Random Read Free Page B

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:
    â€œHello?”
    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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œSo?” 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.
    â€œI, um . . . I don’t. . . .  Who is this?”
    â€œAndrew,” he says. “Who is this ?”
    â€œYou mean you don’t know?” I say.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen why’d you call me?”
    Another sniffle. Maybe Andrew has a cold. That’s what you get for sitting in the rain.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œSeriously?” I say, because I can’t for one second believe this isn’t another crank call.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œOhhh-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.
    â€œWhy’d I call you?” he repeats back to