Random (3 page)

The flip phone buzzes. I look at the screen, expecting it to be Noah. Who else would it be? Who else
could
it be? I didn't even have Lucas's or Marly's numbers before
or
after my iPhone got taken away. Which honestly makes me mad. Lucas would always give me this look at lunch, like a secret look, you know? Or throw an arm over my shoulders in the hallway sometimes. I thought he was starting to feel the same way about me as I did about him. So what if he put his arm around Marly sometimes too? And Dakota. And some of the cheerleaders.

Whatever. We're not supposed to communicate, anyway. Something tells me
they
are finding a way to do it, though—Lucas and Marly and Dakota and Steve and the other guys. It's just a gut feeling. Maybe because they've known each other longer, or because they're juniors . . . I don't know.

Still staring at the phone screen, I wonder if maybe it's one of my girls, my teammates, finally making contact, ending the big freeze. If I'm found not guilty, will they let me back on the
team? Is that what it'll take? Maybe I should ask Coach Hayes. Except she hasn't called either. You wouldn't think a JV softball team in a two–Burger King town could have PR problems of a kind that would make teammates and coaches bounce away like scrimmage balls from a spilled bucket. But I guess it can.

I don't recognize the number at all. It's a local area code but not the same as mine. I shouldn't answer it. It's a crank call. Or worse. “Crank” doesn't really do the term justice. Since I haven't been online in a month, I can only assume someone tracked down my cell number and posted it on Facebook or something, so that everyone on earth can call me and talk trash.

I'm used to it.

I think.

I can't believe my parents went to all the trouble to activate this crappy phone but didn't bother to change the number. Awesome. I need to ask them to correct this.

I flip the phone open, fully expecting a barrage of cusswords. I spent most of last night writing down a list of fantastic compound, hyphenated swearwords and insults to fire back at the crank callers. I could diagram swearword sentences, sort of like back in eighth grade, when everything was okay and you knew who your friends were.

The red digital numbers blink from 11:59 to 12:00. The single red dot disappears from the p.m. window.

I say, not really caring:

“Hello?”

And no one responds. But I hear something like static. No,
not static. Rain. It's still raining here, too. Harder than during dinner. The patter of it taps on the aluminum awning over my window so fast, it's become monotonous white noise. I think it's similar to what I hear on the other end of the phone—rain tapping and plopping and fading into static.

“If you're going to call me names or something, go ahead,” I say to the caller. “Because I've already put your number into Google, and I am more than happy to pay the twenty bucks or so it'll cost me to find out who you are and where you live.”

I'm bluffing, of course, as I have neither Google nor money. I probably won't even end up with any of the money Dad put away for school, due to paying Mr. Halpern.

God
dammit
I'm in so much trouble.

“So?” I say. “Go ahead. Just a few more clicks and I'll know everything about you, so you may as well enjoy calling me a bitch or whatever.”

Another sound from the other end. A sniffle, I think. A single, stealthy snort. Which is a great name for a children's book. I don't think I'll ever be allowed to write one of those, either. Do publishers do background checks? What about professional softball teams? Will all of this have to go on my college apps?

The caller says, “Why would I call you a bitch?”

It's a guy.

His voice is a flatline, monotone, like the rain. Bit of a rasp to it, like he gargled with 10 percent sandpaper solution, or sings in a hard-core band and had a gig last night.

“I, um . . . I don't. . . .  Who is this?”

“Andrew,” he says. “Who is
this
?”

“You mean you don't know?” I say.

“No.”

“Then why'd you call me?”

Another sniffle. Maybe Andrew has a cold. That's what you get for sitting in the rain.

“It was at random,” Andrew says. “I didn't think anyone would actually answer.”

He grunts, or maybe laughs, but not in a “Something struck me funny” way. It sort of comes out his nose in a
humph
sound.

“Seriously?” I say, because I can't for one second believe this isn't another crank call.

“The complete randomness of it was the whole point,” Andrew says.

I should just hang up, and I know it. But now I'm intrigued. Especially if he really isn't pranking me. Plus, the prankers don't usually take this long. They just call me some name and hang up. Like the car that drove by tonight:
Biiiiiiitch!

Can I just say how unique and clever that one was? It's better than another brick through one of our car windows, though. I guess.

“Ohhh-kay,” I say, “why are you calling people at random at midnight on a Thursday, Andrew? Because honestly I was about ready to go to bed.”

I don't bother to say,
And stare at my popcorn ceiling for a few hours before getting back up and pacing and lying back down and getting back up and so on
, which is really closer to the truth. Hungry and exhausted, unable to eat or sleep. Woo-hoo.

I
really
need to get some rest for tomorrow. Noah was right. I should've turned the phone off completely.

“Why'd I call you?” he repeats back to me. “Well, that's kind of a long story. Sorry, I'm just . . . still surprised anyone picked up. Wow.”

“Right, you expressed your dismay already.”

“Not dismay. Shock. Like . . . I dunno, like maybe God's really there after all.”

I sit up and dig the fingers of my left hand into my scalp. And yawn.

“Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up,” I say. “Now why are you calling me again?”

“Can I ask you something?”

I give him a dramatic sigh. “I guess.”

“Do you think God really exists?”

“No,” I say. The certainty of it in my voice startles even me.

“How come?”

I take more time answering now. “Because life's not fair.”

“Yeah,” Andrew says slowly. “I hear ya.”

No, you don't,
I think.
You have no clue just how bad it can get.
Instead of pointing this out, though, I say, “Now can I ask
you
something?”

“Um. Sure. Why not.”

“Why'd you call this number allegedly at random?” There's that word again.
Allegedly.
Maybe if I repeat it enough times, it'll lose its meaning.

I hear the mystery caller take and release a deep breath.

“Honestly?” he says.

“Yeah, honestly.”

“Well, honestly . . . because I'm going to kill myself.”

Reeee. Reeee. Reeee.

The sound is not my phone buzzing. This time the buzz is in my ears, in my head, a bazillion wasps stinging gray matter.

“You
fucking
dick!” I scream, and slap the phone shut.

So much for my sweet list of compound swearwords. Had to fall back on a classic.

Doesn't make it less true.

Dick. I should've known.

Conversation started October 16, two years ago.

Kevin Cooper
did you get our history assignment?

Tori Hershberger
Yeah. Where were you today?

Kevin Cooper
had to go home

Tori Hershberger
Sick?

Kevin Cooper
Not exactly. I'm surprised you didn't hear. didnt Jack tell you?

Tori Hershberger
Seniors don't talk to FRESHMEN remember? :) Tell me what?

Kevin Cooper
big black Magic Marker. my forehead. one word: “pussy.”

Tori Hershberger
Are you kidding? Who did it?

Kevin Cooper
I dont know them. baseball players.

Tori Hershberger
Do I know them?

Kevin Cooper
doubt it. sophmores or jrs I think.

Tori Hershberger
Sorry, Cooper. :(

Mom simultaneously opens my door/sticks her head in/knocks. It is not one of her more endearing traits. What if I'm shooting heroin in here? Or solving string theory equations? Or
rubbing one out
, as Jack likes to say. And do. More times than I can count, I laughed my head off as Mom did her open/peek/knock routine at Jack's door and Jack screamed “Moooooooooom!” at the top of his lungs because he was getting handy with his unit.
Cracked
me up.

I wish he'd start talking to me again.

“Tori?” Mom says, and puts one bare foot past the threshold. Her eyes are squinty, like she just woke up, but she's still in her bathrobe.

“Tori's not available right now,” I say, covering my eyes again.

I hear her slide over my wine-red carpet to the bed, and feel the mattress bend beneath her slim weight as she sits near my
knees. I'm built more like Dad. Good thing I like sports, I guess.

“I heard you, uh . . . shouting. . . .”

“Sorry,” I say. But I'm not.

“Another phone call?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs. “Maybe you should just give me your phone.”

“No! Mom, come on. . . .”

“All right, all right,” she says.

“How about you have my number changed?”

“We didn't think about it, honey,” Mom says. “Why not just turn it off and go to bed, hmm?”

Instead of answering that clearly ridiculous suggestion, I say, “When can I have my computer back? How bad could it be?”

“Well . . .” Mom tries to secretly roll her eyes, but fails. I see it clearly, and just as clearly it reads as,
It could be really, really bad, as a matter of fact.

They didn't have to tell me why they took my laptop and switched my phone. I knew. They didn't want me to see what people were saying about me. About
all
of us. I thought I could handle it fine, until I spent one entire night scrolling through comments on our local newspaper website. Ten full screens of comments about us, not just from Canyon but from all over the country.

It's not an easy thing, knowing there are people out there who would happily kill you.

Never mind the irony of it, of wanting to murder someone
accused of what I'd
allegedly
done. When Mom found me at six in the morning, shivering on my floor, unable to stop seeing the parade of awful and sometimes violent words being spewed at me and the others, that was it for me on the Web.

Remembering all that makes me ask, sort of to myself and sort of to Mom, “Why can't they just leave me alone?”

Even
I
know how whiny that sounds. But it's a fair question. Don't they have other people to bother? Oh yes! Six of them. Instead they call me. I don't know, maybe they call Lucas and Marly and the others, too, and I just don't know it since we can't talk anymore.

Mom doesn't answer my question. And I know why. It's because every possible response will make me look terrible.

Sometimes people just make bad choices.
Like me.

They're not thinking clearly.
I certainly hadn't.

They're just rude, and obnoxious, and they're projecting their worries onto someone else.
Me too.

I could go on. They all could be said about me, and that's why she's not answering.

“You should get some sleep,” Mom says finally. “Tomorrow's a long day.”

“Oh, gee,
is
it?”

“Tori . . .”

“Sorry,” I say again. But I'm not. Again.

Would it matter if I was? I mean, what does
sorry
have to do with anything anymore? Maybe I should ask Jack if it really matters.

“Good night, honey,” Mom says.

Until recently, she would've kissed my forehead and both cheeks and nose, in that order. Nobody else knows she does that; it's just between us. It's a holdover from when I was little. I guess I'm not little anymore.

I peek from beneath my forearm and watch her go out, turning for her bedroom. Dad's already asleep. I can tell because he's not laughing at whatever's on Comedy Central.

But then I haven't heard him laugh in a while anyway, so maybe he is up and I just don't know it. I haven't seen him since dinner.

Mom didn't shut my door, another one of her fine habits, so I get up and close it myself.

Reeee. Reeee. Reeee.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand. Are you kidding me?

I look at the LCD. It's the same number as before.
Andrew.
If that's even his name.

“Don't,” I tell myself. “Just don't even bother.”

I grab one of my softballs off the floor and juggle it between my hands. I really miss going to practice and the games. A lot. Until this whole mess, I'd been playing better than the varsity girls, and Coach Hayes knows it. Now it looks like the season is over for me after only two games, so I don't know what that means for varsity next year. I don't know if I'll even be
at
that school next year.

I don't know if I'll even be
in
a school next year. . . .

Reeee.

“Random number, my ass,” I say to Andrew while tossing the ball behind my back and catching it.

Reeee.

“If you think I'm going to just—”

Reeee.

“—buy into that crap . . .”

Reeee.