Touch

22

It's almost seven thirty when I finally go inside. "Hey, sweetie," my mom calls out. "Dinner's not for another half hour. Soma noodle surprise with tempeh chunks and zucchini-prune juice."

As if that's supposed to tempt me. I head into the kitchen to see if she needs any help, but she and my dad are in the living room, doing partners yoga.

My mom's lying on the floor in front of my dad, whom she's got knotted up in the lotus position.

Her feet are elevated and locked around his neck. "Care to join us?" she asks. "This is wonderful for digestion."

My mom's family album, the one she normally keeps locked up in the cedar chest, is sitting out on the coffee table. It's open to the picture of Mom and Aunt Belle when they were kids, posing by the Christmas tree.

"I'm not really hungry," I say , wondering what's going on, if Aunt Belle is in some kind of trouble again.

My dad, a conservative tax attorney by day and my mom's yoga victim by night, gives me a pleading look. But, unfortunately for him, my downward-facing-dog days ended around the age of twelve, when my mom paid a visit to my class on career day and talked about the benefits of colon cleansing.

"Harry called for you again," she says, her voice rising above the Buddhist monk's chant coming from our stereo. "What do you mean, again?"

"He called yesterday , but maybe I forgot to tell you.""Is it something important?"

"He didn't say." She plunges her heels into my poor dad's shoulders in an effort to arch herself upward . "Someone else called for you today, too."

"Someone else?"

"He wouldn't leave a name."

"He?" She manages a nod in spite of the position she's in. "When I told him you weren't home, he hung up before I could say anything else. How was your date, by the way?"

"Interesting," I say, thinking about Zayn, about how when I asked him why he didn't call me instead of just coming over, he said he wanted to talk face to face.

"Did whoever it was say he'd call back?" But my mother , having finally gotten into her back -bend, is too busy counting kundalini breaths to answer me now.

And so I head up to my room, wondering if I should get Hanna's take on all this. I reach for the phone, but it rings before I can even pick it up. "Hello?"

"Hello, April," says a male voice. "Who's this?"

"Who do you think it is?"

"Zayn?" I ask, my heart pumping hard.

He doesn't answer. "Okay, I'm going to hang up," I say.

"Maybe we should talk first ," the voice whispers. "Not if you don't tell me who you are."

"You're so pretty; you know that?" I click the phone off so I can dial *69, but I don't get a dial tone. Because we're still connected. "You think hanging up on me will make me go away?" he asks.

I hang up again and the phone rings, not two seconds later. I click it on, but I don't say a word. "I know you're there," he says.

"Who is this?"

"You can hang up on me all you want, but you can't get away. I'm everywhere you are, watching you, dreaming about you,"

"Luke?" I ask, hoping it's him and that this is another one of his lame jokes.

"Consider this your warning," he says. His voice is smooth and deep.

"My warning for what?"

"For being a good girl. Will you be a good girl for me?" My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I click the phone back off.

This time it disconnects, and I'm able to dial *69. But the caller's number is blocked. "April," my mother calls. I take a deep breath, trying to get a grip, wondering what he meant about how he's everywhere I am.

I leave the phone off the hook so he can't call back, and then glance toward my bedroom windows.

A breeze blows the curtains into the room. I know for a fact that I didn't leave my windows open this morning. Slowly I move toward them , wondering if maybe my mom was trying to air out the room.

In one quick motion I pull the curtains open completely, steeling myself for whatever happens next. But there's nothing out there, nothing unusual, that is. A cluster of trees, my dad's toolshed, and Mr. Ludinsky's minivan, parked in front of our house.

I let out a breath and look again, noticing that both the windowpane and the screen are hiked up at least six inches. Did my mom or dad do this?

Even though neither ever comes into my bedroom. Did I do this? Is there something I'm not remembering?

I glance around my room, but everything appears just as neat and orderly as I left it. Meanwhile, my mind is spinning, and my hands won't stop shaking.

I move to close the window again. That's when I see a pink package, sitting in the flower box. I grab it, still telling myself this must be some stupid joke. Aside from a pink bow that sits on top, the package is blank, no name, no card, and so I wonder if it's even for me.

"April," my mother calls again. "In a second," I say, tearing the paper off. I recognize the pink and green packaging right away. It's a gift box from the lingerie store.

I close my eyes, still able to hear the caller's voice in my ear, telling me that he's watching me. Was he watching me at the mall the other day?

I lift the cover off the box and unfold the contents from the layers of tissue, the answer becoming quickly apparent. It's the pink pj's that I picked from the rack at the store and then put back. A note sticks out of the pocket.

With trembling fingers, I open it. The words THIS IS OUR LITTLE SECRET are scribbled across the page in bright red marker. I drop the note and cover my mouth, trying my best to hold it all together.

A moment later, I feel something touch my back. I whirl around and let out a gasp. "April?" Dad asks, standing right behind me. "You startled me," I say, closing the box back up. "Didn't you hear your mother? Dinner's ready." He rolls his shoulders back with a crack.

"Were you in my room today?" I ask, glancing toward my window. He shakes his head. "Was Mom?"

"Not that I know of, why?" I shrug, too embarrassed to explain to my dad that someone left me a gift from a lingerie store. "Are you sure everything's all right?" he asks.

I nod, somehow mustering a smile. "So how come the phone's off the hook?" he asks, pushing for information.

"Oh," I say, just noticing it, even though the dial tone blares like a siren between us. "Wes thinks it's funny to prank me."

"But he wasn't the one who called you earlier," he says; it's more of a statement than a question. "No. I mean, I don't know. I don't think so."

"April?" he asks, reaching out to touch my shoulder.

I'm just about to cave completely when he says, "Dinner's on the table. Get the tempeh while it's still chewable."

"I'm not really hungry."

"Well, come anyway. It'll make Mom happy. She's been a little blue lately."

"Why, what's going on?"

"Nothing really, just some stuff with her sister. She's convinced herself something isn't right with her ." He twists his hips, producing more cracks.

"We can talk more after dinner, catch up on stuff. I'll make us some hot chocolate. The real kind, with cream and sugar. No soy products whatsoever."

"Sounds good," I say, hoping I'm doing the right thing by not telling him what happened. Not yet at least.

· · ·
*holds up phone*

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~ Malum