A late-night phone call is the thing parents dread the most . . .

 . . . or so my mother tells me. But for me, a late-night phone call is filled with endless possibilities. So when my cell phone buzzed and lit up around midnight, I was psyched. Was Alana calling to talk after the full afternoon we’d spent together? She’d been waiting for me in her front yard when I arrived with the dogs. Never in my life did I have so much to say to another person in such a short period of time. We just clicked, and I think both of us were aware of that by the time her dad picked her up from my place on his way home from work.

So I was thinking Alana, but what I got was Mr. Pirkle. At least, I knew it was him from the Caller ID on my phone. Otherwise, I never would have guessed.

The voice was muffled and pretty much incomprehensible. It alternated between too loud and barely audible. There was a roaring, almost electronic background noise you get when somebody’s walking around with a phone in their pocket. So he butt-dialed me. I tried yelling and even whistling, but he couldn’t hear, so I hung up and went back to sleep.

The next morning, Friday morning, he called me just after the bell rang at the end of art class. Alana was waiting to tell me something.

“Hudson, Pirkle here,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you could stop by. I think there’s a problem.”

“What’s wrong, sir? Do you want me to call for help?”

“No, no, just come by. Nothing I want to discuss over the phone.”

I thought about the walk home and the long bike ride over to his house. I couldn’t let him know it was a big deal for me. It had to seem effortless. Still I wish he’d give me a clue as to the problem. I hoped he wouldn’t turn out to be another Mrs. Dickinson.

“Would it be okay if I was there in an hour?”

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere. Just get here as soon as you can.”

Alana tapped her foot impatiently. She had three minutes to get to her next class.

“So do you want to do something tonight?” she asked. “Bryce has a football game, and you know I can’t stand football.”

“Sure. How about I call you after school?”

“Let me call you,” she said. “Bryce and I are going to hang out after school for a while.”

>>>

By the time I got to Mr. Pirkle’s house, I was drenched in sweat, having beat every speed record I ever dreamed of setting. I rolled the bike into his driveway and leaned it against a hedge.

Inside, Mr. Pirkle was a mess, and I wondered what happened to “imposing.” The word of the day would be “flustered” or maybe “agitated.” The tidy room I’d observed during my last visit was a disaster. Books on the floor. Ashtray in pieces. Sofa pillows upturned. The picture of the little girl was missing.

“What happened?” I asked the second I walked in.

“I’m not sure,” he spoke slowly, as though going over the events in his head. “I think I’ve been robbed.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No, this is none of their business,” he snapped.

I took a deep breath while carefully choosing my next words. This wasn’t what I’d bargained for when I came up with Distress Dial. The idea of forgotten passwords and runaway dogs seemed very appealing at that moment.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it is the business of the police if you’ve been robbed.”

He just gave me the look. I’d come to know the look very well in the next few months but this first time, well I just crumbled under its weight.

“Do you have a burglar alarm?” I asked, but I already knew the answer. I’d seen the keypad in his kitchen during my first visit.

“Yes . . . I . . . I’m not sure if I turned it on last night before I went to bed.”

“Were there any broken windows?”

“Nope.”

“How do you think they got in?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question all morning. Maybe I forgot to lock the back door last night?”

“Did they take anything valuable?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Did your neighbors hear or see anything?”

“I don’t know my neighbors well. But I’m sure if they saw something, they’d have let me know.”

“And you didn’t hear anything either? It didn’t wake you up?”

He hesitated for just a moment too long before answering. “No, I didn’t hear anything.”

This wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t imagine why someone would break into his house in the middle of the night and turn his living room upside down but not steal anything. And then leave the whole rest of the house undisturbed.

“Okay,” I finally said. “What do you think we should do?”

“You’re the professional,” was his unreasonable answer. “What do you think? Clean up, I suppose.”

So clean up we did. And we talked. It was the first glimpse I got into the cracks of Mr. Pirkle’s imposing exoskeleton. And it was only later that night I remembered the midnight call.

When I left, the girl was in the driveway again, methodically shooting hoops. The Amazon. Every step she took looked like it had been choreographed. She paused long enough to wave before resuming her shot-in-progress. I wondered what she was doing home from school so early, but she could have been a college student for all I knew. I returned her wave and swung my leg over the seat of my bike.

“What’s your name?” she called from across the street.

“Hudson.” I balanced on the bike with my feet already on the pedals.

“What’s your first name?” she asked.

“Hudson.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Wheeler.” It was beginning to feel a little like an inquisition. I glanced up and saw Mr. Pirkle watching us through the little window above his kitchen sink.

“Why are you always going over to Pirkle’s house, Wheeler? You his grandson or something?” She dribbled the ball while speaking.

Wheeler?

“He’s my client.” I was majorly overpowered in this conversational match. I still didn’t even know her name.

“Client? You a lawyer or something?”

I seriously wondered if I looked like a lawyer to her. In my t-shirt and jeans. Riding my bike. I was turning eighteen in a week, but everyone always said I looked young for my age. But her eyes were sincere and truthful like a little kid’s. I could tell she wasn’t messing with me.

“No, I’m not a lawyer. I have a business . . . for older people. Distress Dial.” Even as I said it, I suspected it would only open up a whole new round of questioning. Maybe I should have said I was his grandson and let it go at that.

“Distress Dial,” she took a shot and the ball swished through the net. “You never know,” she said. “I saw a show on TV about a kid who graduated from Harvard law school when he was seventeen.”

Mr. Pirkle was still staring out the window, so I moved my bike over to her side of the street.

“That’s pretty young. I’m seventeen myself.”

“Me too,” she took another effortless shot. “Half day?”

“Huh?”

“Teacher work day? Is that why you’re out?”

“Oh! No, I’m only taking two classes this year. I homeschool.”

“Cool,” she looked me up and down. “Religious?”

“Nah, I . . .” I stopped myself. This whole thing was too one-sided, and it was time for me to take some control. “Half day for you?”

I thought about Alana, who I’d be seeing in a few hours. The gauzy thing she wore to school which sort of floated over her soft curves. The flowering vine on the side of her neck that seemed to give off a whiff of lavender (or was I just transposing Mrs. Dickinson’s scent to Alana’s vine?). I thought about the conversation we’d had the day before—sharing our deepest thoughts as if we’d known each other forever. There wasn’t a single topic that led to a dead-end with Alana. Certainly none that led to the rocky dirt path I was traveling at that moment.

“Yep.” Bounce. “Love it.” Bounce.

“And what’s your name?”

Go boy, you’re on a roll.

“Lauren Fritz, but you can call me Fritzy. Everyone does.”

“Okay, well. Nice to meet you, Fritzy. I’d better get going.”

“Wait! You never told me what you do for Pirkle.”

I looked across the street, thinking it would be an untrustworthy thing to speak about my client to a stranger, even if it was only to confirm his business. But he wasn’t looking out the window anymore so I relaxed a bit.

“It’s a business I have where I help out mainly elderly people who live on their own. You know . . . anything that falls just below the level of an emergency.”

“Are you going to be a doctor?” Bounce.

“No. It’s not medical or anything like that. Just . . .” Oh how I hated trying to explain my business to myself and others.

“Oh, like . . . handyman stuff?”

“No, not that either.” Maybe it was that. Maybe I was just a rent-a-grandson, after all.

“Like when something’s wrong but not wrong enough to call 911?”

“Exactly!” It was such a relief to hear someone other than me put it into words. I hiked myself back on the seat of the bike and spun the pedals backwards.

“So what’s wrong with Pirkle?” Bounce. Bounce.

“Nothing. I mean, I can’t talk about it.”

“I get it. Client confidentiality. Saw this show on TV where the lawyer’s in bed with a stranger, and he reveals something about his client that leads to a whole thing that eventually gets him killed.”

“Yeah, something like that. Only not quite as dramatic.” I steered my bike in a tight circle as though it was a racehorse chomping at the bit to get out of the gate. “Guess I’d better go,” I said for the second time.

“Wait. How about a game of HORSE before you leave, Wheeler?”

Now, I wasn’t a kid who was raised with a manly influence, although my mother did her best. Dad was definitely a man’s man, but he was gone so much, and then he left us so soon. All those things a boy learns from his father, well . . . I missed out on most of that. Sure, I knew what HORSE was—a game that had something to do with basketball. Even if I didn’t know, I probably could have figured it out after spending five minutes in Fritzy’s presence. But did I know the rules? Did I know the proper form for shooting a ball? Could I even make a basket one out of five times? The answer was no, no, and no.

“I really have to get back,” I said. “I have a date tonight,” I added for a manly explanation that hopefully would appease her.

“C’mon,” she said. “Just one game. Then we’ll throw your bike in the back of my truck and I’ll give you a ride home.”

I knew she wasn’t purposely trying to emasculate me. Just one look in those sincere and candid eyes convinced me of that. But at that point her intent didn’t matter. I was already there.

“You start,” she launched the ball at me, knocking the wind out of me as it made contact with my stomach.

“Oh. Yeah.” Think, Hudson. What do I do now?

I took a wild guess and tried to throw it in the basket. Naturally, it didn’t even come close. To give her credit, Fritzy didn’t gloat. In fact, she looked downright disappointed.

“Okay, now me.” She’d already retrieved the ball and was holding it in her hands. She took her shot and of course swished it right through the net.

“H,” she said glumly.

I’m not an idiot, so I obviously knew she was ahead. I also knew H was the first letter of “horse” and either she just won it, or I did. For some reason, I thought I probably won it for missing. “Horse” didn’t seem like a title we’d be fighting over. The ball bounced right back into her capable hands, and she launched it at me again. This time I was prepared and caught it without the aid of my stomach. When she didn’t make a move after a few seconds, I started to take another shot.

“You have to take it from where I’m standing,” she said.

“I know,” I said, but I didn’t know. I walked morosely to the spot and took another shot, missing again. She intercepted the runaway ball that was heading for the street. She took her shot and made it. No surprise.

“C’mon, you’re not trying,” she said irritably.

Which was really humiliating because I was trying. Obviously Fritzy couldn’t imagine any guy as hopeless as me when it came to sports. Everyone should have her skill.

The cycle repeated, with the only good thing being that I figured out the rules of the game on my own, without having to reveal my ignorance. And by that point it was almost certain I was about to become the Horse.

“R,” I beat her to the punch that time. If I was going to be the Horse, then I might as well crown myself with the title.

“Look, Wheeler. Plant your feet so your body doesn’t move relative to the hoop. You’re swaying all over the place.”

She wanted competition, and I wasn’t giving it to her. She could have been playing against herself. A slow burn started inside me. This wasn’t my idea. She forced my hand by offering me the ride home. Who did she think she was, anyway? I didn’t care about her stupid game, and now she was getting under my skin and about to ruin my night with Alana. I shot and missed again. She shot and made it again.

“S!” I almost yelled at her. I threw the last ball without even bothering to aim (what was the difference?), and it flew into the street. “I’m outta here,” I said. “Now I’m going to be late.” Fury colored my cheeks.

“Wait, Wheeler!” she called after me. “I can give you a ride home.”

I didn’t even turn around to acknowledge her. I was the wimpy kid running home to Mommy.