Random (4 page)

My eye falls on my backpack, gathering dust on the floor by the foot of my bed. I can't help but notice the tiny smiley face Kevin Cooper drew on it early last year. The face is rendered in silver ink, smiling up from one shoulder strap. We were so tiny then. Fifteen, and barely. I was headed into algebra and Kevin was headed into geometry, and I guess he must've remembered how much I had hated our math teacher back in junior high, how she used to give me stomach cramps. And he just whipped out this silver Sharpie and drew the smiley on my backpack and said, “No worries.”

I got a B that semester.

Reeee.

What if Andrew is for real? I mean, I know he's
not
, but just what if?

Reeee.

No. You know what? It's not real; how could it possibly be real? The guy's a jerk like all the others, and if he wants to go a few rounds of Cuss Out, fine. Let's go. Not like I'll be sleeping anytime soon, anyway.

I toss the softball onto my mattress, grab my phone just a
split second before it would've gone to voice mail, and flip it open.

“What?” I bark.

This is such a bad idea. But then what's the worst he can do? Call me a bitch? Ooo. That'll leave a mark.

Except it kind of does.

I start scanning my mental list of profanities, which is probably why I get so derailed by what he says first.

“You're still there,” Andrew says.

“Yeah, so?” I say. “Get it over with.”

“Get
what
over with? What are you talking about?”

I throw another sigh at him, and roll my eyes even though he can't see me. “Like you don't know,” I say.

“I'm sorry,” Andrew says. “I guess I probably shouldn't have just jumped right into that.”

“Oh, gee, jumped right into what?”

“You know,” Andrew says. “The whole suici—”

“Do you know who this is?” I say. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Well, no, like I said, I—”

“You called this number at random,” I interrupt. “You really expect me to believe that? That is one weak-ass, made-up story.”

He doesn't say anything.

But he doesn't start swearing at me either.

“You're right,” Andrew says, and clears his throat. “I shouldn't have bothered. Stupid idea. Sorry to bug you.”

Silence. He already hung up.

“Good,” I say.

Except I don't feel good.

Something about what he said, or maybe it was how he said it—

No. There's no way. Nobody decides to . . . do what he said he was going to do but makes one random phone call beforehand.

I mean, I doubt it.

I don't think.

Do they?

I'm sorry.

Do you think God really exists?

Stupid idea.

Not at all similar to the things people who've cranked me have said. Jackie Thompson called and said she hopes I get the death penalty. Some other kid called to inform me I was destined for hell. Other people whom I never identified for sure called to drop C- and F-bombs on me.

The worst part really is the girls, the other Canyon High JV softball Spartans, my good-old teammates, who have not been cranking me, not been calling me names, and not saying
anything
. Not even stopping by the house to check in. Probably getting all their news from—well, the news. And Facebook.

Stupid
f'ing
Facebook . . .

Anyway. This Andrew guy, it's some kind of elaborate joke. It's got to be. Big setup, big punch line. Joke's on me, ha-ha. It's
probably those Christian Young Life kids. Irony not included. People think
I'm
a bitch? How about that whole “let she who has no sin throw the first stone” bit?

I hear the squeaky cabinet door complain in the kitchen. I think every kitchen on earth has that one cabinet door. No matter how fast or slow you try to open it, it always screeches. And you can coat the thing in a spray of WD-40, top to bottom, front to back, and never find the source of that squeak.

It must be Jack. I'm sure Mom and Dad are in bed by now, and we keep the coffee in that cabinet.

I get up and go into the kitchen. Jack's dumping coffee grounds into the machine and going to great lengths not to see me standing there.

“So this douchebag guy just called,” I say, noticing that Mom didn't bother to save Dad's mashed p'tats. Well, they looked lumpy anyway. Uncommon for Dad.
That's
probably my fault too, I'm sure.

Jack doesn't answer. He flips the lid down and taps the on button.

“Some jerk,” I go on. I force a dismissive laugh, but it sounds like a vomit hiccup. “Said he was going to kill himself.”

All I need is for Jack to half grin, or shake his head, or thump me on the shoulder. Something. Anything to indicate a tiny little bit of empathy or even sympathy.

“Oh yeah?” Jack says to my surprise. He crumples up the coffee bag and jams it into the trash. “What'd he want, advice on how to do it?”

Nice. How's that for a fastball to the tits?

“No,” I say, folding my arms and feeling like a child. “It was just another stupid crank.”

Jack snorts. “Guess you better hope so, huh?”

Something electric and black races up my spine. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Geez, Tori,” he says, making a great show of squinting at the coffeepot, where the water hasn't even started to percolate yet. “Someone says they're gonna kill themselves, and you hang up on them. Guess that's about par for the course, huh? We
do
need to use a sports metaphor here so you can understand it, right?”

Jack walks past me, taking care not to let our clothes, much less our skin, touch. I pivot on my heel to follow him with my eyes.

“I didn't hang up on him!” I say, which, while entirely true, isn't the whole story either.

Jack doesn't so much as grunt. Just keeps going.

“Are you ever going to talk to me like a normal person again?” I say as he heads for his room.

“Go to hell, Victoria,” he says, without stopping or turning. “Or offsides, or the penalty box, or wherever it is you people go.”

Then he's in his room and the door's shut.

“I'll take that as a no,” I say, but not loud enough for anyone to hear. I go into the kitchen, unplug the coffeemaker. Ha. That'll show him. Show him what, I don't know exactly, but it feels good to stick him a bit.

I go back to my room and close the door. Then, absurdly, I check my phone for a message. Nothing.

So that proves it, right? That proves that “Andrew” was just some jackass whose voice I didn't recognize. Not, like, a real person.

A real person really considering—you know.

But then . . .

What if Jack's right?

What if I wake up tomorrow and find out some guy really did hurt himself? I should call Mr. Halpern. Tell him what's happened. No, it's midnight.
After
midnight. Okay, I'll call . . .

I'll just call—

Is there anyone
left
to call?

Yes. I grab the phone and scroll through my recent calls to Andrew's number.

He'll pick up and start laughing,
I tell myself.
When he does that, I can cuss him out and just go to sleep.

He'll pick up and call me a bitch, and then I'll hang up and go to sleep.

After the third ring I hear myself chanting, “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.”

Because if he doesn't answer—

If he doesn't answer, that just means he went to bed. Or something.

Right?

Pick up, pick up.

But he doesn't.

The line stops ringing. I hear the same static-like rain in the background, but no one says anything.

“Hello?” I say.

“Yeah,” Andrew says. Not kindly.

Something uncorks in my belly and empties out through my feet. Relief, maybe?

“I thought—I mean, for a second, I was afraid that . . .”

“That what.”

I chew around for some words. “You're not serious, are you?”

He gives that same snort-laugh thing that he did earlier. “Does it matter? Does
anything
?”

“Look . . . Andrew, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks for remembering.”

I ignore the sarcasm. He's not very good at it.

“Andrew, listen, if you're even remotely the tiniest bit serious about . . . what you're talking about doing, and I sort of doubt you are, you have to know I am absolutely
the
most—I mean
titanically
wrong person on the planet you could be speaking to right now.”

He sniffs.

“Why's that.”

“Victoria Hershberger?” I say. “You haven't heard that name recently?”

“Should I have?”

Maybe I'm not as famous—or notorious—as I'd feared. Wouldn't that be nice.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Sixteen. You?”

“Same,” I say. “Where are you?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“But I mean, your area code is local. Local to me, I mean.”

“I wanted the number to be nearby, I guess.”

His voice has flatlined again. The tone makes whatever had drained from my stomach fill right back up again. Acid.

“Why'd you call
this
number?” I say. “Seriously.”

“Seriously?” Andrew says. “Seriously, I just figured I should give myself one last shot. Just in case.”

“One last shot at what?”

“At . . . God, I don't know. Caring.”

“And you want to . . . I mean, you're serious about—doing it?”

“Killing myself? Yeah. Pretty sure. I've pretty much had it. Everything I had . . . everything I
was
. It's just gone.”

Andrew's flatline monotone is calm. Maybe too calm. I wonder if it's the same voice Kevin Cooper used to tell his mom good night three months ago. Three months ago
tomorrow
, to be exact.

Or, today, I guess, since it's past midnight.
Ante meridiem?
So it's already the eleventh. When did that happen?

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm still here. What have you ‘had it' about?”

“Well, I mean . . . I'm alone.”

“Why? Where are you?”

“I didn't mean that kind of alone. But I guess I'm that kind too.”

“Where are you, like, physically located right now?”

“I really don't want to tell you that.”

Aha
,
I think. Of course you don't, because you don't want me to know where you live and what your real name is!

Except I already told him I was looking up the number on Google, and he didn't react. He couldn't know I don't have a computer right now.

“Why don't you want to tell me where you are?” I say.

“Because I don't want you sending the cops or someone up here to stop me.”

Up here?
I think. Where on earth . . .

“Oh,” I say, and my voice sounds a bit weak. My certainty of him being a prank dips even further.

I swallow dry air. “So, um . . . how?” I ask.

“How, what?”

“How were you planning on . . . doing it?”

Something on his end of the line roars softly. A heartbeat later, I place it: a car engine revving.

“I'm going to let my foot off the brake, slam on the gas, and just fly down this hill and over a cliff,” Andrew says. “I don't know if the car will explode or not; I think that's just a Hollywood thing. But I'm pretty high up here, and the drop is pretty far. I think it'll do the trick. The guardrails are for shit. I mean, really, someone could get killed.”

He gives that same snort-laugh thing, only this time it's a little heavier on the laugh side.

“Cliff?” I say, and my voice squeaks like our cabinet door.

We're surrounded by mountains, it could be anywhere. Not like the Rockies or anything, but mountains all the same. A twenty-minute drive east of here would put me up two thousand feet or more, at the lake.

If this is a prank call—and it may yet be—it's getting awfully vivid.

“Andrew, if you're screwing around with me . . .”

“
I
,” Andrew says emphatically, “have
no
reason. To screw with
you
. Believe that. Vicky, right?”

“Victoria. Tori.”

“Believe that, Tori.” The engine revs again.

Still suspicious, but also scared of Andrew being legit, I
say, “So what do you expect me to do, here? You won't tell me where you are; I can't send anyone to help you—”

“There isn't anyone, don't you get that?” Andrew says. “That's my whole point. There isn't anyone. Anywhere. Ever. The one person I had is gone and there is no one left.”

“Except you dialed a random phone number and got me, so there goes that theory,” I say with my own brand of sarcasm. I'm probably not much better at it. Jack's always been the comedian in the family.

When Andrew doesn't respond, I bite my lip. God, if he is serious, then making a joke is the last thing I should do right now.

Didn't I learn that much, at least?

At that moment I hear a semitruck's horn blast past on his end of the line, Doppler-effecting as it races past.

I suddenly get a flawless, imaginary photo of Andrew in my head: his car, some beat-up old hand-me-down, blue, pulled off to the side of the road, no hazards on, no headlights; this late-night trucker comes tooling down the mountain, turns a corner, sees him there, freaks out, yanks the horn.