Lucky Caller

by Emma Mills

  “She’s right,” Joydeep said.

  Jamie’s brow was wrinkled. “We shouldn’t.”

  “Let’s vote.” Joydeep threw his hand in the air. “All for deleting?”

  I raised my hand, studiously ignoring Jamie’s gaze. Sasha looked between me and Jamie and then sighed, raising her hand too.

  “Great.”

  “Wait. It should be unanimous,” Jamie said, reaching out as I went for the mouse.

  “We never specified that.”

  “We didn’t not specify it either.”

  “That makes no sense,” Sasha said.

  Jamie squeezed his eyes shut. “Just … Let’s vote again.”

  “Fine. Who doesn’t care if it’s unanimous?” Joydeep asked. The three of us raised our hands again.

  “Sorry, Waldo,” Joydeep said, and then to me: “Send it to hell.”

  20.

  WE GOT THE NOD FROM Mr. Tucker at the end of class on Friday. The stay where you are nod. The we have things to discuss nod.

  I could hear the hustle and bustle of the hallway, the footsteps and shouts of a midafternoon class commute, but it was quiet among the four of us as Mr. Tucker joined us in the back, where we had taken to sitting together since the first class. He settled atop one of the desks, the hem of his pants shifting up to reveal socks patterned with bottles of ketchup and mustard. His face belied the whimsy of the socks.

  “So there seemed to be a problem with the file for your last show,” he said. “I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

  Joydeep was the quickest with a response. “Yeah, we must’ve … I think we, uh, probably … forgot to record.”

  “It’s a good thing I caught part of it live.”

  Jamie sputtered, “What?”

  Sasha, at the same time: “You did?”

  Joydeep grimaced. “Soooo … Does that mean we get credit?”

  * * *

  “It won’t happen again,” Joydeep assured Mr. Tucker after a lecture that wasn’t as long as it should’ve been, but definitely longer than I would’ve preferred. I would’ve preferred no lecture at all. “We’ll be way more careful.”

  “I’ll take you at your word,” Mr. Tucker said, and I thought that was the end of it, but he didn’t stand, didn’t dismiss us. “There’s something else I wanted to discuss with you while I have you here. A little … critique of your show.”

  “Here it comes,” Joydeep murmured.

  “I want to know about your decision to have just one on-air host.”

  We looked at each other. We couldn’t say, None of us wanted to talk except Joydeep. I shrugged in hopes of pushing the answer off onto someone else.

  “I know there are some single-host shows among the station volunteers—Maddie is a champ, if you’ve heard her stuff in the mornings—but since this is an elective class, it’s often chosen by people who are interested in getting on-air. It’s pretty rare to get a group where the majority of people want to stay behind-the-scenes. As it stands, you all are the only group with just one host.”

  Jamie responded for us. “Um, I guess we just thought it would be more … streamlined that way? I’m doing the music programming, Sasha is doing publicity and stuff, and Nina is running the board and producing. So we’re all … contributing, just … in different ways. And all that stuff needs to get done anyway, right? We’re just sort of … putting more emphasis on it … individually?”

  “Hm” was Mr. Tucker’s reply.

  “It’s been working out so far,” Joydeep said.

  “Has it?”

  None of us spoke.

  “I’m just saying, it’s something to consider. I heard some interesting things—albeit things I wasn’t supposed to be hearing—because of your misbroadcast. I heard some fun conversation. Stuff like that can get people to tune in. And as it stands … I’d say your show is in a bit of trouble at the moment.”

  “We have a plan, though,” Joydeep said suddenly. “A … substantial plan. To make the show better.”

  I looked over at him, but he studiously ignored everyone’s gaze.

  “Really,” Mr. Tucker said.

  Joydeep nodded. “We’re going to do something big. To boost listenership.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He was still bobbing his head. “Of course. Hence the … substantial plan.”

  “Care to let me in on that plan?”

  “It still needs some … refinement. But we’re gonna … We’ll fix this. We’re gonna get things … tightened up. And we’re gonna get people listening. Like, so many people. You’ll see.”

  “No more technical malfunctions?”

  “No, sir,” Joydeep said, and I shook my head.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m looking forward to seeing this … substantial plan in action.”

  “Me too,” Sasha muttered as Mr. Tucker headed away.

  21.

  WE ALL MET IN THE student gallery after last period for an emergency Sounds of the Nineties team meeting.

  “So what can we do?” Joydeep paced back and forth, looping between the pottery stands. He touched each stand as he passed—blue vase, purple-and-white cup, green plate, and back again. “Something major to get people listening.”

  “We didn’t have to do anything until you opened your big mouth and said that we had a plan,” Sasha said. “Who even talks like that? We have a substantial plan? What is that? What’s next?”

  “Synergy,” Jamie said. “Optics. Data streams. Fully optimized content.”

  Joydeep pointed at him. “I like all those words.”

  “You’ve both left the rails,” Sasha said.

  “How about we brainstorm?” Jamie suggested.

  “How about Joydeep goes back to Mr. Tucker, tells him there is no plan, and we go on living our lives,” I replied.

  Now Sasha pointed my way. “I like her plan.”

  “Is it substantial enough for you?” I said.

  “It’s not insubstantial,” she replied.

  “We’ve gotta do something.” Joydeep stopped abruptly at the blue vase. “We have to turn this shit around. Like, we have to.” He began pacing again. “It won’t be hard. We just have to, like, do some kind of big giveaway or interview someone famous or something.” He nodded to himself, caught up in his own Joydeep energy stream. “That’s good, though. How about we have a special guest? A celebrity or something?”

  “Yeah, right,” Sasha said. “Who here knows a celebrity?”

  Jamie looked my way, and unfortunately, Joydeep clocked it.

  “What?” Joydeep said.

  Jamie just shook his head, looking apologetic, and I remembered our conversation about my dad: I just want to leave him and everything out of it. I don’t want it to be about that.

  “What?” Joydeep said again. “You guys are doing that thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “That thing where you communicate with your eyes.”

  “We don’t do that,” Jamie said.

  “You definitely do,” Sasha replied, glancing at Joydeep. “I noticed it really early on.”

  “Same, and let’s definitely circle back to that, but in the meantime, which celebrity do you know?”

  “He’s not—” I shook my head. Sighed. “It’s my dad. But he’s not a celebrity.”

  “He kind of is, though,” Jamie said gently. “Here, at least.”

  “What? Why?” Joydeep looked between us, head swinging back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. “What’s he do? Is he an actor? Does he do the news?” His eyes widened. “Is he a serial killer?”

  “How are those your top three kinds of celebrities?” Sasha said.

  “He’s … I mean. Technically. He’s…” I mumbled.

  “Sorry?”

  “A … radio host.”

  “What?” Joydeep said.

  “A radio host,” I repeated.

  “No, I heard you, I just can’t believe you have an actual radio host as your li
teral next of kin and our show is as shitty as it is.”

  “Hey!”

  “It’s flowing through your veins, Nina! You should be a goddamn ringer, but instead, after three complete shows you can’t even keep track of the fact that ‘light off’ means broadcasting and ‘light on’ means not broadcasting!”

  “Hey,” Jamie said, suddenly stern.

  “I’m sorry.” Joydeep looked at me, eyes imploring. “I am. It’s just … We have to do something.”

  “I thought you didn’t care about the show,” Sasha said.

  Joydeep looked away. “I became … more invested.”

  “Because Tucker might flunk us?” Jamie said.

  “Yes. For sure. I can’t flunk, I need a good final transcript. But also…” Joydeep trailed off.

  “Also what?”

  He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “We kind of … put a wager on it.”

  “Who?”

  “Me and Colby and a couple other guys in class,” he said. “For most-listened show. We put a bet on it before the whole … Cat Chat breakdown this week. Whoever has the lowest listenership has to buy everyone else’s tickets for prom. And I can’t stress to you how much I can’t do that, so we have to do well.”

  “Why did you agree to it if you can’t do it?”

  “That’s the whole point of a bet. It has to hurt to lose,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Jamie frowned. “But—”

  “But,” Joydeep continued, “it only hurts if you lose. So we can’t lose.”

  “Is that why you were messing with their show?” Sasha asked. “Sabotage?”

  “No, I did that because it was hilarious. It actually had the opposite effect. More people are listening to them than ever, which completely sucks.”

  “Maybe we should have a bogus advice section,” Jamie said thoughtfully. “You’re a lot funnier thinking up fake questions than you are trying to do the weather and stuff.”

  “Hey!”

  “Welcome to the show, this show, on the station you are listening to,” Sasha replied in a wooden, not-inaccurate impression of Radio Joydeep.

  “Point taken.” Joydeep turned back to me. “What’s your dad do on the radio, then?”

  “He has a morning show. They just talk about random stuff, play music, do games and things.” This morning they gave away concert tickets with a game called Guess That Sound: Animal or Adult Video? Edition. It was about as highbrow as you’d expect. “It’s not even here, though. The show got bought a few years ago, and he moved to California.”

  “Do a lot of people listen?” Joydeep asked.

  “I mean, I guess? It’s a bigger market there, which is why he moved. But he’s not, like, a celebrity celebrity.” He had interviewed some famous singers and bands before, had hosted big concerts for the radio station and stuff. But it wasn’t like he was out there getting recognized on a daily basis—that was kind of a main feature of radio fame.

  “He used to be on-air here, though?” Joydeep said.

  “Yeah. 99.5, in the mornings.”

  Joydeep nodded slowly, wheels turning. “We can say he’s a local celebrity. A hometown hero back on the airwaves.”

  “He’s not even local anymore, though, is kind of the main point,” I said, but Joydeep wasn’t listening.

  “A hometown hero returning triumphant!”

  I looked to Jamie and Sasha for help. To my surprise, Jamie was nodding too. “We could interview him on-air. And maybe he could visit our class or something, give a talk about being in the business for real. That could score us some points with Tucker.”

  Joydeep pointed to Jamie. “Yes. Yeah. This is good.”

  “Sasha,” I said, looking to her for reason.

  But she just gave a small smile. “I don’t hate the idea. It would be … kind of cool, actually. And we could even…” She paused.

  “What?” Joydeep said. “Hit us with that magic, Wonder Woman. Lasso us in truth.”

  “You’re the worst.”

  “I’m the greatest of all time.”

  Sasha rolled her eyes, then took a breath. “What if at first, we bill it as an interview with a mystery guest? Like a secret celebrity interview. We can advertise for it, like dropping clues as to who it is. So part of the whole thing is in the buildup to it. Generating buzz and stuff. Getting people to guess who it’s gonna be.” She shook her head. “None of the other groups are doing anything like that. So even if no one really cares after the big reveal—sorry, Nina—” I waved a hand. “It’ll show Tucker that we put effort into doing something different. And score us some points for doing, like, actual publicity.”

  “I like that,” Jamie said. “There’s only one issue.” He glanced at me. “Do you think he’d do it?”

  I took a deep breath. “Well … I mean, he’s coming to town for my sister’s school play in April. So … I think he could do it then?” In theory, if he came in on Thursday, he could do the show, talk to our class on Friday, and catch the opening night of the musical that evening. We weren’t going out to California for spring break this year, so he said he’d make a trip out here.

  “Perfect,” Sasha said, and Joydeep punched his fist in the air.

  “We’re back on track!” he cried.

  We were definitely something.

  22.

  MY PHONE LIT UP WITH a text from Joydeep a few days later.

  You should put together a list of fun facts about your dad

  What? Why? I replied.

  To build hype for the mystery guest. We’ve got to tease him

  Ew, I said.

  To the audience, gross! he replied, and two more messages quickly followed.

  We gotta give them a little bit of FLAVOR, you know

  Like of what’s to come

  I didn’t reply right away, and to my surprise, my phone buzzed once more.

  Look I get that everything up until this point has been kind of a clusterfuck. I’ll admit that. So that’s why we have to turn this thing around

  You just don’t want to lose your bet, I said.

  I mean yes

  But also I don’t want to fail

  And anyway, I think it’s important to Jamie

  I frowned, my thumbs hovering above my phone screen, before typing:

  So?

  He’s my bro, Joydeep replied.

  I didn’t respond right away, and my phone buzzed again after a moment or two.

  The mystery guest thing is going to be big for us. Nobody else is going to have that. It’s super cool your dad is doing this

  It’s super cool you brought it up in the first place

  So let’s make the most of it, yeah?

  Yeah okay, I sent.

  Joydeep replied with two thumbs-up.

  23.

  FACTS ABOUT MY DAD.

  I tapped my fingers lightly against the keys of Mom’s laptop, not pressing anything down. Just tap tap tap tap.

  His favorite band was Pearl Jam. He was a terrible cook. He started in radio during college, interned at a station here in Indianapolis over summers, then got his first on-air job right out of college. It paid very little, so he also waited tables at TGI Fridays and deejayed at weddings and parties.

  None of this was particularly helpful in terms of our show. Joydeep asked for fun facts.

  My mom and dad technically met on the radio—that was a fun fact. Or it was, I guess? Until it all expired?

  They got divorced when I was seven. We did two weekends a month at my dad’s for the next six years.

  He always woke up early, even on the weekends. Conditioned from years of doing morning radio, I guess. The show started at 6 a.m., so he would get up at four forty-five. “Sleeping in” meant sleeping until seven or so, and even then, he said he’d still catch sight of the clock and feel panic, like he was meant to be in the studio.

  He traveled sometimes, doing stuff for the station. I remember him coming back one time with teddy bears for the three
of us when we were little—each bear had a yellow-patterned dress and apron on, with bows attached to their little teddy bear heads.

  I loved that bear. It was special in particular because Dad picked it out all on his own. He stopped at the airport gift shop or the drug store or wherever and saw those specific bears, and for whatever reason—they were cheapest, he thought they were cute, they would fit in his suitcase—he picked them out and bought them and traveled all the way back with them, just for us.

  When my dad’s show got bought and we found out that he would be leaving, I was in eighth grade, Rose was in ninth, and Sidney was in fourth. It was early fall, and my dad had taken us to Graeter’s for ice cream. Crowded around one of the small round tables with our favorite too-big waffle bowls, he announced that he would be moving to California.

  “This is a really big opportunity,” he had said, “but it’s not gonna—we’ll still spend time together, and it doesn’t mean that I don’t…” He broke off a bit of cone, stuck it in the top of the mound of ice cream like he was planting a flag. “You can come for trips and stay longer—summer vacation, and Christmas—”

  “I want to have Christmas with Mom,” Sidney said flatly.

  “Well, it’s something we’re working out now. We can definitely—”

  “Mom knows?” Rose said.

  “Of course she knows.”

  “Why didn’t she tell us?”

  “I wanted to be the one to tell you. I wanted you to hear it from me.” He looked at the three of us. “This isn’t going to change anything,” he said.

  Which was an absurd thing to say. That’s what I remember thinking most clearly. That it was a complete and total lie—it was so obviously going to change everything. I think I understand a bit better now what he might have meant—that it wouldn’t change how he felt about us. It wouldn’t change the fact that he loved us and cared about us—things he should’ve said but didn’t.

  No one finished their ice cream that day. We pitched soggy, half-eaten waffle bowls with pools of melted ice cream in them. We rode home in silence.

  Sidney took it hardest, I think. She sank into a terrible mood that lingered over the next few weeks. Finally, in a desperate attempt to cheer her up—after Sidney refused movies and games and dolls, even an offer to dive into Rose’s makeup bag—Rose asked, “What do you want to do? Anything. Just … What’ll make you feel happy right now? Tell us and we’ll do it. Whatever it is.”