“You’d be the one to know,” she says.
“I know! That’s what makes it so odd. Last time he was sick, he texted me over a hundred times. My parents were pissed when my phone bill came in that month. Luckily, we’re finally on an unlimited text plan.”
“Maybe it’s a stomach bug, and he doesn’t want to involve you in his grossness,” Becca offers as she shimmies into a pair of spandex shorts.
“If only. Last time he gave me play-by-plays from the point of view of his burning butthole,” I say, quickly changing into my workout clothes as well.
Her face tightens in disgust. “Gross.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Next time someone asks me if you two really aren’t dating, I’m going to tell them this story,” Becca says as we walk into the gym. “No one will think there is anything romantic going on after hearing that.”
Rolling my eyes, I let out a sigh. “I have about a thousand similar stories. Unfortunately, people see a guy and a girl hanging out, and all they can think is: dating. It’s pretty sad, actually.”
Becca raises her hands defensively. “I know there isn’t anything going on between you two…but are yousurethere isn’t something going on? You just have…chemistry or something.”
As I do not, ever, think about that one time my sophomore year I had abitof a crush on him—truly just a tiny one—I say instead, “Yeah, the kind of chemistry you get from spending your entire life with someone—best friend chemistry.”
“Hey!” Becca bumps into me playfully as we grab volleyballs from the basket and start warming up. “I thought I was your best friend.”
“I mean, we’re good friends, but are we share-fiery-anus-stories kind of friends?”
She considers it. “I did catch your vomit that one time you threw up in my mom’s car on the way back from Denver.”
“True. We shall just have to accept that I’m cool enough to need two best friends,” I say, giving her a sassy wink.
She spikes the ball at my face, and I’m laughing so hard, I barely get my hands up in time to volley it back.
***
“Hi, Mrs. Macky,” I say, as I walk into the school office at the start of lunch the next day. “Do you know where Jaxon is?”
“Sorry, Isabel,” the secretary replies, tilting her head so she can see me around the computer. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“But there isn’t anything wrong with him, right?” I ask, my voice pitching higher than I’d like. “It’s just that he hasn’t texted me back in over a day now.”
I’m starting to really worry about him. And he’s supposed to be driving me to my interview tomorrow. Not that I can’t get there without him. I just want his company—he helps me calm down rather than stressing me out.
I know it’s ridiculous, but the only reasons I can think of that he wouldn’t text me back are bad reasons. Really bad reasons.
“You kids and your phones,” she says, shaking her head. “Did you try calling him?”
“Yes.”
Why do all adults act like anyone under the age of twenty-five doesn’t understand how phones work?
“He didn’t answer.”
“Ah,” she replies.
I can tell I’m losing Mrs. Macky here. Clearly, whatever she’s working on is more important than a student who may or may not be missing. Or violently ill. Or dead.
“His phone wasn’t dead, though. It rang and rang and rang before going to voicemail.” I bite the cuticle on my right thumb. “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”
Mrs. Macky lets out a snort. “No. I don’t think he’s dead. Maybe try calling his house phone instead of his cell phone. I’m sure his father will answer. You do have his home phone number, don’t you?”
Jeez. Of course I do. I memorized it before I knew my own. To be fair to five-year-old me, though, why would I need to call my own house? I needed to call my friend.
