Are You Still There Read online

  I sigh. “What problems do you have?”

  He sort of laughs, but with his head bent forward and his chin tucked in, he’s laughing into his chest. When he looks up, his eyes are dangerously close to my face. “No problems. My life is perfecto.”

  “Make one up.”

  He tries flattery. “How am I supposed to concentrate when I’m sitting next to a beautiful girl?”

  “No chance, asshole.” I surprise myself. And judging from the look on his face, I surprise him as well. “Give me a problem.”

  “Yeah? Okay. The love of my life is ignoring me.”

  I make a face and stretch my brain to find a validation. “That sounds … hard.”

  “It is. In a lot of different ways.” He winks and suddenly I realize the double meaning in my words. “And that validation sucked.”

  Who is this guy? I can’t figure him out, and he’s irritating. Like an itch you can’t scratch because it would be impolite and people would stare. So I take a risk and ask, “Did you really not know what the word ‘stalking’ meant?”

  He grins, and his smile tells me all I need to know. “You asshole,” I say again.

  “Hey. You’re cute when you’re feisty, you know that?”

  I turn away. “I’m going to ask for another partner.”

  We haven’t even gotten to the texting practice yet. It’s going to be a long day.

  7

  It looks like someone puked fliers all over the school. Every blank space on every wall has some variation of the Central’s Peer Helpline—We’re Here to Listen advertisement. We all worked together to make the fliers, but Paisley posted them after hours so we wouldn’t blow our secret cover.

  She ran an ad in the local paper too.

  So officially, we’re now in business.

  Too bad we don’t have a clue what we’re doing.

  My locker is across from a particularly colorful slathering of fliers. There’s a playing card precariously wedged in one of my locker slats. I pull it out and look at it. A joker. There’s tiny, black writing, block letters that look so neat and square I wonder if they have been printed around the edges of the card. I turn the card counterclockwise to read all the words. It says, Remember stranger danger from elementary school? I am Stranger.

  I have this sudden urge to get the card as far away from me as possible. I drop it in the nearest trash can and back away. People these days have a twisted sense of humor. Sick.

  I feel like I’m sitting in a closet. Probably because I am sitting in a closet. A converted storage closet with a futon, a desk, two computers, two chairs, and two phones. The whole room is smaller than my parents’ master bathroom.

  I’m highlighting my AP government textbook, using my three-colored approach. Pink for possible vocab words, yellow for dates, and orange for facts. Janae is sprawled across the futon, paging through a magazine. Luckily I avoided being paired with Miguel.

  “Why did we sign up for this again?” She rolls over onto her back.

  I laugh. “I was wondering the same thing myself.” The phone hasn’t rung once. We’ve been parked in this tiny room for over an hour. About as much fun as getting orthodontic braces tightened. At least I’m getting some good studying done.

  “Nice ankle bracelet,” I tell her. It’s pretty, made of baby-blue seashells and tied together with some kind of twine that resembles hay.

  “You like?” Janae grins and holds up her leg for me to examine more closely. “I made it.”

  “Seriously?” I look closer. She doesn’t seem like the jewelry-making type. She seems more the weed-smoking, rave-going, bleach-your-hair-in-the-sink type.

  Janae unhooks the bracelet and turns it over in her hands. “Yeah. This is a good one. I made a bunch a while back when I was living away from home.” Her eyes lose focus for a moment, like she’s remembering something. “I can show you how, maybe next shift?”

  “That’d be fun,” I agree. “It might help to pass the time.” I wish I could offer some cool art project of my own, but my artistic skills are limited to creative highlighting techniques. I should show her my color-coded textbooks. They’re pretty.

  “I’m starving.” Janae sits up and unzips her backpack. “But it looks like I am way unprepared.” She pulls out a granola bar. “I don’t suppose we can order a pizza?”

  “Yeah, having a delivery boy show up kind of blows the whole secrecy thing.” I spin around on my swivel chair like a little kid, considering our top-secret helpline office space. Our converted supply closet is hidden way back in C wing, a section of the school that’s been empty ever since those massive budget cuts two years ago when they increased class sizes. At five minutes to four, each shift team has been instructed to enter the C building casually and make sure no one is in sight before going down the back corridor to the janitor’s closet.

  Today Janae and I both lingered at the school library after school. We didn’t study together because we have no classes in common, and we’d probably draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. At our school, friends sort of match together like puzzle pieces. Not Janae and me.

  The door to the closet-office sports a combination lock. Not the twisty kind they put on school lockers, but one that’s actually inserted into the door, with numbered push buttons that have to be pressed in a certain order to release the lock. At first glance our code (4–3–5–7–5–4–6–3) just looks like a random grouping of numbers. But the numbers correspond to cell phone letters, spelling out “H-e-l-p-l-i-n-e.”

  Janae’s face brightens. “You know what we need in here? A mini fridge. We could stock it with sodas.”

  I nod. “We need to decorate. It’d be like decorating a backyard fort.”

  “Right?” Janae laughs and plays with one of the little studs in her left ear, twisting it in a circle. “The neighbor kids and I made these massive forts in the laundry room at our apartment complex. Until some cranky old lady called the landlord. She said it was a fire code violation.”

  “Bummer.”

  “It’s okay. We egged her car,” Janae says, practically beaming.

  “No way. Really?”

  “Yep. If there’s a prank that needs pulling, you just come to me. I’m the prank queen. Speaking of eggs, I’m so hungry. And snacks just aren’t gonna cut it.” Janae rolls onto her side. “I’ll just go pick us up some Mickey D’s.”

  “You can’t leave a shift.” This comes out kind of whiny and of course it’s true, but what I really mean is that she can’t leave me alone on a shift. “What if someone calls or texts while you’re gone?”

  “Doesn’t look likely at this point.”

  “They might.”

  Janae’s already standing up, and I have the urge to lunge for her ankle to hold her there.

  “Let’s text Eric or Garth. I’ve got their numbers.” I grab my phone. I’ve had classes with Eric since freshman year. And Garth Johnson was on my team for our euthanasia debate in government. “They both drive.”

  “Good thinking. Here, hand me your phone. I’ll text them.” She holds out her palm expectantly. “There,” she announces.

  “Did you text both of them?”

  “Why not?”

  A half hour later, we smell onions and pickles, then hear the metallic clicks of the door code being entered. Garth plops down next to Janae on the futon. The futon tilts with his weight. He pulls out a few sub sandwiches and spreads them out on the sandwich paper.

  “Dig in!”

  Within a few minutes, Eric’s there too, unpacking a Taco Bell bag.

  Looks like Garth and Eric think they’ve been invited to stay, and the room feels suddenly crowded. It’s quiet for a while, with just the sounds of us chewing. So we all jump when the phone rings. Riiiiiing. Riiiiiing. I scramble for the seat by the desk. Riiiiiing.

  I grab the phone, standing up and trying to catch my breath. “Helpline, this is … Vanessa.” I hadn’t picked my pseudonym before this moment.

  “Hi.” Soft voice. Female. Hes
itant. I sit down. Eric shoves a stack of loose paper in front of me, and Janae hands me a pen. I try to remember protocol. It’s too hard to listen and think of what I have to say next and write notes for the others all at the same time. This is mental juggling, and I just might have too many balls in the air. I draw a circle with a plus sign attached to it, so the others will know it is a girl.

  “Hi,” I say back.

  Quiet on the other end. I can hear breathing. Janae slides a chair over next to me. She picks up another pen, a different color from the one I’m using, and starts to write, How old? I answer with a question mark. I can’t tell yet.

  “You can talk about anything you’d like. I’m here to listen.” This I try to say calmly. Slowly. Like we practiced in our role-plays. Garth leans over my shoulder and draws a big happy face. Good job.

  “Are you a student?” The voice surprises me with this question.

  “What?” We hadn’t practiced answering personal questions. But I know we’re supposed to be anonymous, so I better figure out a way to tap-dance around anything that might identify me personally.

  “Here. At Central. Are you a student?”

  “This is a peer helpline. We’re all students.” I try to keep my voice even. Steady. Janae writes, Tell us what’s happening. We’ll help you.

  The caller makes this strange noise, this mmhmm from deep in her throat. And then she goes on. “So basically, you don’t know shit.” I hear an edge now to her voice.

  I take a breath in, like she’s socked me. I write what she said in quotes. You don’t know shit.

  “Maybe not. But if there is something you want to talk about, I’m happy to listen.”

  We can’t all fit around the desk, so Eric sets a paper down next to me. None of us know shit. Ha! You’re doing great by the way. Ask her what’s going on? What made her call tonight? I tilt my head up to Eric and try to smile my thanks.

  “What I want to know is, does anyone remember her?”

  “Who?” I am confused. This is harder than it sounds.

  But the girl goes on as though she doesn’t hear me. “She was famous for a week or so. But now that it’s all over, does anyone remember her?”

  Say what? I repeat, “So you’re thinking about someone who was well-known for a while, and now you’re wondering if anyone remembers her.” I sound like a complete idiot.

  The girl’s words are tight now. Like she’s keeping her mouth closed while she talks. “She didn’t matter to anyone. That’s why she offed herself. She didn’t matter then, and she doesn’t matter now.”

  She must be talking about that girl, Jo, the one who hanged herself sophomore year. But the question is why is she talking about Jo? I get a strange feeling in my stomach. “She must have been very unhappy.”

  “No shit. Everyone saw those pictures.” Her voice wavers. “I mean, her life sucked, just like everyone else’s, but the pictures put her over the edge.”

  I didn’t really know Jo except from having P.E. with her one year, but I definitely knew of her, even before she hanged herself. Everyone knew her as “that beanpole dyke.” She was seriously awkward, with stringy, greasy-looking hair, but nice enough. Until that group of cheerleaders made her the punch line of their practical joke. One of them pretended to be into her, tried to seduce her, and then took pictures. And posted them all over the Internet.

  She lasted three days after that.

  Everyone at school saw the pictures within twenty-four hours. It took two days for her parents to find out. Word was that they were ashamed. Ashamed that she’d been so stupid. Ashamed that she was a lesbian. They kicked her out of the house, but she had nowhere to go. So she left a note basically telling everyone off. Then fastened a noose around her neck and checked out.

  I am not sure what to say to the caller. I write on my paper, Help! Janae leans over and writes, You sound really upset. Eric adds, Tell me more. I shake my head. Neither of these are right.

  Luckily, the girl saves me by going on. “The question is, would anyone remember me if I checked out?”

  I gasp. Out loud. Then cover my mouth. I hope she didn’t hear. There isn’t anything I can do but ask. “Are you thinking of hurting yourself?”

  She laughs. In a sarcastic, “life sucks” kind of way. “Every freaking day.” I can feel my heart pounding in my eardrums. “Don’t worry. Thinking is one thing. Doing is another. I’m scared shitless. With my luck, I’d mess it up. I’d wind up in a coma or be a human vegetable forever. Worse than death. Worse than life. So no, I won’t do it. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I could.”

  And suddenly I get this funny feeling in my gut. I know that voice from somewhere. But I can’t put my finger on who it could be.

  Help!?! I write. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.

  Referrals for counseling? Janae scribbles.

  I ruffle through a pile of papers on the desk, thinking we probably should’ve organized this office before we got our first call. “Would you like a referral to a low-fee counseling center?” I ask before I’ve even gotten my hands on the referral list.

  She laughs again and says, “I don’t need a shrink. I need a new life.”

  And what exactly am I supposed to do with that?

  Thank goodness she clicks off, because I do not have a good comeback for that one.

  I sit with the dead phone to my ear for a full minute, just thinking. Until Eric nudges me with his shoulder and writes, Are you okay? What’s she saying now? Then I take the phone from my ear. “She hung up.”

  No matter how much the others tell me I did a good job, and what a challenging caller that was, and all that encouragement crap, I can’t shake the feeling that I know her voice from somewhere.

  And the phone doesn’t ring again all night.

  We get a text though, five minutes to closing. Are you still there?

  Janae scrambles to sit down at the desk. I’m here.

  The texter doesn’t respond, so after four minutes, Janae texts again. I’m here if you want to connect.

  Nothing.

  Strange.

  “Look.” Chloe corners me in my room, reaching her hand into her back pocket and struggling for a moment, probably because her jeans are so ridiculously tight. Finally she gets a small piece of paper out.

  It’s a playing card, similar to the one I’d found in my locker earlier. It’s a queen, only someone drew on the card with Sharpie. The queen’s mouth is re-drawn like a dark, open hole, and her eyes are enlarged into blackened circles, making her look demon-like. There is a crude bomb by her feet, and the words Tick-tock, tick-tock in neat block letters.

  “Did you draw that?” I ask her sharply. “God, Chloe, after what we’ve all been through, that’s kind of sick.”

  “No,” she retorts, and I can tell from the way her eyes narrow that she’s pissed. “I found this. I’m showing it to you because I found it.”

  “Where? Where did you find it?” I’m suddenly worried about her. Maybe this whole bombing thing affected her more than I thought it did.

  She hesitates a moment, picking at her black fingernails. She opens her mouth and then closes it, like she isn’t sure she wants to tell me.

  “Spit it out.”

  “Dad’s wallet. It was in Dad’s wallet.”

  I start to ask her what she was doing sneaking through Dad’s wallet, but I can read it in her face not to go there.

  So I don’t ask.

  I examine the card carefully, turn it over a few times, and then hand it back to Chloe.

  “I guess you’d better put it back then.”

  Stranger’s Manifesto

  Entry 5

  Last year

  I gave the lunchtime “Games” Club a try,

  Dorky as that sounds.

  At least it was an air-conditioned place to park my butt

  During the agonizing forty minutes of lunch.

  But get this—while there were at least six simultaneous card games,

  No one se
emed to have space at their table

  For me.

  I’m not sure they even noticed me standing there.

  Waiting. And waiting.

  Until I was tired of waiting.

  Until I whipped out my solitaire cards as a last resort

  And dealt my own hand.

  So it wouldn’t look like I was sitting all alone.

  So I wouldn’t have to remember

  What it was like when I used to have

  Someone to sit with at lunch.

  So I wouldn’t have to remember that feeling of hope

  That I might not be on the bottom rung

  Of the popularity ladder forever,

  Because I know all too well

  That feeling can burst.

  All it takes is someone with a sharp pin.

  8

  The next morning, Chloe is texting and eating breakfast cereal at the same time. “You’re making a mess,” I inform her and swipe a rag across the milk-splattered tabletop. Maybe it’s our near-death experience, or maybe it’s because going through Dad’s wallet makes her a budding delinquent, but I feel this sudden need to get to know my sister. Like, who is she texting so desperately at seven o’clock in the morning?

  I grab a banana and sit close enough to see the screen. I must’ve gotten too close, because she snaps up the phone and presses the off button on top. Rats. She’s got the phone password protected, so there’s no reading her texts on the sly.

  “When did you get so paranoid?” I throw out, more irritated than I should be. I am trying to connect with her after all, not piss her off.

  We hear Mom vacuuming upstairs. Every morning she uses a little handheld DustBuster to snatch up any loose hairs after she’s done washing, drying, and styling.

  “Oh, around when Mom got so neurotic.” Which has been, like, forever. Chloe grins, and now she doesn’t look pissed at all. She’s hard to read, my sister. I’ll have to keep trying. We connect best when we’re making fun of our parents. It’s a pastime.

  In that spirit, I hold up the sticky note that Mom has left on the counter. Wipe down fridge. Unload dishwasher. Water plants.