like that.”
“Like what?”
“There’s no time for you to come up here and talk me down,” Andy says. “Or send a hostage negotiator or whatever. It’s just you and me.”
He makes a noise like he’s stretching. Must be cramped, sitting in that car seat.
“So whaddya got?” Andy says.
I try to lick my lips again and only dry them out even more. Andy’s smart. Smart enough to know what I was thinking, anyway. Not that I was being particularly subtle. And, again—he’s right. Even if I borrowed one of my parents’ or Jack’s cars, or tried to get ahold of the police, he could be down that hill and over the cliff in a matter of seconds.
But what hill? Where?
I guess it doesn’t matter. What could I possibly tell the cops? Why would they believe me?
More to the point, why would they believe me in particular? I wouldn’t if I were them.
“What do I got, what?” I say, stupidly.
“Tell me why not,” Andy says. “Tell me why I shouldn’t do it. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t drive my mom’s Sentra over this cliff in a nice big blaze of teenage angst and glory.”
“I don’t know,” I say, then shake my head. Not a great reason, there. “I mean, because you’re young, what about that?”
“Since when is being young so wonderful?” Andy says. “Seems like a twenty-year cruel joke some Flying Spaghetti Monster dreamed up to make us miserable so we’d be better prepared for even more misery after we got out of college.”
“Wait,” I say. “A flying what?”
“Flying Spaghetti Monster. You never heard of that?”
I run through a mental catalog of SpongeBob cartoons. “No.”
“It’s an atheist term for God. It’s like, believing in God makes as much sense as believing in the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”
“Oh.”
“Do you believe in God?”
Wait a second, I think. This is the second time he’s asked me that. Is that what this really is? Is this some whacked-out cult calling people at all hours to get them to drink the magic Kool-Aid or whatever?
And what the hell does that expression even mean, anyway? Maybe it’s something to do with whatever religion Tom Cruise is.
No. It seems unlikely. Of course, so does a suicidal guy randomly calling my number.
I need help. In more ways than one, ha. No, really, I can’t handle Andy on my own.
“Um, God?” I say to Andy, while weighing my options. Who can give me a hand here?
My mind goes straight to Jack, my big bro, who until this whole mess went down never failed to back me up or defend me, even if he is a gigantic dork. Now that I’ve apparently ruined his entire life for all eternity—and hey, Bro, mine’s no picnic right now, you ever think of that?—there’s not much chance he would help me out. He’s made that clear.
“Yep,” Andy says. “The big man upstairs himself. What’s your take?”
“Overrated and underappreciated.”
“Aren’t you underappreciating him by virtue of calling him overrated?”
“Well, sure, why not. I’m a very complicated person.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
There’s Noah, of course. He’s reliable. More than reliable, I mean. We’ve been friends for so long now, and he’s the only person who’s come by the house. He said it was to trade some anime movies with Jack, but he stayed and talked to me for more than an hour. He’s probably still up, doing his chat thing. How can I get ahold of him when Andy’s on my phone? God, this whole not-connected thing is going to drive me insa—
“Wait, what?” I say. “What do you mean, that doesn’t surprise you?”
“You, um—sound like someone who has a lot on her mind,” Andy says after a moment. “Distracted.”
“It’s that obvious, huh?”
“A bit. What’s going on?”
I shake my head again, again realizing it’s a stupid gesture since he can’t see me. “Absolutely nothing that I want to get into. Plus, you’re the one who’s . . . you know.”
“Yeah, but I asked you to tell me why I shouldn’t ‘you know,’ and so far you’ve given me a bunch of crap about being young. I want to know what you think about God. So do you?”
Now I’m confused. “Do I what?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“I don’t know anymore,” I say. “I don’t know what to believe. I hope I still do. So I guess I did at some point.”
“And now?”
“Now I think that even if he does exist, he doesn’t give much of a crap what happens down here.”
“Ah,” Andy says, like this makes perfect sense. “Me too. Used to, I mean. My family was never real big on church or anything, just holidays, you know? I always thought it was hypocritical to go to church just twice a year.”
“You mean like Easter and Christmas?”
“Nah, in our family it was Groundhog Day a
nd Take Your Daughter to Work Day.”
It’s not a hysterical joke, but I laugh just a bit. Even though Andy doesn’t make a sound, I feel like he smiles.
“Kidding,” Andy says, like I didn’t know that. “Yeah, we only went on Christmas and Easter. I mean, come on, if God’s really out there somewhere, he’s only popping his head in the doors at church to make sure you’re coming to the big holidays? What kind of God is that?”
“A very bored one,” I say. “Actually, it sounds a little like my mom. She does that too. Sticking her head in the door, I mean.”
Andy laughs. Not much, but it’s a laugh. Bigger than the snort-cough thing. That’s good, right? That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
My door flies open. I squeal and fall back onto my bed. Jack stands in the door, pulling on a light jacket over his Target-brand graphic T-shirt. Sometimes I want to take him shopping for real clothes.
“Thanks for the coffee, Vic” is all he says, and he disappears down the hall. A moment later I hear the front door open and close before I can even think to tell him it just needs to be plugged back in.
“Great,” I say.
“What was that?” Andy says.
“My brother. I ruined his night. No, wait, his life, according to him.”
“Yeah? How’d you do that?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
“Family does indeed suck from time to time,” Andy says, but it sounds like it’s almost to himself.
I can’t hear Jack’s car, but I see his headlights sweep across my window through the shades. He’s probably going to 7-Eleven for coffee now. Must have a big paper due or something; otherwise, I don’t think he’d be up this late. Jack’s kind of square that way except for the whole Internet-porn thing.
Internet . . .
Laptop!
“Could you, um, hold on for just a sec?” I say to Andy. “Or maybe a minute or two?”
“How come?”
“I need to . . . go to the bathroom.”
“Take me with you. I won’t listen.”
“Seriously, I don’t talk to people in the bathroom. It’s really freaky.”
“Now I’m freaky,” Andy says. “No surprise there.”
“Wait, no, that’s not what I said. I just—it’s a thing. Okay? Will you be okay just for a minute or two?”
Andy is quiet. I’m already heading down the hall.
“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
“Thanks,” I say, and slip the phone into my pocket.
Tori Hershberger UGH. Sometimes life just sucks.
Like · Comment · Share · April 3, one year ago
2 people like this.
Kevin Cooper I hear ya. whats your story?
You like this.
Marly DeSoto you break a nail Cooper?
You and 4 others like this.
Lucas Mulcahy haha marly. whats up tori?
You like this.
Tori Hershberger Hey, Lucas! Great game last night. How many homers is that?
2 people like this.
Lucas Mulcahy four. whats up
You like this.
Tori Hershberger I probably hate probability problems. :)
Kevin Cooper You need help?
Tori Hershberger I got it. Thanks.
Lucas Mulcahy math is for pussies!!
Kevin Cooper Math put men on the moon
Lucas Mulcahy pussy
SIX
I open Jack’s door. The light’s still on, which means he definitely isn’t going to be gone long. How much time do I have? Assuming he went only as far as 7-Eleven to get coffee, ten minutes, tops. But maybe that’s enough.
I open the laptop and hit the power button. Jack’s desktop screen is—jaw-dropping surprise—a scantily clad woman. And she’s only scantily clad in case someone should happen to see his desktop; otherwise, I’m sure she’d be totally naked. Gross. This particular princess is riding what appears to be a tyrannosaurus dragon. Geek check. No wonder Jack never made any friends in high school besides guys like Noah. Gamers and anime freaks and whatnot. He’s such a dork.
I open his browser and log in to my Gmail account, hoping against hope. But for once this month, things go my way. Noah is logged in too. I open a chat window.
Me: Noah!
Noah: Tori-chan!!! where are you? howd you get a computer?
Me: It’s Jack’s. This guy just called me and says he
I stop typing.
How exactly should I finish this little sentence? Noah may still be talking to me, even supporting me, but even though he’s totally been on my side through the whole thing, is it fair to drag him into something else now?
Whatever. I need help. And he’s never let me down.
I finish typing:
is going to kill himself.
Noah: huh???
Me: You’ve got to believe me, he’s on the phone right now!
Noah: who is it?
Me: He says his name is Andy. Do you know anyone named Andy or Andrew?
Noah: no. whyd he call you?
Me: He said it was at random.
Noah: wow thats got to be a total lie
Me: I know! But I think he might really mean it. I can’t risk it if he is serious. I have to help him somehow.
I don’t bother correcting my typo. Normally I’m a perfectionist about that kind of thing. Even online. No time to worry about it now.
Noah: its probably someone from school messing with you again. that sucks.
Me: I thought so too at first, but now I don’t know. You have to help me okay?
Noah: totally. how?
I hesitate, trying to come up with a reasonable and feasible answer. Instead, I end up writing the truth.
Me: I don’t know.
The kitchen door opens. My brother’s back.
Without thinking, I grab his laptop and rush to my room, closing the door and locking it behind me. Like that’ll do any good. He’s going to see that it’s gone, come knocking on my door and shouting, wake up our parents. . . .
I take my phone out and set it on the nightstand and put my brother’s computer where mine used to sit.
Me: I don’t have much time. Can you come over and meet me outside or something?
Noah: wow ok. knock your window maybe?
Me: yes cool thank you!!!
Again, now’s not the time to show off my perfect English skills.
I hear keys jingling in the kitchen as Jack hangs them on the pegboard beside the door, and a second later his bedroom door closes. Ticktock, ticktock.
Noah: I’ll come to your window
Me: Okay.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three distinct, muffled, and angry knocks on my door. Cursing, I get up and open the door.
“Please,” I say to Jack right away.
“Stay out of my room, Victoria,” Jack says between clenched teeth. “And give me my computer back.”
“I’ll do anything,” I say, because at this point, I really will. The laptop, the Internet, is too valuable right now. I actually could Google Andy’s number, find out who he really is maybe, for starters.
“Anything?” Jack asks me.
“Yes!” I say quickly.
“Okay, then,” Jack says.
I’m stupid enough to have hope for just one moment, which ends as Jack continues: “Shut your mouth and give me my stuff back!”
“I’ll scream,” I try. “I’ll wake up Mom and Dad.” This used to work when we were younger.
Jack laughs, cold. “Please do,” he says. “I can’t wait to tell them you broke into my room and stole my computer so you could go online, where they specifically told you not to go anymore. Scream away, Vic.”
Reflexively, I punch him in the arm for calling me Vic. He punches me back. We start a stare down.
I actually win the stare down, but only because Jack relaxes and leans against my doorframe. “Do you want to hand it to me, or do you want me to knock you over and go get it myself? Your cal
l.”
Fuming, I hiss back at him, “Fine.”
Even though I’m athletic and Jack is decidedly not, he’s got that Big Brother gene that allows him to win all physical confrontations. I stomp over to my bed, slap the laptop shut, and give it back to Jack. He takes it without a word and goes back down the hall. I shut my door and drop onto my bed, picking up the phone.
“Andy?”
No response.
“Andrew?”
Nothing.
Oh, God.
Kevin Cooper wrote on your timeline.
April 30, one year ago.
So those are your new friends huh?
Like · Comment · Share
Noah Murphy likes this.
Tori Hershberger Relax, Kevin. They’re nice.
Lucas Mulcahy What’s that sperm bank Cooper talking about tori?
You and 4 others like this.
Marly DeSoto ouch, cruel Lucas! but also true so . . .
You and 4 others like this.
Tori Hershberger It’s cool, everyone. :)
Noah Murphy I think you mean cold
SEVEN
“Andy? Andy, come on. Be there. Andy? Hello?”
Rustling.
“Hello?” Andy says. “Tori?”
I clutch my throat with my free hand, amazed at the speed of my pulse. “You scared me,” I say.
“Sorry,” Andy says. “I figured I should use the facilities too. My facilities ended up being a bush, though. So what were you writing about?”
“Huh?”
“Are you writing a book or something?” Andy asks. “You’re a loud typer.”
Oh, great. I hadn’t thought to mute the phone. “No! No, just . . . um . . . blogging.”
I wince. That sounds awful. I’m used to physical reflexes, not mental ones.
“Wow,” Andy says slowly. “My life is in your hands and you’re recording the whole experience for posterity. That’s terrific. You sound like a real gem, Tori.”
“I’ve been called worse,” I say.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Bitch. Monster. Oh, evil homophobic slut bomb was a personal favorite. Murd—uh, jerk. Stuff like that. So, yeah, ‘gem’ doesn’t really have any cutting power.”
“What was that one in the middle?” Andy asks. “Turd?”
“Um . . . yeah. Something like that.”
