Gimme a Call

For Chloe, my little sweetheart

Acknowledgments

Thank you
thank you
thank you
to:

Todd Swidler, my ever-patient, always-supportive, extra-loving husband, who talked me through many, many drafts of this book.

The people who made it happen: Wendy Loggia, my fabo editor; Laura Dail, my incredible agent; and Tamar Rydzinski, the queen of foreign rights.

All the awesome Random House Children’s Books people: Beverly Horowitz, Chip Gibson, Krista Vitola, Kelly Galvin, Tamar Schwartz, Isabel Warren-Lynch, Kenny Holcomb, Adrienne Waintraub, and Jennifer L. Black.

Richie Kern and the rest of the people at WME; Andy Fickman and Betsy Sullenger at Oops Doughnuts Productions; and the people at Paramount.

Aviva Mlynowski, who sang my praises to the movie people—thank you, Squirt! Love you!

To my amazing early readers (I could not have done this without your many insights … I was too pregnant and caffeine deficient): Elissa Ambrose, my mom, who read the book as I wrote it; Lauren Myracle, the master of praise and encouragement; Lynda Curnyn, for her reading and commenting overnight; Ally Carter, who reminded me to show instead of tell; and Jess Braun, for showing me where to add depth. Emily Jenkins, for telling me all the places to trim.

Targia Clarke, for her help with Chloe.

Love and thanks to my family and friends who kept me company while I wrote: Larry Mlynowski, Louisa Weiss, John and Vickie Swidler, Robert Ambrose, Jen Dalven, Gary Swidler, Darren Swidler, Shari Endleman, Emily Bender, Heather Endleman, Shaun Sarno, Leslie Margolis, Alison Pace, Bennett Madison, Cassandra Clare, Scott Westerfeld, Maureen Johnson, Justine Larbalestier, Lauren McLaughlin, Robin Wasserman (and thank you, Robin, for letting me interview you about Harvard!), Libba Bray, Farrin Jacobs, Kristin Harmel, Bonnie Altro, Jess Davidman, Laura Accurso, Avery Carmichael, and Bob.

chapter one
Friday, May 23
Senior Year

I should just return Bryan’s watch to Nordstrom and go home. Instead, I’m sitting by the circular fountain in the Stonybrook Mall, staring at the window of the Sunrise Skin Spa. It features a poster of a wrinkle-free woman and the slogan
Go Back in Time
.

Sounds good to me. If I could go back in time, there’s lots I’d tell my younger self. Including:

In third grade, do not let Karin Ferris cut your bangs. Your best friend is no stylist. She’s going to accidentally cut them too short. And too crooked. And she won’t always be your best friend either.

In fifth grade, do not put marshmallows in the toaster oven, even though it seems like a good idea. Toasty! Gooey! Yummy! No. When they expand, the tip of one of the marshmallows kisses the burner, and the toaster catches fire, and your entire family will forever bring up the story about how you almost burnt the house down.

Sophomore year: don’t leave your retainer in a napkin in the cafeteria—unless you want to wade through three spaghetti-and-meatball-filled garbage bins to find it.

This December: do not buy the Dolly jeans you like in a size 4 because you believe they’ll stretch. They will not.

May twenty-first: do not buy Him a silver watch for a surprise graduation present, because then you will spend senior skip day at the mall returning it. Which brings me to the most important tip.

About Him. Bryan.

If I could go back in time, the most important thing I would tell myself would be this: never
ever
fall for Bryan. I would warn fourteen-year-old me never even to go out with Him in the first place. Or even better—the party where we officially met when I was a freshman never would have happened. Okay, the party could have happened, but when he called me later and asked me out, I would have said no. Nice of you to ask but I am just not interested. Thanks but no thanks. Have a nice life. Maybe I’d tell myself to stay home instead and organize my closet.

Imagine that. Talking to my fourteen-year-old self. I wish.

I spot Veronica at Bella Boutique, right beside the Sunrise Skin Spa. She waves. I wave back. “Devi! Come see my new stock!” she calls. “It’s stunning!” As if I’d listen to her. She’s the one who swore up and down that my jeans would stretch. “I’ll give you the employee discount!” she offers, even though I haven’t worked a shift since the winter holidays.

“I’ll come look in a minute,” I call back to her. I rummage through my purse, find my phone, and dial for my messages. I want to hear the one he left this morning. Again. I’ve only listened to it once. Fine, seven times. I know: pathetic. But I keep hoping each time that it’ll be different.

“Hi, Devi. It’s me.” Bryan’s voice is low and raspy, like a smoker’s. We tried cigarettes once, together, at the Morgan Lookout on Mount Woodrove when we were sophomores. But when we kissed, he tasted like a dirty sock, so that was the end of our smoking.

Until our relationship went up in smoke.

“I wish you’d answer,” his voice continues. “You always answer.” A pause as though he’s waiting for me to answer. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m really, really sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

The message is still playing in my ear, but I can barely hear, because now I’m crying, and my cheeks are all wet and my hand is all wet and how could he have told me he loves me when he obviously doesn’t and—

Splash!

Like a bar of soap in the shower, my cell phone has slipped through my fingers and landed in the fountain.

Superb. One more thing to tell my younger (by two seconds) self: don’t drop your cell phone into a house-size saucer of green chlorine. I peer into the water. A flash of silver twinkles up at me. Is that it? Nope. It’s a nickel. The pond is filled with coins in addition to my phone. Are there really people out there who believe that throwing a nickel into the water can make a wish come true?

Aha! I see it, I see it! I stretch out to reach it, but it’s a bit too far away. I lie down on my stomach and reach again. A little more … almost there …

The cell phone gets pulled further out of my reach by the swirling water jets within the fountain. Ah, crapola—I’m going to need to get in there.

Luckily, I’m wearing flip-flops. I look around to make sure no security people are watching, then stand on the bench, roll up the bottoms of my oxygen-depriving Dolly jeans, and step in.

Cold. Slimy. When I look down, my toes are bloated and tinted green. Maybe the water is radioactive and I’m turning into the Hulk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Harry Travis and Kellerman marching through the mall like they own the place. Harry—definitely one of the best-looking guys in our class—has dark hair, a muscular build, intense blue eyes, and the rosiest skin. He also has this sexy stubble going on—very rugged and hot. And Kellerman—everyone just calls him Kellerman—looks like he’s already part of a frat. He’s always wearing his older brother’s Pi Lambda Phi hat, and sweatpants.

I duck down so that the coolio senior duo won’t see me. That would just make today perfect, wouldn’t it? The water soaks through the knees of my jeans. Crap, crap, crap! When the guys turn in to the food court, I find my footing and try to relocate my phone. And there it is again! Yahoo! Balanced on top of a pyramid of nickels. Got it. Yes!

Now all I have to do is safely make it back to the side …

Splat
. The swirls of water push me over, and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my butt. Great. Just great. My eyes start to prickle.

I heave myself up and back to the safety of the fountain’s edge, leaving a trail of shiny green droplets. I ignore my sopping wet jeans—maybe the chemicals will help them stretch?—and wipe my phone against my shirt, as if that’s gonna help. Please don’t be broken, please, please, please. I press the power button.

No sound. No connection. No nothing.

I spot Veronica staring at me. “You okay?” she hollers.

Um, no? “I’m fine!” I wave, then turn back to the phone. I press power again. Still nothing. I press the one button. Nothing. The two. Nothing. Three, four, five, all nothing. Six, seven, eight, nine, the pound button, the volume button. Nothing, nothing,
nothing
. I kick the floor. My flipflop makes a squishy sound.

I hit the power button. Again. Nothing.

I hit the nine, the eight, the seven, the six, the five, four, three, two, one, the pound button, the volume button. All nothing.

I press the send button. The phone comes alive.

There we go. I have no idea who I called, but it’s ringing.

chapter two
Friday, September 9
Freshman Year

The first time she calls, I’m sitting beside Karin Ferris and across from Joelle Caldwell and Tash Havens at our table in the cafeteria, the one in the back next to the garbage. Not ideal, since the location has a definite decaying-meat scent, but as far as I can tell, we’re lucky to get any table. Some freshmen are sitting on the floor.

My two-week-old cell phone vibrates next to my half-eaten burnt grilled cheese and undercooked fries. Last week at orientation we were told that all us Florence West High School students—I’m finally a high school student! Crazy!—have to keep our cell phones on mute. There’s so much vibrating going on in here, you’d think the cafeteria was built over a subway. It isn’t, obviously. There is no under ground transit in Florence, New York.