Random Read Free Page A

Sojust . . . you know, turn off your phone, kill the lights, listen to some music or something . . . just give yourself a break.”
    â€œWhy aren’t you answering the question?”
    â€œI don’t—I don’t know what you should plead, Tori,” Noah says. “I know that I don’t hate your guts, that I could never hate your guts, that I’ve always—”
    He stops. I listen.
    â€œJust shut everything off and forget about it,” he says finally. “Okay?”
    Not the response I was hoping for. But then again, I’m not entirely sure what response I was hoping for.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “I’ll call you tomorrow when it’s over.”
    Except it won’t be over , I think. It will have just gotten started.
    â€œWell . . . I dunno, I could stay up or something,” Noah says abruptly. “I’m pretty amped on caffeine right now, I can talk if you want. I’ll be up anyway. I’m gonna do a chat with some guys in Tokyo. Which probably also means I’ll be ditching tomorrow.”
    â€œThanks, but I’m sure,” I say. “I’m going to go to sleep. At least, I hope so.”
    Another pause. He seems to be taking his time answering now. I wonder if I’ve totally scared him or just made him uncomfortable.
    â€œOkay,” Noah says. “Later on. And hey, Tor?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou’ll be okay.”
    Hisssss. A drop of acid burns my eye. At least, that’s what it feels like.
    â€œThanks,” I say as salt water pools at the back of my throat.
    I end the call before he can say anything else, and toss the phone back to my nightstand.
    Thank God for Noah. Despite hearing what the media says about me, he’s still around. I’ll bet everyone at school only watches the news because they want to see if their particular interview was used or not. Will their genuine insights into the tragedy make national news, or just local?
    It’s probably easy to wish for fame when the spotlight’s not on you. Fame sucks.
    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 theteam? 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