Are You Still There Read online

  “That’s sweet.”

  “It’s not sweet. It’s just right. I can’t disrespect her no more.” Miguel moves his fork around his plate, mixing the foods together.

  “What do you mean?” I set down my fork.

  “You ever wonder why you didn’t know me before this year?”

  “Actually, yeah.” I’d wondered that a hundred times at least.

  “It’s because I was sent to a county school for sophomore and junior year. I was here at Central freshman year, but I got kicked out the first semester of sophomore year.”

  “No way.” County school? That’s where they send kids who’ve been expelled. I’ve never kissed anyone who’s gone to County. Of course that’s not saying much. If you count Eric, the total number of people I’ve kissed is a whopping two. “For what?”

  “I got caught with a knife in my backpack.”

  “What?”

  “Just a pocketknife, nothing serious. I carried it for protection. We live in a tough neighborhood. My mom cleans houses; she doesn’t make much money, and half of what she does make she sends home to her parents in Mexico.” Miguel looks up at me through his thick, guy eyelashes. “That’s all in the past. All that matters is that I do right by my mom from now on. She’s been working her ass off for seventeen years to give me opportunity. I can’t waste that by getting shot or stabbed or locked up.”

  “Shot or stabbed or locked up?” Miguel is sounding more and more complicated. Don’t ask me why, but something about it is sexy.

  “All in the past, Gabi. All in the past.” He looks like he’s trying to change the topic. “So did you like the food?”

  “Delicioso,” I say, touching his hand. Someone must have cranked the music up, because I can almost feel it vibrating through the ground. I tap his hand in time to the beat.

  “You wanna dance?”

  “Only if you ask me in Spanish. It sounds way cooler.”

  Miguel grins, and this time his smile reaches up into his eyes, giving them a copper-penny shine and making the corners crinkle up. “Quieres bailar?”

  “Sí.”

  I feel the music pumping through my veins. This kind of dancing is so different from the ballet I took as a kid. My body parts move in opposition instead of in unison. My hips pulse back and forth, my head tilts, my hands and arms move, but in the opposite direction from my feet.

  Miguel holds my hand, and I notice right away that even though he’s moving fast and breathing hard, his hands are not sweaty. His movements look easy, natural, as though they’re an extension of his body. He spins me around, in and out, and around again.

  Before long I find I’m only looking at his eyes. My body moves without my awareness. Even the nuances of the music blend. Except for the beat and except for his eyes, there is nothing.

  I come home from the quinceañera high as a kite. I know that sounds like I smoked weed or something, but I didn’t. I’m high off some combination of salsa music, spicy fruit salad, and being spun in circles by a hot boy who thinks I’m beautiful. There was such a flurry of people that I never got to meet his mom. That’s okay. The lightness in my heart and brain is infectious, and I practically float up the stairs. I’m thankful that the house seems empty, because I don’t want anyone or anything to bring me down.

  I’m brushing my hair when Chloe’s voice breaks in through my thoughts. “I hate you!” she screams. She’s so loud that at first I think she’s in my room, yelling at me to stop being so self-obsessed. I whirl around, and it takes me a moment to get my bearings. She’s yelling from next door; it’s just that the bedroom walls are thin. Is she talking on the phone? Or to herself? Is someone over?

  I stand, frozen for a moment, my brush caught halfway through a chunk of my hair. I feel like I’m eavesdropping, and maybe I am. I should’ve been louder coming up the stairs so she’d know I was home.

  I wait to hear more words, but all I get is muffled sobbing, like she’s crying into a pillow. And then the bang of something being thrown across the room. And more sobbing.

  My quinceañera high is sinking. It feels like someone tied a brick to the tail of my kite, and I’m no longer flying high. No longer flying at all.

  I step carefully toward her bedroom, my feet silent on the thick carpet. She’s left the door to her room wide open, so she must have thought she was alone in the house.

  I peek in, and sure enough, she’s flung herself onto her bed, her face pushed deep into her down pillow. I stand there for a minute, debating about whether to go in or not. I want to.

  But Chloe’s crying like this because she thinks she’s alone.

  So I carefully pad back down the stairs. I open the front door softly, wait a beat, and then slam it closed.

  I pick up and drop a pair of shoes by the door, so she thinks I’m just getting back. And then I purposely pound my way up the stairs. When I get to the top, I step into my room and turn on the music.

  And I listen.

  Chloe is totally quiet. I wait five minutes and then poke my head into her room.

  “Hey, Chloe. I didn’t know you were home. What’s up?”

  She looks like she’s napping. Long, deep breaths, her arm flung over her face.

  She’s faking.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and put my hand on her leg. “Hey, Chloe.” I shake her, pretending I really think she’s asleep. “I’m gonna make popcorn. You want some?”

  She fake-stirs. “What?” She acts sleepy.

  We should be actresses. We are both so good at this. “Oh, sorry to wake you. I’m gonna make popcorn. You want some?”

  “Nah.” She shakes her head and turns away from me.

  “Hey, Chloe, are you crying?” Her face is red and puffed up like a freaking balloon, so it’s a perfect opportunity. Her fair skin has always betrayed her that way.

  She opens her eyes then. Even her eyelids are puffy. I can see her weighing her options, but she can’t very well lie. It’s obvious she’s been crying. “Yeah. Just some stupid boy drama. I’ll get over it.”

  I pet her hair like she’s a puppy or something. I know it’s corny, but I can’t think of anything else. “You wanna talk?”

  “Nah.” She shakes her head. “Thanks for asking though.”

  And because I don’t know what else to say, I add, “Drama sucks.”

  I stay in her room for at least an hour, stroking her hair. I turn on some music. I can’t stop wishing she’d tell me what’s really going on. And I can’t stop wondering how well I really know my own sister.

  I know it’s sneaky but I don’t care.

  I’m going to snoop.

  I wait until the following night when Chloe’s out with friends and my parents are on a date. I search Chloe’s room first. I yank open her closet doors and examine the row of holey jeans and ridiculous T-shirts. I pore through her desk drawers, realizing what a total slob she is. I sift through her panties and bras in her dresser drawer. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly. Weed? Razor blades? Cigarettes? Cloves? Those morbid Sharpie-filled playing cards? I don’t find any of those things.

  I scan the walls. There’s not an inch of uncovered space. Chloe uses pushpins to tack up everything and anything she thinks is cool. Whenever she’s got something new to add, she has to take something else down. There are posters from different bands, movie tickets, Pooh Bear and retro early childhood stuff, menus from her favorite restaurants, and random pages from magazines.

  As a last-ditch effort, I lift up the side of her mattress. There, wedged underneath, is a diary. A locked diary. I never would have pegged Chloe as a diary kind of girl. As much as I would love to read whatever she’s writing, I know I can’t open the book without breaking the lock. So I wedge it right back under the mattress and creep out of the room.

  On to the next snooping area.

  I crouch by my dad’s safe and twist the combination. On the top shelf there are two photocopies of cards clipped together. The original plus an additional one. Even on my
best, most-perfect-daughter day, there’s no way I could have not looked. I don’t even feel bad about it.

  It’s a joker again. This time the Sharpie has been used to draw him an extra arm, holding a lit bomb. The block letter words edged around the outside say, I can obliterate the entire school with the push of one button. Oblit-er-ate. ¿Comprende, amigo?

  I feel a rush of panic shoot through every vein in my body. The Spanish scares me. Like, why did he write in Spanish at the end? Miguel’s sweet face pops into my head. But every college-bound kid at Central takes Spanish or French for at least two years. Not to mention about a fifth of the students live in bilingual homes. So it can’t mean anything. But still, this note is pretty scary. What if my dad is wrong? To me, it sounds like this guy will try again no matter what. And Chloe and I and all our friends will be sitting like ducks on a shooting range, waiting to be pegged.

  Stranger’s Manifesto

  Entry 12

  If my teachers could see

  The meticulous notes I’m keeping,

  They’d moan and cry about

  My wasted potential

  And how far I could “go” if I really applied myself

  Toward something that “really matters,” like school.

  They’d kick themselves for

  Overlooking me all these years.

  I’m taking notes on people,

  Studying them.

  Talking to them and dissecting their reactions.

  Figuring out what makes them tick.

  Figuring out how to draw them into my plan.

  I will coax them in

  Until their feet are glued and they are stuck.

  They are way too stupid to think of taking off their shoes.

  18

  MID-DECEMBER

  “Maybe I can fix you up,” I offer to Beth at lunch. “Apparently I’m quite the matchmaker.” I point to Bruce and Katie, sharing their lunches.

  “No time, Gabi. No time.” She’s eating her own Oreos today. “Must stay focused. Life is a race. Don’t want to fall behind.” Apparently this includes talking in truncated sentences.

  “I’m dating someone,” I blurt out.

  “What?” She sits, frozen. “Who?”

  “You don’t know him. He’s not in any of our classes, but I wanted to introduce you. Maybe we can all eat lunch together.”

  “Well, that’d be awkward.” She shifts to face me.

  “Not if we add to our group. I can bring a few friends to join us. It’ll be fun.” Although as I’m saying it out loud, I realize that merging my two factions of friends may be mission impossible.

  I catch a glimpse of Miguel by the far tree, laughing it up with some buddies. “Here. Do you see the tall guy over there, wearing the white tee?”

  “Yeah,” Beth says slowly, like I’m explaining a complicated calculus equation and she doesn’t quite get it.

  “That’s him!”

  “That’s who?”

  “The guy I’m dating!”

  Beth turns to me with worry etched across her forehead. “Oh Gabi.” Her eyes soften. “You don’t have to get all desperate on me. Lots of girls don’t have their first real boyfriend until college. You’re not behind schedule.”

  I swallow hard, feeling suddenly scolded. “I’m not worried about being behind schedule. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. I just like him.”

  Beth makes a disapproving sound. “You don’t need that kind of drama. No wonder you’re losing focus on your classes. Besides, he looks like a player.”

  “He’s chill,” I insist. “I’ll get him to bring one of his buddies. Haven’t you ever wanted a Latin lover?”

  “Only if he’d teach me Latin. I could bump up my SATs.” Beth busies herself packing up. “Gabi, I’m busy. I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but I don’t have time to make new friends. Plus, why bother when I’ll be away at college in a year? Besides, they asked me to chair the lunchtime Green Team meetings. So I won’t be around at lunch anyway.”

  “That’ll look good on your college apps,” I say, knowing her early action applications were sent in long ago.

  “Exactly my thinking.” She pats my shoulder, looking sad.

  As she walks off, my throat tightens up and I want to cry. I feel like I’m losing my best friend. Maybe I am.

  When the phone buzzes, we all jump. The shift has been busier than usual, probably because people are beginning to realize the helpline is really a resource. Like, hello? We actually exist.

  It takes me a minute to realize that it’s not the helpline number, but the back line, RAPP, that’s ringing. No one knows RAPP exists except for us, the people on the line. The first three numbers are the same as the line’s number, which are 555, and the last four numbers are 7277, which spell out RAPP. Miguel pointed out to me that it also could spell PASS or SAPP or PARS or SARP, but RAPP sounds the coolest. The RAPP line buzzes instead of rings, just in case we’re on a call. It buzzes again.

  Garth picks it up. “What’s up?” he asks into the phone. “Oh, hey, Cruz.” He listens, then turns to us, his eyes all lit up like we just offered him a tofu steak or something. He tucks the receiver under his chin and says to us, “Raging party tonight. BYOB. Cruz’s house. Wanna go after our shift? It should be really kicking by then.”

  I lean into Miguel on the futon. It’s the four of us. Miguel and me because it’s our shift, and Janae and Garth because it’s more fun that way. Janae has her head in my lap, and I’m braiding a small section of her hair.

  “I’m up for it. Let’s go!” Miguel wraps his arms around me. I breathe him in. Fabric softener plus spearmint gum.

  Garth grins and tells the receiver, “We’ll be there, bro.”

  Janae sits up, rigid. “Sounds like kid stuff, if you ask me. Why would we want to sit around watching everyone get plastered off their asses?”

  Her cheeks are pink, and she almost looks like she’s about to cry. Of the four of us, I’d assumed Janae was the only real partyer. I’ve never been to a hard-core party like this in my life—the kind you see in made-for-TV movies, with everyone loud and drunk, and people chugging beer through beer bongs and girls dancing to music so loud it rocks the floor. This is not the kind of party a good girl (like me) attends. I can’t wait to go!

  “I’ve got to pee,” I announce, standing up.“Buddy system.”

  “What’s up, Janae?” I ask after we slip out of the office. The halls are darkened, except for the emergency overhead lights.

  “Nothing.” She walks next to me, scuffing her feet against the floor.

  “Come on, Janae. I think I know you pretty well by now. Something’s up.”

  She pauses for a moment, and all I hear is the squeaking of our feet. Then she says, “I can’t party anymore. My dad sent me away to rehab ten months ago.”

  “Oh.” This I didn’t expect. Rehab?

  “That’s where I learned to bead jewelry,” Janae drags her fingers against the wall.

  “Wow.” I see Mom’s face in my head all of a sudden, tsk-tsking because here I am surrounding myself with friends who’ve been to county school and rehab. “Congratulations?”

  “Yeah. Well, when I first got out, I didn’t know who to hang with. Most of my old friends still party. They say they understand, but they don’t. I thought that by hanging with you guys, I wouldn’t have to deal with the whole party scene. I know I can’t slip up, because my dad will send me away again.”

  “Oh.” We push into the girls’ bathroom. “Why don’t you just tell Garth that? He’ll totally understand.”

  Janae stands in front of the mirror, messing with her hair. She flips her hair one way. Then the other. “I’ll scare him off.”

  “What?”

  “He’s like a … a quality guy. I don’t want to scare him off. If he knows how screwed up I am, he’ll jam.”

  I stare at her reflection. “Okay, first of all, no. He won’t jam. And second of all, we’re all screwed up, so welcome to the family, and th
ird of all, who cares?”

  Janae whips eyeliner out of her back pocket and relines her eyes. It doesn’t look much different than it did when she started, but I don’t say anything. Instead I put my hand on her shoulder. “Me thinks you need a prank to lighten the mood.”

  “What?”

  “You and Garth have this prank war going on, right?” I pause long enough to let her nod, and she does, with a confused look on her face. “So come up with some crazy prank—you know you love that kind of thing.”

  “Yeah, but what? Hot sauce in his beer?”

  “Won’t that turn it red?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You could plant your bra in his jacket pocket when he’s all buzzed and then accuse him of cheating on you.”

  “Ooh.” Her grin spreads all wide, and I can tell she’s imagining it. “You’re sneaky for such a goody two-shoes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I try to fake being pissed, but I can’t help smiling and I know she’s right. “Let’s go together then, and I won’t drink either. Beer makes me gag anyway. We’ll stick together and hang out with the guys. Then we’ll show off our master prankster skills. You think you can pull this off?”

  “I’ll be so good I’ll even have you convinced.” She winks.

  Our Are you still there? text comes in at 8:55, right on schedule.

  I’m here

  Nothing.

  I text again. I have to leave at nine tonight.

  Nothing.

  19

  The “rager” party is just a dark house on the beach, with people crammed in so tight that there’s scarcely room to breathe. Cruz’s parents are out of town. There are cars lined up and down the street, double and triple parked. We pull into a spot about a block away. I can hear the bass of the music from there. Janae has thickened her makeup, and her face is plaster-stiff, almost like she’s wearing an invisible mask of powder and mascara. If she moves her face, it might crack.