Hello (From Here)

by Chandler Baker

  “Hey, Max . . . do you want to play a game?” I put my hand over my mouth in horror. “I heard it as it was coming out.”

  “Should I call the police now or wait an hour?”

  I run for the stairs. “I won’t say that!”

  “Good. Hey! The board is not clean! Jonah! Not! Clean!”

  I drop into my desk chair and pull out my cell phone. Here goes nothing.

  chapter five

  MAX

  Jonah: Hey Max. I have a mission for you (should you choose to accept it).

  Max: I don’t.

  Jonah: Don’t what?

  Max: Choose to accept it.

  Jonah: OK. That is not how I pictured that going.

  Max: Really?

  Jonah: But you haven’t even heard what it is yet. You’re making a completely uninformed decision.

  Max: All right. Hit me with the facts. You’ve got 1 minute.

  Jonah: OK!

  Jonah: You know what? Let’s just pretend there was no exclamation point there.

  Max: Can’t. I already pictured you clicking your heels together when you said it.

  Jonah: Moving right along. Let’s get back to the mission, shall we? Dares.

  Max: Dares?

  Jonah: You don’t sound impressed. See I think the problem is you were supposed to imagine it with jazz hands.

  Max: You really should have sprung for the exclamation point that time.

  Jonah: So what do you think?

  Max: I’ll pass.

  I pull my sunglasses down onto my nose. A scented mini surfboard swings from my rearview mirror. I pull up my next delivery address while the car idles with the windows down. It’s a sunny seventy-two degrees. Outside, sprinklers chug water onto the empty golf course that’s peeking out from between the houses here. Two down—I reach across to the passenger seat and strike Rivera from my crumpled list—four to go.

  Jonah: It’ll be fun!

  Max: I’m working.

  Jonah: Right. No. I totally get it. I mean maybe some other time.

  Jonah: Or not. Not is good too.

  Jonah: You know I’m just going to say it: this is when an emoji would really come in handy. Because it’s totally cool. Could not be more cool.

  So yes, I opened a can of worms. My bad. It’s not like I meant to, you know, strike up an unlikely friendship or anything. This isn’t some weird community outreach program in which I volunteer to spend quality time with the richest, preppiest kid I can find.

  Though if it were, let the record show, I’d be straight crushing it.

  Anyway. I generally prefer my worms in the can, thank you very much. It’d be so much easier to ghost him if I weren’t halfway enjoying this exchange. And if I didn’t have a secret thing for slightly neurotic boys with pretty hair who look really cute in glasses. Still, don’t think the idea hasn’t crossed my mind—when I want to, I can go full on specter. Happy Halloween in March.

  Max: Serious question: Do other girls fall for this stuff?

  Jonah: Is that a trick question?

  Max: I hope not.

  Jonah: There are no other girls

  My hand is on the gearshift. I’ve only got another five minutes before someone in this nice neighborhood calls the cops on my “suspicious-looking vehicle.” That’s counting on twice the usual amount of time, given that every residential street I’ve driven down today looks eerily deserted. No one balancing coffee cups on top of their cars, wrangling kids into car seats, dragging trash cans to the curb. It’s spring break, but everyone says it’s bound to last at least an extra week, and it’s not like anyone’s rushing off to ski or sip drinks with tiny umbrellas or whatever it is people in this neighborhood do on vacation. Instead, the sky is robin’s-egg blue and the sun is perfect and there isn’t a soul in sight to appreciate it except for me.

  It’s not that I’m lonely. Because Max Mauro doesn’t get lonely. I am perfectly content being a solo artist. My favorite card game is solitaire. But, it does strike me that in a world that has suddenly and unexpectedly stopped spinning, there may be plenty of days exactly like this one up ahead, and so, purely from a practical standpoint, it might not be the worst thing to break up the monotony. If the opportunity were to present itself.

  I remove my hand from the gearshift.

  Max: How bored are you?

  Jonah: My body has molded to the sofa so that’s an interesting development

  Max: For the record, there’s no such thing as “Dares.” That’s not a game. It’s called “Truth or Dare.” We can play that. If you want. But! You have to be 100% honest with me no avoiding the question no holding back. Do we have a deal?

  Jonah: Deal.

  Jonah: And I’m happy you changed your mind.

  Max: I mean. I’m obviously going to blackmail you. I need a retirement fund.

  Two seconds later my phone vibrates. “You did not just FaceTime me.” I stare down at Jonah, who has apparently relocated so that he’s propped up against an expensive-looking headboard.

  “Clearly I did. That’s what we’re doing right now. We’re FaceTiming. See? Hi!” He smiles, and, yep, the glasses are working on me. “I haven’t been outside in three days. I want to make sure the world still exists.”

  “Do I look like your avatar?” I say.

  “Think of me more like a co-pilot.” He holds his hands to his face like aviator goggles.

  I stare out the windshield at the curve of worn tire marks in the cul-de-sac’s dark gray paving. “Fine,” I say. “Then, off we go, I suppose.”

  “Hold up, hold up.” He waves his hand at me. He’s wearing a polo shirt. To hang out at home. “I have to turn my camera off.”

  “What’s the point in that?”

  “The point of that is safety,” he says, and this time he sounds a little annoyed. I must look low-key confused, because he adds, “I just—I knew someone who got into an accident texting and driving and it’s a whole—we don’t have to get into it. Just—”

  My screen goes cloudy and the word paused appears across it.

  “Better,” Jonah says.

  Honestly, I’m not loving the idea that he can see me when I can’t see him. I resist the urge to cover my face in my hands. I don’t have on an ounce of makeup and an angry zit is taking up residence on my chin. “Okay. Whatever.” I nod once and hook my phone into the dash holder. “What’s our first challenge?”

  * * *

  • • •

  “No.” I spear him with one of the Mauro women’s patented looks.

  “I didn’t peg you for a chicken,” he says.

  Mrs. Phillips lives in a pink stucco house nestled back behind a massive iron gate.

  “I’m not.” I lift my chin.

  “Great. Then press the intercom. It’s just that little button right there by the gate.” Jonah, un-pausing the camera, uses the cap of his pen to point it out for me.

  “I know which button,” I huff.

  “Oh, okay, so you’re stalling.” He gives me a pleased-with-himself grin. “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Does it have to be that song?”

  “Excuse me, ‘that song’? That song is a—”

  Before he can finish, I lean out the window, screw my face up tight, push the intercom, and channel my inner Lionel Richie:

  “Hello, is it me you’re looking for?

  I can see it in your smile, these groceries drive you wild.”

  “—Max?” Mrs. Phillips voice crackles through the speaker. “Is that you?”

  I slap my hand over my mouth. I haven’t sung around anyone other than my mother since I was a kid and I’m reminded once again why. My singing is a straight-up travesty.

  Jonah disappears from frame, but I can hear him laughing. Squealing. Oh
my goodness, Jonah Stephens squeals.

  I snort-laugh and clap both hands over my mouth.

  “Max!” he erupts.

  “Shhhhh!” I say.

  “Is there a pig out there, honey?” asks Mrs. Phillips.

  Jonah mouths pig to me.

  “No, I, um, just had the sudden urge to sing. It happens sometimes. It’s uh—it’s a condition. Melo . . . dono . . . nophyism?”

  I pinch the skin between my eyebrows. I cannot look at Jonah right now.

  “I love it, dear! What guts! Come on in. Did you get the lubricant this time, by the w—”

  “I got it!” I say. “Coming up to the porch now.”

  “Oh my god, please let me meet her,” Jonah begs as the gates creak open.

  I drive up the pavers past the pruned topiaries. “Mrs. Phillips? I don’t think so. But, now that you mention it, I do have someone I could introduce you to later. My favorite customer. If you’re good.” I open the car door to get Mrs. Phillips’s groceries. “For now, you have other things to focus on. Like how you’re next.”

  chapter six

  JONAH

  “I am so jealous right now,” I say, watching as Max devours a burger.

  I Venmo’d her lunch for “driving” me around today, and now I wish I’d ordered something too, because I am eating a pear and it’s definitely not the same.

  “I’m jealous that you get to lie in bed while I deliver condoms to rich people.”

  I pause. “Fair.”

  She’s parked outside In-N-Out, worn-out Keds propped up on the dash, chewing thoughtfully and washing it all down with a prodigiously sized double chocolate shake.

  “How did you start delivering anyway?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Had a car, a pressing need for money, and a mom who wouldn’t let me be an Uber driver. Plus I turned down all the usual options: VP of sales, hedge fund manager . . . I did almost take that ambassador job in Sofiya . . .”

  “Point taken. Well, at least you get to meet interesting people.”

  “Oh? Like who?”

  “Uh, Mrs. Phillips, obviously. Also a certain Lionel Richie . . . enthusiast.”

  “And what a coincidence that was,” she drawls, eyeing me as she pops a fry into her mouth.

  “You love Lionel Richie too? ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’ is like—”

  “No. What I meant was, one moment I’m getting mansplained over TP in the grocery store, the next I’m delivering it to the very same mansplainer screaming ahuacamolli from his bedroom window.”

  I feel my cheeks burning. “The . . . world is a mysterious place?”

  “So is the internet. Actually, it was kind of impressive.”

  “It was Olivia,” I admit. “My sister. I was just . . . really excited about the avocado soup.” There’s a pause. “Hey listen, I’m sorry. I should have told her no. Was it”—I wince—“even slightly endearing?”

  “Not really. If you’d had an adorable dog run out and greet me, maybe.”

  “I wish. Kate won’t let me have one. It might attack David Copperfield. Her cat,” I clarify. “Not the 1980s magician with the fabulous hair. Unfortunately.”

  “Wow. I was kind of thinking of the Dickens book.”

  “Oh yeah. No. He’s just a really pretentious cat. Judgmental eyes.”

  “I feel your pain,” she says. “I’m pretty sure my cat, Sir Scratchmo, can read minds. Think of whatever it is you want him to do and then he’ll do the exact opposite, it’s uncanny. Sometimes I threaten him with a puppy, but again, he’s got the whole mind-reading thing, so he knows I’m lying. My mom’s all kinds of allergic.”

  “A dog would have been my request number one on Step into Our Family.”

  “Jonah Stephens,” she whispers, leaning toward the screen. “He of boat shoes meets polo shirts meets I have a weird cupid statue on my front lawn . . . watches cheesy reality television?”

  “I may have caught an episode or two.”

  She gives me a scandalized look. “I just binged it for like three days straight. I mean, we really should get to pick our parents’ suitors. My mom’s dating life is a mess.”

  “Thank you! Like, Dad, ignore the evil lawyer—this other lady has three cocker spaniels. It’s amazing how the kids always think to google people. Remember the one where that dude turned out to be in a bike gang and went by Big Rex?”

  “I thought he was kind of awesome. My mom just went on a first date with a guy who randomly FaceTimed his mother halfway through dinner to introduce his new girlfriend.”

  “Wow. Step—”

  “Out of our family!” We finish it together. Max laughs like she means it: Her eyes disappear, her shoulders scrunch up, and it’s, like, really loud. It’s maybe the best laugh ever.

  “We should watch it sometime,” I say. “I could definitely re-binge it.”

  Her eyebrow shoots up.

  “You know . . . virtually,” I clarify. “Or in person in some non-dystopian-hellscape future?”

  “I don’t even know you,” she says, though the right corner of her mouth twitches and drags the rest into a smile. I notice a little crinkling around her green eyes when she smiles. I make a note of that, because Olivia told me we’ll all be wearing masks sooner or later.

  “Then let’s change that,” I say. “Truth.”

  “Hmm . . . well, it has to be something deeply personal or embarrassing,” Max says, tapping her chin. “Preferably both, since I sang into an intercom and got called a pig.”

  “It was a legit snort, in fairness.”

  “All right, I’ll take the low-hanging fruit. Have you dated anyone recently?”

  I lean in. “Max Mauro . . . is this a roundabout way of asking if I’m single?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Somewhat,” I say hesitantly. “We broke up a few months ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s technically a new question—”

  “I sang into an intercom, Jonah.”

  I groan inwardly. This is number one on Things I Don’t Want to Talk About with Max.

  I take a despondent bite of pear and put it aside. “I walked in on her making out with this guy on my soccer team, Adam Fredow, at a team party. Without clothes on. I have a very distinct memory of his flexing haunches. And sweat. It was all very sweaty.”

  “They were naked?”

  “Stark,” I reply weakly. “He had his back to me, so I could see her surprised face and his butt and I didn’t know which one to look at. I kept going back and forth like a Telemundo soap.”

  “Way to paint a picture. And?”

  “Well, I got mad, I guess, and the whole team came in. I mean, she was dressed by then. But there was lots of shouting and laughing and stuff. And then . . . well . . . Ashley told me we should go on a break.”

  “She said that to you right in front of everyone? After you caught her in bed with another dude?”

  “Yeah. It was sort of a public breakup.”

  “You have to admire her gumption.”

  “Oh, I do,” I manage, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

  “All right, sorry, not funny. Well, hilarious, but only for everyone else.” Max puts the shake down and sighs. “Ugh, okay, now I feel guilty because you look all—mopey. It’s my turn. But I want to finish my fries, so I’ll take truth.”

  I brighten. I have about ten thousand questions for her and try to parse through for something revealing in a Do you have a crush on anyone and also is it me? sort of way. But I keep seeing Adam Fredow’s exposed, pimply butt and it’s really hard to think straight. Ugh. I’m lying. It wasn’t pimply at all. It was the richly tanned ass of a soccer Adonis.

  I decide to go for the most direct and optimistic question I can think of.

  “Why did you agree to pla
y today? I mean, really?”

  She takes a long sip of her shake, eyes blinking in mock innocence. “Boredom.”

  “A friendly reminder that the game demands truth.”

  “Fine,” Max says. “That mixed with a teeny-tiny bit of curiosity. I figured I might find out why you’re still texting me, even after I deprived you of all pomp, circumstance, and toilet paper. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

  “We really did need toilet paper.”

  “I doubt you needed toilet paper. It was clearly a panic buy.”

  “Well, Olivia has Crohn’s disease . . . she really does use a lot of toilet paper,” I say. “I was kind of afraid there would be a national shortage or something. Which totally did happen.”

  Max pauses. “Oh. So . . . you were getting it for your sister?”

  “Yeah. I got her some moist towelettes, but admittedly, they felt underwhelming.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?!” she demands, letting her hands flop to her sides. “I would have given you the whole pack. Now I’m like a toilet-paper-stealing con-artist monster.”

  “That was always the case,” I point out.

  “Wow. Okay, so you were actually being sweet, even in a very annoyingly pretentious way. Plot twist. Tell you what . . . whenever I see toilet paper, I’ll snatch some for Olivia.”

  “Max,” I say seriously, “you’re the best personal shopper I’ve ever had.”

  “I try. But you still have to pay for them. I’m too broke for reverse philanthropy.”

  “Deal. Now, can we return to my original question? You wanted to know why I was still texting you, and . . .”

  She cocks an eyebrow again. “And the playlist wasn’t half bad. You have good taste. For someone so buttoned up.”

  (Take that, Olivia!) “Thank you . . . sort of.”

  She pops the last fry into her mouth. An errant strand of black hair wisps down, almost brushing the top of her lips, and she tucks it back around her ear. “Well? You’re up.”

  I’m distracted but try to make an informed decision. “I’m stuck in my house. If Kate catches me doing anything remotely fun or dangerous, she will knee me in the solar plexus.”