22

Every time I see Eric, he pretends the night at the party never happened.

At first I think he doesn’t remember. That the whole thing was one big, drunken blur.

That he doesn’t know how his nose got bloodied and his face bruised.

But he doesn’t ask me to study anymore.

He doesn’t stand next to my desk and offer me tips.

And he doesn’t look me in the eye.

Ever.

“Helpline, this is Torrie.” I’m experimenting with new aliases. I glance at Miguel to see what he thinks, but he keeps reading his magazine. After a total of 233 I’m sorry texts, he stopped trying. Suddenly there’s this coolness about him, like there’s some kind of on-off button to his heart, and all he had to do was flip the switch to disengage from me forever. Now I am rethinking my decision not to respond to any of his texts.

My thoughts are flying so it takes me a while to realize no one is talking. I say again, “Helpline, this is …” I forget my pseudonym. Janae leaps over to the pad of paper and writes Torrie with an exclamation point. I’ve got to start writing my name down when I say it. “This is Torrie.”

Silence on the other end.

I have less patience than I used to. In my six weeks on the Line, I’ve had my share of crank callers. “Hello? Anyone there?” I am just about to hang up, when I hear something that stops me. Sounds like sniffling.

“Sorry. I’m here.” The voice is soft.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“What does it matter?” I recognize her voice. I probably have a class with her. I hope she doesn’t recognize mine.

“It matters,” I insist, even though I know how hokey that sounds.

“That’s a load of crap. Nothing matters, but some people matter even less than others. I am one of those special someones who doesn’t matter to anyone.” There’s sarcasm there in an ugly kind of way.

“I bet there’s a friend out there who really cares about you.”

Janae waves her hands in front of my face, almost panic-like. She draws a big stop sign on my paper. You are not a shrink. Stick with what we practiced. I stick out my tongue at her. She returns the favor.

The voice laughs, all brittle and angry. “There are no such things as friends. There are people who pretend to be your friend so that they don’t have to sit alone at lunch. But no one really cares. If you think they do, then you’re as suckered as the rest of them.”

“It sounds like you’re feeling really discouraged,” I say, following Janae’s advice.

“No shit.”

And then I feel mad. Because here I am, talking to this girl on the phone, trying to be supportive, and she gets sarcastic with me? “What are you hoping to get from calling tonight?”

“What?”

I reword and try not to sound as irritated as I feel. “How can I help you?”

“You can’t help me. No one can help me.”

“How can you help yourself?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling you. Don’t they train you guys?”

I grit my teeth. Help! I write on my paper. Then Janae writes the smartest thing. So smart, I promise myself I’ll remember it for another time. I read it to myself once, and then I read it out loud. “You took the time to call tonight, which shows me that a part of you wants to help yourself.”

She makes this strange noise, this mmhmm that brings to my mind an instantaneous mental image. Of a girl. A girl that I know.

I am talking to Chloe’s friend. To Mel. The one who reminds me of Eeyore. The one who smiled when she asked if we’d ever touched our dad’s gun.

I soften my tone. I’m not trained for this. Paisley told us if we recognize a caller, we should pretend we don’t. Proceed like normal. But now that it’s happening, I feel panicked. “What were you hoping would come from your call tonight?”

“Honestly? Nothing. I have no hope that you can talk me out of anything. I just want to share the misery.”

I have to reach deep into the recesses of my mind to come up with a response. “It sounds like you’re looking for some kind of connection.”

“I guess. I wonder if that’s what she was looking for too.”

“She?”

And then I get another flash. This is the same voice I spoke to during my first call. Mel was the caller talking about Jo Moon, the girl who hanged herself. Mel, who thinks friends are not really there for her. Mel who smiles when she thinks about guns.

I take a risk. “Would you be interested in a referral to a community counseling center?” Because this girl needs a shrink.

“Why? You tired of talking to me? You trying to shove me off on someone else?”

This takes me totally off guard.

“Well, guess what? I’m tired of you too.” And with that, she hangs up. How rude!

Moral dilemma. I know the caller. But the Line is confidential—so what am I supposed to do with this information? It’s not like I can go to her house and follow up. Crap.

“You all right?” Janae’s voice is sharp. Worried.

I’m shaking. I try to straighten the desk, but my hands are shaking too bad. Miguel puts his hand on my arm, and I grab on to it with both of my own. I don’t know if I’ve forgiven him, but I do know it feels good to have his touch. His hands are warm and rough.

“Just some girl wanting to vent. I wonder how many times she’s called the Line. I know I’ve spoken to her at least twice myself.”

“Do you want to call and consult with Paisley?” Janae asks. “We’re supposed to debrief if we’re upset.”

“I’m okay,” I lie. I don’t want to tell anyone that I recognized the caller. Not until I figure a few things out for myself. Like who I can truly trust, for one. This will take time. Because I’m suddenly struck with the realization that I have no idea who the hell I can trust in this crazy world. The bomber is out there somewhere. Maybe it’s no one I’ve ever met. But what if it’s someone I know? What if it’s someone I think is my friend? What if it’s one of my sister’s friends? What if it’s even a grown-up with a revenge agenda?

I’m ninety-nine percent sure I can trust everyone in this room. Even though I’m pissed with Miguel for breaking Eric’s nose, that doesn’t mean he’s not a trustworthy person. And Janae is reaching best-friend status here really quick. But still there’s so much I don’t know about her. Garth’s the one I’ve known the longest, and that brings with it some kind of automatic trust. But he’s also the one I know the least.

Bottom line, the only person I know I can trust a hundred percent is myself. And so I say nothing. Mel has called before. She’ll call again. I will pocket this piece of information. And watch. And wait.

Ping! Are you still there? It’s 8:55.

I’m here.

Nothing.

Miguel types, We close at nine. Maybe tomorrow you can text earlier?

Nothing.

“Can I buy you a piece of pie?” Miguel asks as we walk out at the end of our shift. He shoves his hands in his pockets all deep, and for a second he reminds me of a little boy.

“I don’t eat pie,” I tell him, partly because it’s the truth and partly because I don’t want to make this too easy.

“Come on. Pie is supposed to be this American favorite. You know, like apple pie, pumpkin pie, lemon meringue …”

“The boy has a point,” Janae interjects. She’s a few steps ahead but clearly eavesdropping.

“You should at least pretend to mind your own business.” If I could see Janae, I’d kick her. But it’s so dark I can’t even see my fingers when I hold them up.

Garth jingles his car keys. “You call it, Gabi. Because I’ll drop Miguel at home if you’d rather skip the pie.”

And then of course he’s got me. Because I want to make up with Miguel. Even if it means sitting at some lame coffee shop with a piece of stale pie.

“Nah. Wouldn’t want to force you and Janae to give up your alone time,” I tease.

And so twenty minutes later I’m sitting in a dark corner of an all-night coffee shop. Miguel rearranges the packets of sugar and sugar substitute for the third time. He doesn’t talk. I’m not going to make it easy for him. The waitress comes and stands towering over us, putting on the pressure for us to order. I scan the menu and pick a scoop of fruit sorbet. Miguel orders chocolate cream pie.

“So you weren’t kidding about the pie,” he says, smoothing his napkin across his lap. “I have to ask. Why don’t you eat it?”

I shrug. “It’s like eating a stick of butter.”

“I like butter.”

“Yeah, well, I like being able to see my feet.” I pick up my fork and shake it at him. “Do you actually enjoy being this irritating?”

“Kinda.” Miguel sighs in a way that makes him seem way older than he is. “Crap. I royally suck at this.”

“At what?”

“At apologizing.”

“This is supposed to be an apology?” My voice rises an octave, and I sound more pissed than I really am.

“Well, this plus my thousands of texts have to count for something.”

“They make you seem like a stalker. One or two texts would have been plenty.”

“A stalker? I am not familiar with that term.” And it’s déjà vu, because he’s used this line before. I roll my eyes, but he pretends not to see. “I’m buying you dessert, and I’m telling you that I’m sorry I overreacted. I care about you, Gabi. I couldn’t stand by and watch someone try to overpower you.”

I nod. I trace the napkin holder with my finger.

“So I’m sorry.” He lowers his eyes.

“I’m all done being mad,” I say softly. “And I never got a chance to say thank you. Not for hitting him, but for getting him off me.”

He looks up suddenly, as if he’s surprised. But not as surprised as me, because that waitress is back with four of her cronies, belting out “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs. It is not my birthday. It is six months from my birthday.

I start to explain that this must be a mistake, that they have the wrong table, to turn away the perfectly good piece of brownie à la mode, and then I catch Miguel’s expression. He looks like he’s about to burst.

My cheeks are hot as hell, but I manage to smile at the waitresses, accepting their birthday wishes. When they disappear, I point my finger at Miguel. I’m not even sure what to say.

He grins. “There’s no good reason Garth and Janae should have this prank thing all to themselves. I can pull a prank as good as anyone.”

I shake my head, still searching for the right words.

“Apology accepted?” Miguel asks, curving a fork into the soft brownie. He brings it to my lips. It’s still warm. I accept the bite and it just might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

“Oh, what the hell,” I tell him, exasperated. “You know it’s on though now, don’t you? You better watch your back.”

“I’m ready,” he says, looking happier than he has all night.