Hello (From Here)

by Chandler Baker

  I do not like the sound of that.

  “Well, we’ve still got two minutes until go time,” says Dannie, who is now picking at the clump of food in her hair. I make a mental note to check in with her during the day more often because Scarlett may be adorable, but at least I get fifteen-minute breaks. “Maybe now’s a good time?”

  “A good time for what?” I ask.

  “While we’re all here.” Dannie lifts her eyebrows. “You know . . . together.” She is overenunciating every word as though she’s still in talking-to-toddlers mode.

  “Are you okay?” I look at Imani to see if she has a clue, but I’m suddenly remembering how weird they were on our last call. Like they were in cahoots. “Wait a minute, what are you talking about?” This better not be about Jonah.

  Imani puffs out her cheeks. “It’s—okay, fine, maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” says Dannie, who actually usually is right.

  “I—”

  Just then a fourth black box materializes on-screen. “Oh, oh! Shhhhh!” Dannie peels off the sunglasses and flaps her hand.

  A beat passes. The conversation dies. The suspense kills us.

  And then there’s Jonah. Eyes that turn down a touch at the corners. Nose that’s just a little bit crooked. Freckled. A dimple peeking out from inside the smile crease of his left cheek. And I’m surprised to realize that I’ve noticed all these details before, that they’ve been mentally stored in the Jonah Stephens file that’s only recently appeared on the subliminal desktop inside my head.

  I don’t know how to feel about this.

  “Hi!” all three of us say in unison. Only we give the word five times the number of I’s and sound like a group of overcaffeinated camp counselors.

  “Hi,” Jonah says like an actual normal person.

  “Glad you could join us. I’m Dannie,” she says, taking the lead. “And this is Imani and obviously you know Max.”

  “Obviously.” Jonah grins so big, his face has the vibe of a human neon sign. Honestly, if I were the type of girl who blushed, I just might.

  “Do you like games?” Dannie claps her hands together. Oh boy.

  “Excuse my friend,” says Imani. “Dannie’s been spending way too much time with her sister. She’s almost three.”

  “That’s true.” Dannie nods gravely. “I’m in desperate need of adult conversation. Oh my god, I sound like my mother already.”

  “Funny,” says Jonah. “I’m having the exact same problem. My sister is obsessed with board games, refuses to change out of her pajamas, and needs a nap to be remotely functional.”

  “Aw.” Dannie tilts her head, all this is adorable. “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Dannie and Imani both laugh, for real, and not because I asked them to. I can tell the difference. And what I’m thinking is how Jonah Stephens actually asked me to be his girlfriend and how I’m not saying yes. But maybe I’m also not saying no.

  “Did everyone download the app from the link I sent around?” Imani scans us for approval. We’ve come prepared because let’s just say that when it comes to Imani, the apple doesn’t fall that far from Sweets’s tree, and we know to step in line. “Good. The game is Pictionary. Now we need teams.”

  “I call Dannie.” Jonah raises his hand.

  “Excuse me?” I cross my arms, curious about where this is headed.

  “I’m sorry.” He grimaces. “But some of us take game night seriously.”

  “I take game night seriously,” I say.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have concerns,” Jonah says gently.

  “What concerns?”

  “Like . . . pop culture concerns? Okay, so you’d never seen Greed and Glory and you had no idea who Winter Robbins even was and—”

  “Wait, what now?” Imani busts out.

  “Oh god, don’t tell me you didn’t tell them either?” My silence speaks for itself. “Max is all chummy with Arlo Oxley, one of her customers who won a freaking Oscar for producing Greed and Glory and allegedly dated Winter Robbins and she was completely oblivious to all of it. Seriously.”

  “Darn it, I knew you were just trying to make me feel better, Max.” Dannie crosses her arms. “Your job is more fun than playing Sneaky Snacky Squirrel ten times a day.”

  “Thank you!” Imani raises her hands. “I’ve been saying this for years! I swear, sometimes it’s like she’s living underneath a rock. Please! Will you educate our girl? Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  “And hi,” Dannie pipes up. “Did you not think about your—oh yeah—film crazy friend over here? Allow me to introduce myself.”

  “Hey, I’m film-crazy,” adds Jonah. The two air high-five. It’s ridiculous.

  “I have a list,” Dannie tells him earnestly. “You know what? I’ve got your email now. I’m sending it to you after. You know she still hasn’t seen Inception?”

  Jonah looks at me like I’ve been spending my time kicking puppies instead.

  “Okay, okay, I don’t see how any of this impacts my game night draft score.”

  “Also,” he continues, “I used to babysit my neighbor’s toddler and it involved a lot of coloring. Like a lot. Dannie the sister-wrangler probably has pretty finely tuned art skills. So . . . yeah . . . Dannie.”

  “He’s not wrong,” Dannie points out.

  “Yes, but aren’t you supposed to want to be teamed up with me?”

  “It’s nothing personal.” He shrugs. “I still like you.”

  “I see how it is.” Imani shifts her weight, settling into her chair in front of T. rex. “This boy came to play. I like that. Come on, Max.” She cracks her neck. “Let’s show them how it’s done. The category is idioms.”

  I arch an eyebrow at Jonah. So that’s how it’s going to be. Game on.

  Dannie starts us off. She draws two trees, one with an X through it and a dog standing next to it.

  “Barking up the wrong tree!” Jonah guesses in less than fifteen seconds. The two of them do some kind of completely embarrassing victory dance, but Imani and I aren’t about to be scared off.

  We’re up next. Imani rubs her hands together. “Bring it, Mauro.”

  I scribble out a square with a diagonal line through one side and a pair of scissors beside it. “Cutting corners,” Imani shouts louder than necessary and faster than Jonah had for his turn. We get the point and she does a whoa move. The gloves are off. Which, yes, would actually make a pretty good Pictionary idiom, come to think of it.

  Jonah makes a truly godawful attempt at “crying over spilled milk,” which causes Dannie to yell “Fudgsicles!” in frustration, making it official that she should take some time off from babysitting.

  Imani crushes a drawing of “under the weather,” prompting Jonah to slow-clap because, really, that’s impressive. After a streak that includes “piece of cake,” “costs an arm and a leg,” “penny for your thoughts,” and “hit the sack,” Dannie and Jonah’s team is up by one. If they get this next attempt, they win.

  Dannie sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth, concentrating, while she sketches a stick person standing on . . . on a cliff . . .

  “Cliff hanger!” Jonah bounces in his seat.

  She shakes her head, time ticking, and inks an arrow swooping down . . . down . . .

  “Going overboard!” he tries again.

  Another headshake.

  . . . into waves.

  And in the waves, Dannie draws . . . hearts.

  “Five seconds,” Imani warns.

  Dannie holds up the picture and then she jabs her finger and, if I’m not mistaken, it’s in my direction. “You can’t do that!” yells Imani.

  Just as Jonah blurts out “Falling in love.”

  And Dannie snaps, and cheers, “Bingo!”

 
Jonah clears his throat and I find out another thing the two of us don’t have in common. While I am not a girl who blushes, he is, for sure, a boy who does.

  To their credit, my friends make no comment.

  In fact, one might even say that they’re being cool.

  “That was fun.” Dannie caps her pen. “We should do it again sometime.”

  “Absolutely,” says Jonah, and he seems like he genuinely means it.

  “Scarlett wakes up at the crack. I’ve got to get to bed.” Dannie yawns.

  “Or . . . hit the hay?” Jonah offers. I’d have drawn with a hammer and a stack of scratchy lines and, okay, I don’t know if Imani would have gotten that. “I’m sorry. I hate myself. Ugh. Ignore me,” he says.

  But Imani gives him one of her signature big, toothy smiles, and it’s impossible not to feel at least a little bit good after getting one of those.

  One by one they leave the meeting until it’s just me and Jonah looking into each other’s eyes thinking this isn’t a big deal, but also maybe, just maybe it kind of is.

  “So?” he says with that dimple suddenly deciding to join the party.

  I think I know what he’s asking, but I’m not ready to answer yet. After all, I’m a girl whose most recent relationship ended in emojis. “So . . . I’ve been thinking . . .”

  I watch Jonah’s expression lift, and my stomach knots. I’m so not good at these kinds of things.

  “About what?” he prompts.

  Our usual group text chain pops up on-screen, distracting me.

  Imani: He’s cool with us.

  Dannie: I think he’s cute. He’s preppy, but like. Okay, he looks like he sails on the weekends, but he’s definitely going to sink soon.

  “About . . .” I hesitate.

  Imani: Yeah. Or like he’s got a sweater around his waist, but it has Rick and Morty on it.

  “About . . . Winter,” I say. And just like that I’ve taken the easy way out.

  A flicker of something passes across Jonah’s face, as quick as a shooting star, blink and I’d have missed it.

  “I don’t even know why it’s bugging me so much,” I say, building steam. “I just don’t know why someone that famous, that successful, would go—poof!—missing.”

  He relaxes. His hair doesn’t look so combed anymore. “It’s definitely weird.”

  The adrenaline is being leeched from my body, and my eyelids are already starting to get heavy. Jonah Stephens has nice teeth. I bet he flosses every single night.

  “You know,” he says. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “You promise that you’ll do the talking?” I ask the next morning, balancing my phone under my chin as I coax open my trunk and rummage for Arlo’s one paltry grocery bag.

  “Yes, for the last time, I’ll do the talking.” I agreed to FaceTime Jonah once I arrived and now he sits spinning in his desk chair. It’s making me kind of sick. “Since when are you so nervous, anyway?”

  I slam the trunk closed and my whole car threatens to fall apart. Arlo’s street is quiet. I leave my car blocking the drive knowing no one here is trying to leave any time soon.

  “I want him to be happy, that’s all.” I peer down into the phone, a view that I have to admit I’m getting sort of used to.

  “Then”—Jonah puts on his lawyering tone—“maybe this is exactly what he needs—to talk about his feelings.”

  “Or”—I serve it right back—“maybe he doesn’t want to talk about his feelings.”

  “Some people like talking about their feelings, Max.”

  I adjust the bag over my wrist and stuff my keys into my front pocket. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” He stops spinning, thank god. “Just—you know—as a kid whose parents have helped pay a therapist’s mortgage a time or two, I’m saying it can be healthy.” He tries to brush it off like we don’t both know what he’s referring to: me talking about my feelings. For him.

  “Right. Well,” I say, cutting past this topic. “Just so long as we’re clear.”

  Jonah has a kid-on-Christmas grin and it makes me want to roll my eyes and give him presents all at the same time. “Look at us,” he says, bouncing. “We’re like a crime-solving duo. We’re like Sherlock and Watson. Batman and Robin. Scully and Mulder. Stabler and Benson.”

  “I caught two out of four.” I walk the gentle slope up the drive just as a furry black streak comes bounding out to meet me.

  “Chester!” I scratch the giant poodle behind his ears and, as usual, he gently stands up and puts his front paws on my shoulders because this is a dog that likes to go in for real hugs. I let my face nuzzle into his curls and breathe in his vaguely sawdust-y smell. He looks dapper in a new bow tie—navy and pink flamingo—and I don’t speak dog, but I can tell he’s feeling himself. He hops down and I look up to see Arlo already waiting for me on the porch. “How’d you know I was on my way?”

  “I finally figured out the little app.” Arlo brandishes his phone and points to the screen. “It was like watching a very slow car chase.” His eyes widen. “No explosions, but still quite suspenseful. And here you are. Just like it said.”

  I approach and set the grocery bag on the porch, a safe distance from where Arlo stands, before retreating. “So you’re finally embracing technology, I see.” And clear my throat pointedly. A-hem.

  “Hello, Mr. Oxley!” Jonah yells from the screen. “It’s me, Jonah Stephens again.”

  Arlo leans forward. His nose scrunches up as he tries to fumble for a pair of spectacles in his vest pocket. “The boy in the box?”

  “A stowaway,” I explain.

  “Mr. Oxley, hi again. It’s truly an honor to meet you, even virtually. The truth is . . .” He stumbles. “Well, I was wondering if you might indulge a few questions, from a fan?”

  “Like an interview?”

  “You’ve probably been interviewed a lot,” I say. What if he’s sick of interviews?

  “Not in such a long time.” Arlo pulls his chin in and frowns, though there’s a new twinkle in his eye. I exhale, mollified. Maybe it’s hard to no longer be the center of attention after so many people cared about your opinion for so long.

  “Mr. Oxley, I can’t tell you how much your movies meant to me and my family growing up. I’ve seen all of them and frankly, I think the fact that Summer Moon didn’t win Best Picture is a national tragedy. I don’t care if my dad disagrees.” He takes a breath and I see that Arlo has gone soft around the eyes. “I just—I have to tell you that when it comes to my favorite, Greed and Glory, I—well, I went down a bit of a rabbit hole,” says Jonah.

  Arlo looks at me, concerned.

  “He means on the internet.”

  Arlo nods, showing visible relief.

  “And, as far as I can tell, you were the last person to have ever been photographed with the actor known as Winter Robbins.” I hold my breath. Of course I knew this was coming. “You were . . . close to him,” Jonah’s continuing more uncertainly now, “close enough to see his talent and want him to keep working . . . maybe in one of your other films. And I’m just wondering, well, it’s become a sort of mystery.”

  I tell myself I wouldn’t keep digging if I didn’t genuinely believe that when Arlo said he preferred happy endings that it meant somehow he wanted one for himself too. “I think what Jonah’s asking is, did—um, did something happen between you and Winter? Were you involved, you know, romantically?”

  Arlo walks back with his hand on his thinning white hair and plops onto a wooden bench beside his door. For a split second, I’m worried we’ve upset him and that he’s going to tell us to leave.

  But instead he says, “A lot didn’t happen. That’s the problem.”

  Oh. Wait. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  His look is far away. “I guess there’s no p
oint in secrets anymore.” There’s a long—some would say dramatic—pause. “Winter was my great love. The kind movies are made about. We met shortly after he’d begun filming when I was on set and he had these eyes the color of maple syrup that—” Arlo chuckles softly. “Well . . . nobody should have eyes like that. Oh, he was this cool, macho guy, such gravitas, but he could play a mean guitar ballad, had a beautiful voice that would make your heart melt. He’d listen to a song once and play it. It was uncanny. He was a live wire. And that first day we met and we just . . . we just knew.”

  “Wow,” Jonah says wistfully.

  I have to wonder if some of this is the rose-colored glasses of years gone by, but I suppose that it doesn’t really matter. “Did he break your heart?” I make my voice quieter.

  Arlo’s smaller than he’s ever seemed before, and I immediately regret my question. “Quite the contrary,” he says. “We’d only been going steady—I don’t know what you kids call it these days—for a couple months,” he continues, and I’m glad the screen is pointed away so that I don’t have to look at Jonah right then, because we’re not calling it anything, not yet. “But things were hot and heavy, I guess you’d say.” He winks. “But I was being shipped off to a shoot in France that I couldn’t miss. And we were trying to be reasonable. We didn’t make any promises. A month before I was set to come home, he called me and told me he tested positive for HIV. This was the late eighties, mind you. Everyone was still terrified of AIDS, especially in our community. I was abroad and at that time the president was putting a travel ban that said people with HIV couldn’t come into the country, and even though people should have known better, many still believed you could catch the disease from simple things like drinking out of a public water fountain. Young men got sick and would return to apartments from the hospital to find all of their belongings thrown out on the street. Just a few years earlier there had been months where I was visiting dying friends in the hospital every weekend. I attended five memorial services in one year. And so he told me he had HIV and I felt . . . everything. You name it. Fear, first. But then I got tested . . . and I was negative. And that fear became hurt because I thought he didn’t wait for me. I waited for him, but he didn’t wait for me. Now I don’t even know if that part was true. We didn’t know the things we know now. But instead of caring for him, I lashed out. I was angry with him for letting this happen, for all of it, I cut him off. Cold turkey. Just like that. By the time I came to my senses, he’d left Los Angeles and gone home to be with family. There weren’t cell phones. There wasn’t email. He wasn’t even Winter Robbins anymore. And I had no way to track him down. So.” He shrugs. “It was kaput.”