Gimme a Call Page 4

  “Karin,” I whisper, but she doesn’t seem to hear.

  But Bryan Sanderson—cute, sporty Bryan Sanderson—is looking right at me. Looking right at me and grimacing. Fantastic. I haven’t even been introduced to him and I’ve already managed to disgust him.

  “Saw that,” he mouths.

  I’m pretty sure my cheeks are the color of the salsa, but I mouth back, “What do I do?”

  He holds up his right index finger. “Stay there,” he tells me, and heads out through the side door into the kitchen.

  I bet the couch was expensive. The entire house is sleek, with marble floors and glittering chandeliers. The Kings didn’t find this couch at Walmart, I’ll tell you that. I bet it was imported from San Francisco or France or Africa or somewhere.

  What if the stain doesn’t come out? Will I have to pay for the couch? Or, since I have zero money, will my parents have to pay for the couch? Will I be working off the loan for the next twenty years? Will I have to drop out of school and get a job? Am I even qualified to do anything?

  Is Bryan coming back? I hope he’s coming back. Not just because he looked like he might be planning on helping me, but because he’s just so cute.

  I wait for him, frozen in place, terrified of moving and causing additional havoc. A few moments later, he returns, holding a bottle of water like a trophy. He smiles and says, “Scoot over.”

  The only plus side to this situation? Since the salsa never made it to my mouth, I am one hundred percent positive there is none stuck in my braces.

  I gingerly stand, shuffle to my left, and sit back down, careful not to land on the stain. Bryan plops down to my right. He smells fresh and shampoo-y, like soap that claims it’s unscented but really isn’t.

  “Are you ready?” he asks me out of the side of his mouth, as if he’s a ventriloquist.

  “What do you have there?”

  “Poland Spring orange-flavored sparkling water. And a vinegar-soaked napkin hidden in my sleeve.”

  Adorable Spiked-Haired Boy is very resourceful. But why is he helping me? He doesn’t even know who I am. “Orange-flavored sparkling water?”

  He shrugs apologetically. “I couldn’t find the club soda.”

  “But why orange? Are they out of watermelon?”

  He laughs.

  Yay, I made him laugh! “This is not a laughing matter,” I say, and then giggle. My cute-boy giggle is even worse than my regular giggle.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  “You sound like you have a plan.”

  “I don’t plan,” he says. “I just do, Devi.” His voice is teasing.

  He knows my name? “You know my name?” I was not supposed to say that out loud.

  “I took a wild guess. I was going to try Katie, but you look like a Devi. A Devi Banks.”

  I smack him—playfully and, hopefully, flirtatiously—on his arm. His muscled arm. Hello there, muscled arm. Must stop staring at muscled arm. Must also remove my hand from muscled arm.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says. “I’m going to drench the stain—”

  I shush him. “Don’t use the S word.”

  He laughs again. I giggle again.

  “I’m going to soak the discoloration with the carbonated water.”

  “That’s another S word,” I whisper.

  “Will you let it slide?”

  “Another one!”

  “I’ll try to be more sly,” he says, his eyes crinkling.

  “Quit changing the subject and get back to what you want me to do,” I order.

  “Fine. Step two is to rub the discoloration with the vinegar.”

  I dubiously look at the stain—er, discoloration. “Are you sure this’ll work?”

  “No. But I saw it on a TV show.”

  “If you saw it on TV, it must be true.”

  He laughs. Again.

  I giggle. Again.

  He cocks his head to the side and looks at the ceiling. “I think it was club soda and vinegar. Pretty sure.”

  Good enough for me. I’m pretty sure I’d follow anything he said at this point. “Might as well give it a try.”

  “But how are we going to do this without anyone noticing? Should I clear the room? Shout ‘fire’?”

  “Why don’t I try to be a bit more subtle? Whoops. Another S word. I’m bad at this.”

  “I’ll forgive you. Again.”

  “You’re the best.”

  Aw! My body is back to feeling jittery, but this time, it’s a good jittery.

  He twists off the bottle top and lifts the bottle up to his lips.

  “Refreshing?” I ask. He has nice lips. Lips perfect for kissing.

  “Definitely,” he says. “Celia’s serving pretzels outside and they’re extra-salty. See? There’s a reason I’m drinking watermelon-flavored sparkling water.”

  “Orange-flavored,” I say, correcting him.

  If she’d been serving pretzels in here instead of salsa, this whole mess wouldn’t have happened. Way to go, Celia. Although then I wouldn’t be having cleansing bonding time with Bryan. Way to go, Celia!

  “Okay,” he says, “your job is to sit facing me, so your knees block the view.”

  Turn to face him? This is getting better by the second. “Done.”

  “Now, is anyone watching?”

  I scan the many not-paying-attention faces. “All clear.”

  “Here goes.” He whisks the bottle over the spot and wets it. Then he rubs the spot with the napkin. “This should work.”

  “Promise?” I can’t help smiling—but I try to do it without showing any teeth. I really, really hate these things.

  “I don’t make promises I’m not sure I can keep. But here’s hoping.”

  “Sands!” a muffled voice yells. “We have to go!” Jerome Cohen is waving on the other side of the glass doors that lead to the terrace.

  Don’t go, don’t go!

  Bryan lifts his eyebrows, as if to say, You got this handled, or should I stick around?

  “Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll take it from here. Thank you so much for your help.” How awesome is he? So awesome. Amazingly awesome. Exceedingly awesome. The awesomest.

  He stands up, stretches his arms above him, and gives me one of those fabo smiles. Two dimples and everything. “See you, Devi.”

  I love that he knows my name. I smile back, remember my braces, and slam my lips closed. Then I smile again. Aw, what the heck?

  As I watch him go, my cell phone starts to ring. I check the caller ID and see that it’s my number again. Go away! What does she want, to yell at me for coming to the party? Good thing she didn’t see the salsa smorgasbord on the couch. Or did she? I should ignore her, like Maya said. I turn off the power. I don’t care what the prankster who’s calling me has to say; I am not going to let her ruin my lovely, romantic, and slightly discolored night.

  Bryan was right. The stain disappears. I wish he were still here so I could thank him.

  Hmm. I wonder if his technique works on nail polish.

  When I’m safe in the backseat of Mr. Caldwell’s car, getting a ride home, I turn my phone back on. Eight new messages.

  “Hi! It’s me! Just wondering what’s going on. Call me back.”

  Here come the neck tingles.

  The second one’s a hang-up.

  Third too.

  Fourth: “Actually, I don’t know if you can call me back. Can you call me back? I’ll call you later.”

  Fifth: “Why aren’t you answering? Where are you? We had a plan. I hope you’re not at the party. Maybe you’re in the bathroom. Next time you go to the bathroom, take the phone with you. Try to call me back. Otherwise I’ll call you back. In like ten minutes.”

  Sixth: “It’s me! I need to speak to you! Urgently!”

  “How many messages do you have?” Joelle asks, twisting around to look at me.

  “Eight.”

  “Yikes. Hope it’s not your parents.”

  At this point, I wish it wer
e. I delete the rest of the messages without listening to them.

  “Thank you!” I call to Mr. Caldwell when he stops in front of my house. As I hop up the steps, my cell rings. It’s my number again.

  Enough! This has to end now. I press send.

  “Where have you been?” she asks.

  “Hold on,” I say. Since Mr. Caldwell is still waiting, I unlock the front door, wave, go inside, wait until they drive away, and then step back onto the porch. “What?” I bark.

  “You went to that party, didn’t you?” Weird-Grumpy-and-Possibly-Cruel-Stalker-Prank-Playing Girl says tartly.

  I lean against my front door. “Why do you keep calling me?”

  “Why would you go to the party even though I told you not to? What is wrong with you?”

  “How do you know I went to the party? You were there, weren’t you?”

  “I told you not to go, but you didn’t listen. You have to listen to me, do you understand? I know what’s best for you!”

  I stand upright, creepies crawling down my spine. I don’t know what to do. Call the police? Hello, Officer? A girl told me not to go to Celia’s and now she’s screaming at me.

  She lets out a big sigh. “I guess there’s no use getting upset now. What’s done is done. It’s eleven-thirty there, the same time it is here, which means he’s about to call you. When he asks you out, you should say no.”

  “What are you talking about?” With my free hand, I rub my temples. She’s giving me a major migraine. “Can you please stop calling me?”

  “No! I have to! I have a plan to save us!”

  I shake my head. “What is wrong with you? Who are you?”

  “Don’t you listen? I’m you! In the future!”

  I lose it. “That’s impossible! You are not me in the future! You are not! You are not!”

  “I am, and he’s going to call you. As soon as you get home from the party, he calls and asks you out. First he’s gonna ask if you got the salsa stain off, and then he’s gonna ask you to see a movie tomorrow night. And then, after the movie, you guys go bowling. He’s obsessed with bowling. Trust me.”

  She’s crazy and needs to be institutionalized immediately. “Nobody is calling me. Nobody but you.”

  “Bryan is going to call you! Any second!”

  “Bryan Sanderson? He’s not going to call me. He doesn’t even have my number.” Wait a sec. “How do you know about the salsa stain? Tash, is this you?” Tash always seems to be taking everything in, even when it doesn’t look like she’s paying attention.

  “I’m not Tash! It’s me! You! He got your number from Joelle.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Devi. Bryan is going to call you. Trust me, you just got home, you’re in your room, and Bryan is about to call. I know.”

  “I’m not in my room! I’m standing outside my house! On my porch! So there!”

  Beep.

  “That’s him!” she yells. “See for yourself!”

  This is ridiculous. Bryan Sanderson is not calling me. “I want you to go away. For good. Good-bye.” I click over to the other line. “Hello?”

  “Devi? Hey, it’s Bryan. The guy from”—he laughs—“the couch.”

  Omigod. It’s Bryan. It’s Bryan? My heart races to an inhuman and possibly dangerous speed. “Hi.”

  “Hey. Is it too late?”

  “No, um, it’s not too late.” Bryan Sanderson is calling me! How did Crazy Stalker Girl know?

  “So how’d it go with the salsa?” he asks.

  “It worked. Thanks. Thank you.” My heart flip-flops. She knew. How did she know?

  “Good. Cool. My lift left early from Celia’s but I got your number from Joelle. That girl knows everyone, huh?”

  I’m too shocked to say anything. I grunt. Very ladylike.

  “So, listen, are you around tomorrow night? Do you wanna see that new movie 101 Possibilities? It’s supposed to be good.”

  A movie. He wants to see a movie. Tomorrow.

  “Sure,” I say, stunned both that she knew and that he’s asking. Bryan! Is! Asking! Me! Out! For tomorrow night!

  Beep.

  “Great,” he says. “Say around eight? Where do you live?”

  Beep.

  It’s her. Of course it’s her. “On Sheraton.” I want to know how she knew, but I also want to keep talking to cute Bryan!

  Beep.

  “I know where that is. Near Hedgemonds Park, no?”

  The call-waiting stops. She went to voice mail, probably.

  “Yup, I’m a two-minute walk from the park.”

  “They have the best swings,” he says.

  I giggle. “Are you a connoisseur?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  Beep.

  Omigod, she’s just going to keep calling until I answer. And anyway, I want to know how she knew he was going to call me. Maybe he told her? Maybe she likes him and she’s jealous? “Bryan, I’m so sorry, but I really have to get this. Can I call you in the morning?”

  “Sure. Call me,” he says. “Night.”

  “Night,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, and then click over to my other line. “Do you like Bryan or something? Is that what this is about?” Yes, that must be it. Someone saw me ogling Bryan today at baseball, guessed that I liked him, and now wants to stop us from going out.

  “I don’t like Bryan. I mean, I did like Bryan … but I don’t anymore. We don’t anymore. He ruined our life. But that’s not the point.” She lets out a sigh. “Did you agree to go out with him?”

  As if I’d say no. “It’s none of your business,” I huff.

  She groans. “It most definitely is. You’re me. I’m you. We’re the same person. Don’t you get it?”

  “That isn’t possible!” If she doesn’t like Bryan, why is she calling me? Who is she? A mosquito snaps at my arm and I wave it away. “Will you just hold on a sec? I want to go inside. Or you can call me back. Or can I call you back?” If Crazy Stalker Girl gives me her number, maybe I can block her calls.

  “I don’t think that’ll work. I’ll just hold.”

  I unlock the door, kick off my shoes, and tiptoe into the house. I stop when I see the kitchen light on.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “It’s me,” my dad says, poking his head out. “Just getting a snack.”

  He’s still dressed in his suit and tie and is holding a plate of lemon chicken. His eyes look tired, like he’s spent the last twenty-four hours in front of a computer. His hair is starting to turn gray too. His job is seriously killing him. The bags under his eyes are huge and his suit looks baggy on him. He could use a few plates of lemon chicken.

  “Late night?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Yeah.”

  “Mom asleep?”

  He nods. “I’m just finishing this and going to bed. I have to go back into the office tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” I say, clutching my phone against my chest. I hope she didn’t hear all that. Crazy Girl doesn’t need to know any more details about my life.

  When I close the door to my room, I pick up the phone and say, “Go on.”

  “Dad sounds so tired,” she says sadly.

  She’s too much. “Not Dad,” I say. “My dad. Mine.”

  “He’s my dad too. I’m you. Aren’t you paying attention? I can prove it to you.”

  I swallow. “No thanks.”

  “I know everything about you. Your bank code is 1016, your mom’s birthday.”

  I gasp. How …? She must have found out my mom’s birthday. Mom only keeps the year a secret. I’m sure I’m not the first girl whose bank code is her mother’s b-day, right?

  “Your computer password is Ivy0805, which is a combination of the name you wish your parents had given you instead of naming you after your dad’s dead grandmother, and the day you were supposed to be born on, except Mom went into labor two weeks early after having two bowls of Peking Gardens’ hot and sour soup.”

  My whole body is tingling.<
br />
  “You love Froot Loops right from the box. You also like to eat your pizza upside down so it doesn’t burn the top of your mouth. You love extra-sharp cheddar, the white kind, even though you always manage to cut your thumb on the cheese slicer. You’re terrified of dogs. You squat when you go to the bathroom at school because you’re afraid of getting a disease, and sometimes you pee on the floor by accident.”

  “That was only once!” Twice. Four times, max.

  “Five, actually,” she says.

  “Okay, five.”

  “The reason you skipped the holiday party in eighth grade was not because you had a hundred-and-two fever, like you told your cute but dumb ex-boyfriend, Jarred, but because you burnt your upper lip trying to bleach it and gave yourself a red mustache. Maya felt bad for you and stayed home and watched movies with you. You didn’t even tell Karin the truth. Speaking of Karin, remember when you went out with Anthony Flare even though you knew she liked him? Oh yeah, you knew. She never told you she did, or admitted to anyone, but you’re her best friend. And you did it anyway.”

  My hands are shaking. No one—I repeat, no one—knew that I knew. I don’t even think I ever admitted it to myself.

  “Do you believe me yet?” she asks.

  “I …” My head might explode. How can this be? It can’t. It just can’t.

  “Oh, I know an even worse one! When you were six—when we were six—we climbed up our dresser and it fell on us, and Dad came running out of the bathroom when he heard the crash, and his pants were down and we saw everything!”

  “Eewwwwww,” I groan, remembering.

  She giggles: “He-he-he-he-he.”

  That giggle cannot be faked.

  Holy salsa stain, she’s me.

  chapter seven

  Friday, May 23 Senior Year

  Finally. I got through to her. To me. Hello, confusing. “I can’t believe it,” Freshman Me says, voice shaking.

  “I know!”

  “But … but … how did this happen?”

  So I lie back on my twin bed and tell her about how I’d dropped the phone in the fountain.

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” she says, “but I kind of wish I could see something concrete. You know, as proof.”