Are You Still There Read online

  Chloe rolls her eyes. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  The note is not for us. It’s for Lucia, who comes once a week to clean. Her note sits on the kitchen counter, where Mom always leaves extra instructions and the check. Mom feels weird about having a cleaning lady, I guess, so she basically pretends Lucia doesn’t exist. She manages this by avoiding all interaction with Lucia, except by sticky notes.

  “Ya gotta love her, right?” I wink, re-sticking the note onto the counter.

  “That,” Chloe says, sighing, “is debatable.”

  Heat seeps through the bottom of the cardboard pizza “to go” box, warming my fingers. I just finished a mega cram session with Beth. It’s seven thirty, and I’m bringing Garth “payback pizza,” sustenance for his shift tonight. There are four cars along the darkened street, probably belonging either to neighbors or to my fellow helpline members. We’ve agreed not to park in the lot so that we don’t attract unnecessary attention to ourselves.

  As I approach the building, I wish I’d parked closer. The overhead lights seem few and far between, and the darkness envelops everything. I can hear my own footsteps against the concrete. Suddenly I think about how stupid this is, coming here so late and by myself. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, but I think I hear someone behind me. I’m tempted to stop and whirl around. Instead I move faster. I clutch my car keys in my right hand, thinking I can use them to gouge someone’s eyes out.

  I push through the outside door of the C building and slip inside. If someone tries to follow me in here, I’ll definitely hear him. There is no way to open that heavy outside door without being heard. I think I’ll feel safer once I’m indoors, but it’s dark inside too. Only the emergency lights dimly mark my path.

  I grip my car keys so hard that my fingers hurt, and I barrel toward the storage closet-helpline office. I type in our secret code and then slip inside as quickly as possible. The bright lights nearly blind me.

  “Welcome!” Garth opens his arms wide and accepts the pizza box from me. He tips up the lid, and the smell of spicy sauce and melted cheese wafts out. Janae was apparently invited too, because she’s sprawled across the futon, shuffling a hand of playing cards. The sight of a queen, face up, startles me. God, I’m jumpy. I can’t even lay eyes on a deck of cards without thinking of those creepy notes. Once Garth catches sight of me, his smile fades. “What’s wrong with you?”

  I’m embarrassed, but I can’t hide my shaking hands. “Oh, I just got creeped out walking in.”

  Janae nods. “It is pretty dark out there. Coming in alone mid-shift is probably not smart.”

  Garth sets down the box. “My bad,” he apologizes. “I didn’t even think of that when I texted you guys.”

  “No worries,” I assure him. “I mean, you brought us food the other night and it was no big deal.”

  “Yeah, but it was about an hour earlier, and it’s a little different for me to be walking around late at night than it is for you … no offense.”

  “There’d have to be at least four guys to take you down, huh?” Miguel swivels around at the desk. I hadn’t noticed him when I walked in. How funny that I’d just assumed Garth and Eric were partners. Miguel’s wearing those purple Vans again, and for the first time I notice that he’s doodled all over them. Neat block letters in Sharpie, so small that I can’t make out what they say.

  “It’s okay.” I stumble over my words. “I’m okay. Just being paranoid.”

  Garth shakes his head. “Someone threatened to blow up our school two weeks ago. There’s no such a thing as being too paranoid. If you both can stay until our shift ends, I’ll walk you to your cars.”

  I really shouldn’t stay, but I don’t want to walk out alone either. I look to Janae. “I can stay,” she offers.

  I have a ton of reading for English, but maybe I can fake it in class even if I don’t finish. “I can stay too.” I text Mom that I’m volunteering tonight, and then I settle back on the futon. Janae plays with my hair, and I listen to them talk about random things. I haven’t just hung out in forever. I forgot how nice it feels.

  Riiiiiing. We all freeze. Riiiiiing. Garth and Miguel scramble to get themselves set up. Riiiiiing. “You can take it,” Miguel offers.

  “Nah, you go first,” Garth volleys back.

  I’m just about to pick it up myself when Miguel grabs the phone. He takes a breath and then speaks in that calm, slow voice that we’ve practiced. “Helpline, this is John.” The quality of his voice surprises me. It’s deeper, thicker, and more fluid. I don’t hear any trace of an accent. Miguel spreads the note-taking pages out so that we can all reach them.

  “What a joke.” I hear the voice on the other end of the phone, far away but still clear enough to identify. Miguel holds the phone slightly away from his ear.

  Miguel pauses for a moment, looks up to us, then goes on, “I’m here to listen.”

  “Listen, my ass. You’re here to spy.”

  “Excuse me?” Miguel lets his accent slip a little.

  “This is all a sorry-ass attempt to investigate people. I know you’ve got wiretaps.” Miguel looks up again at us. Wiretaps? he writes.

  I lean over to scribble on the notepaper. To record phone calls.

  “I’d—uh—I’d like to hear more about that.” Miguel stumbles. Garth draws a happy face on the paper.

  “I bet you would.” The voice laughs. “You think I’m an imbecile? I know you’re just a setup to try to catch the bomber.”

  My heart catches. I look at Janae, and her eyes are wide. Miguel writes a big question mark on the paper. Talking about bomber. Don’t know what to say. I lean over again to write. I can smell Miguel’s cinnamon gum and something else, maybe aftershave. Miguel’s got a little stubble going on. I write, What did you call to talk about?

  “So, uh, what would you like to talk about tonight?”

  Again the caller laughs in a hardened way. His laugh sounds old, but his voice sounds like a high school kid. A bitter, angry high school kid. “I’d like to talk about what a shithole mess Central High is.”

  Pause. “I’m here to listen.”

  “What are you, a goddamn robot? Can’t you think for yourself? You just gonna parrot back all the crap they taught you at whatever ridiculous little training class they made you go to.”

  I see a fine line of sweat build along Miguel’s upper lip. “You sound angry.”

  “You’d be too if you had to deal with the crap I have to deal with.”

  Miguel’s voice is smooth as pudding. “What kind of crap?”

  The caller cackles again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Miguel swallows hard, and I feel sorry for him for a moment. He takes a breath and says, “I’d like to help you talk about it.”

  “I bet you would.” Another cackle. “All I’m gonna say is that things had better change around here.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nice try.” The caller slams the phone down and Miguel jumps.

  We all sit in silence for a moment, digesting.

  “Gabi, your dad’s a cop,” Janae says slowly. I see Miguel’s eyes flick toward me and back to Janae, surprised almost. “Do you think they’re using us to gather information? Are they tapping these calls?”

  Everyone looks at me expectantly. “Would that even be legal? To advertise this as a confidential helpline, and then tap and trace the calls? I don’t think they can do that.”

  “Not even to investigate someone who made a terrorist threat? Not even to save lives?” Janae presses. Miguel’s rich, brown skin looks pale in the fluorescent light.

  “I don’t think so,” I repeat, but even as I say it, I’m not sure. Suddenly their eyes feel mistrustful, and I shift in my seat. “Would it make that much of a difference if they were? I mean, people can still call to talk about their problems. We can still support them. If the bomber calls, and the police figure out who he is, then isn’t that kind of a good thing?”

  Janae unclasps
her ankle bracelet and examines it. “Do you think that guy who just called … Do you think he is the bomber?”

  We all look at each other for a long time.

  I think we’re all grateful that the phone doesn’t ring again. But just before we head out the door, we get a text, same as last night. Are you still there?

  Garth types back, I’m here.

  And then … nothing.

  9

  “Why do people run to watch a fight?” I nudge Beth. We watch excitement catch like fire, and kids racing toward the B wing, as if someone’s tossing free money in the air. “We all know it’s gonna get broken up. Yeah, someone might be bloody, but who cares?”

  “It’s our voyeuristic culture.” Beth takes a tiny bite of her sandwich. “That’s the whole basis of reality TV. Everyone likes a good train wreck.”

  “Not me.” I set down my Greek yogurt.

  “Train wrecks are bad,” Bruce chimes in mid-crunch.

  “Well, you’re smarter than the rest of these idiots,” Beth tells him, and he smiles. There’s a tiny bit of Oreo in his teeth, but he’s still cute.

  Some kid’s barreling toward the fight so fast that he nearly collides with our half-clad Native American statue. “You ever wonder why our mascot is a ‘warrior’?” I ask.

  “Duh. Because this was all Chumash land, way back when.”

  Beth looks like she’s about to launch into a history lesson, so I stop her. “Yeah, but don’t you think they should’ve picked something more PC? Less violent?”

  “Hah! Good point.” Beth tucks her hair behind her ears. “How do they expect us all to get along when they’ve got this image of war greeting us every day?”

  “Someone should suggest we change our mascot to Buddha.” I imagine this. “Wouldn’t that be cute, to see him sitting there, happy in a diaper with cute, little fat rolls and a big smiling face?”

  “Maybe we’d all get along then. You could suggest it.” Beth gives me a big, fat wink. “You know you’re the kinda gal who can make things happen.”

  “Somehow I doubt the football team would go for a fat-man-in-diaper image.”

  “Forgot about that.” We chew quietly for a while.

  Our Sunday morning helpline meetings break four rules. We (1) enter the public library before it’s open (2) through the “staff-only” door, (3) talk above a whisper, and (4) eat and drink breakfast foods. Apparently Paisley is dating one of the head librarians. Pretty soon she’ll (gasp) tell us we can check out more than ten books at a time. We’re living it up. Yeehaw!

  We’re parked in the children’s section, which is built to look like a pirate ship. The ceiling is high and sloped, and there are wooden benches along the sides. A mast rises through the center of the floor, and large murals of ocean scenes line the walls. Janae has settled herself on my left, with a twisted glazed doughnut and a cup of orange juice. She leans into me and rests her head on my shoulder.

  Paisley sits on one of the benches, facing us. She holds a large jelly doughnut over a paper plate. As she takes a careful bite, jelly squirts out the other side. She doesn’t notice.

  “Okay, guys!” She steps in front of a dry-erase board. On one side she’s written What’s working and on the other side What’s not working.

  “Everyone has had a chance to manage a shift in their pairs by now, so you’ve gotten a taste of the program. This is a work in progress, so I anticipate we’ll have our fair share of glitches.” Paisley takes another bite of her jelly doughnut, and more of the red, gooey middle leaks out the back. I watch it roll down her plate. No one says anything.

  We establish pretty fast that we need food (mini fridge) and entertainment. I feel like a wimp, but I raise my hand. “Safety issues.” I say. “It’s dark outside when we’re walking out, and we had a creepy caller.”

  Cruz calls out, “We had a creepy caller too.”

  Nate and Eric say, “So did we.”

  “Really?” Paisley asks, her jelly doughnut poised midair, forgotten.

  I add, “We got a caller that accused us of gathering information for the cops. Like we’re trying to catch that bomber guy or something.”

  Paisley sets down her doughnut. “This is a campus improvement project. We have nothing to do with police officers. If someone calls up and confesses, you should try to get them to turn themselves in.” She scans the room as if looking for comprehension. “But please know that the purpose of this line is to support people. Sure, it’s a response to what happened on this campus, but it is run by us, not the police.”

  I want to believe her. I really do.

  “What should we do when we respond to a text, and then the texter leaves us hanging?” Cruz asks.

  “Nothing,” Paisley says slowly, like she’s surprised by the question and has to think it through. “The texter knows you’re there and will text back when he or she is ready.”

  “So what happens if that person texts back after we’re closed?” Garth calls out.

  “Great question.” Paisley wipes her hands on a napkin. “They get an automated text back, just like the callers get an automated answering machine saying we’re closed for the evening and here are our hours.”

  “That’s good,” Cruz jumps in. “We had a last-minute texter who just said, ‘Are you still there?’ and then after I texted back there was nothing.”

  “That happened to us too,” a few people call out.

  “Huh.” Paisley scans the room. “By a show of hands, how many people got a text like this right before closing?”

  Every hand in the room goes up.

  Stranger’s Manifesto

  Entry 6

  What’s this?

  A helpline?

  Come on. Really?

  I’m insulted.

  Call me cynical, but I say,

  “Too goddamn little … too goddamn late.”

  Just who the hell is it supposed to support?

  A sicko like me?

  Might be fun

  To watch them try.

  10

  Dad sits cross-legged on his bed, playing solitaire. I stand in the doorway, digging my toes into the carpet. He looks up from his game. “Oh hey, baby. You all set for bed?”

  “Almost.” I sink down next to him, and my weight makes the cards shift position. Dad has played solitaire since I was a little kid, but I wonder if the cards have new meaning to him now. Does he see the blacked-out mouth of that queen? The ticking bomb by her feet? I consider asking him about it, but I don’t want to get Chloe in trouble. She’d probably been digging through his wallet to scavenge for a loose ten or twenty, hoping he wouldn’t miss it.

  “Dad, did you hear about that helpline the school set up?” My throat closes up a little.

  He deals the cards out again. They look so white against the dark navy comforter. “Yeah. I think it’s up and running.” He says it as casually as if he’s talking about pulling a bunch of guys together for a game of two-hand touch football.

  “Could the police department place a wiretap on something like that?” I touch the bedspread.

  “Why would they want to?” he asks, studying the cards before placing a few down. “Aren’t those crisis lines supposed to be confidential?”

  I am purposely vague. “Uh, maybe if there are risk issues or something like that.”

  “Oh, you mean if someone’s suicidal and says they just slit their wrists or something?”

  Not really, but okay. I just wait for him to go on.

  “I think in an emergency like that, and with the person still on the line, the police could trace the call to save the person’s life. That would be considered a kosher reason to invade someone’s privacy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why do you ask?” He looks up from his cards.

  “No reason.” I kiss him good night on the forehead, and he returns to his game. But I peek back at him as I leave the room. His hands are holding cards, but his eyes are watching me. When he sees me looking back, he quickly looks do
wn.

  We have a safe under the desk in Mom’s office. My parents keep private stuff in there. Documents, passwords, projects from work, and Dad’s gun. Dad always says when you’re a cop in a small community, you never know when you’re gonna need your weapon. So he keeps one locked away.

  I know the code to the safe. I’m not supposed to know it, of course, but I do. I’m responsible about it though. It’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone. But I do sometimes take a peek. I know my parents each have wills. And that they have a document that separates their finances. And that Dad sometimes brings home photocopies of evidence so that he can study them after hours.

  I don’t touch the gun. I never do. Dad did a good enough job of scaring me away from guns when I was little. Guns and motorcycles. I won’t touch either.

  But tonight, after everyone’s asleep, I creep down and look at Dad’s work file. I find a photocopy of another playing card. A joker. It looks just like the one I’d found in my locker, with neat block letters in Sharpie edging around the perimeter. I still hold a thousand lives in my hands. But you will never find me. I am invisible. I could be right under your nose, and you know it.

  After I read it, I wish that I hadn’t.

  I put everything back carefully, then scramble upstairs. I’m so spooked that it feels like the shadows have eyes and the corners of the banister are pulling at me with bony arms. Yikes. I try to laugh at myself, but fail. It feels a little too convenient that one of those same playing cards just happened to be in the slats of my locker. The bomber’s got to be planting them. For me. For Dad. And maybe for other people too.

  So even though I have no clue who he is, he knows who I am.

  He’s playing a game.

  A game that I don’t want to play.

  And now I’m totally losing my mind, because I hear this clickety-clicking sound coming from the hall, like mice are tap-dancing on Chloe’s dresser. I move forward and peek through the crack in the door to her room.

  Chloe’s up. She’s typing on her computer, and since all the lights are out, there’s a bluish glow emanating from the screen. The screen lights up her face with an otherworldly tint. I get the profile view, because from my position at the door, I just see the side of her face. I can’t tell what she’s typing, or even what site she’s on.