Part 3 (1/2)
”You said friends, not guys.” My father's eyes twinkle as he pretends to scold me. It's weird. Why isn't he on the verge of going ballistic?
”It was Triple Cross. The band. Their a.s.sistant called and invited me out to dinner, so I went with Marissa and Brandy and I was talking to Zach Wechsler in his room when I fell asleep.”
”That sounds like a wild night,” says Jen. She doesn't look all that angry either. The two of them smile at me as if this is all some kind of joke.
That is messed up.
”How am I not grounded right now?” I say.
”You didn't lie to us,” says my father. ”If we wanted to know every single last person you were out with, we should have asked. You let us know your phone might die. If we'd wanted you home right at midnight, we knew we could have called Marissa or Brandy.”
”I still did something dumb.”
”Mistakes happen,” says Jen. ”And that's a pretty funny one, if you think about it.”
”Why do you guys believe me?”
”Because you tell us the truth these days.” Jen puts her empty coffee mug down and shrugs. ”It's not like we were lying when we said that if you only would tell us the truth, we'd cut you more slack.”
”And you're eighteen,” my father says. ”So legally, you can be out as late as you want.”
This is totally and completely bizarre. I am not the kind of person adults trust, especially not my own parents. I've done so many stupid things that it's a wonder they haven't locked me in a tower somewhere.
”Kyra,” says Jen, ”are you actually mad at us for not reaming you out?” She starts to laugh.
”It's weird,” I insist.
”It's the new normal, sweetie,” says my father. He spreads some jam on his toast, gives me a peck on the forehead, hugs Jen, and then heads for the back door.
And just like that, my face-off with them is over. n.o.body screamed. n.o.body cried. It's just weird.
LATER THAT afternoon, after a long morning nap, my phone rings with a number I don't recognize. ”h.e.l.lo?” I answer it. I hold it to my ear with one hand and clutch the handle of the refrigerator door with the other. I'm starving, as I didn't eat breakfast or lunch.
”Hey.” It's a male voice.
”Um... hi?”
”How're you?”
”Sorry, but who is this?”
”It's Ben.”
”Yeah, what do you want?” I jibe. Because this is totally how I talk to rocker s.e.x G.o.ds. Apparently.
”h.e.l.lo to you too.”
”Thanks for walking me to my car last night.”
”You're welcome. And now you have my number. If you ever need it.”
”Right,” I say. Surely this is a joke.
”Later.”
”Later.” I hang up. I really need more caffeine. I have no idea what just happened there.
However...something occured to me. I dive for the caller ID box next to our landline. My call from late last night is logged-with Zach's phone number.
The etiquette in this situation is to delete the call record and leave it at that, but instead I copy the number into my phone under the name ”Brad Sego,” my lab partner in ninth grade chemistry. I suggested doing this for Jason, but he always shot me down, no matter how amusing the names were I came up with. He still doesn't trust me because he has a memory, unlike my parents.
I delete the number from the caller ID and slip my phone into my pocket. I know better than to use it. Really, I do.
I should not be taking my phone back out of my pocket and bringing up Zach's number, and I should definitely not open up a text message to him. This is not allowed. I'm breaking the cardinal rules of celebrity. Try to be ”friends” with a famous person and you will get kicked to the curb. They'll block your phone and you'll never get invited to do anything with them ever again. I'm an acquaintance, nothing more. Maybe that's what I want, though. It'd prevent another night like last night.
”It was nice to meet you,” I type.
I hit send.
THREE HOURS later, my phone pings.
Brad Sego: It was nice to meet you too. Hope you got home all right?
A reply? I take a deep breath. He's just being friendly, which is torture.
The right thing to do is to say yes and not text again. Drop it. Let it be over.
Kyra: Yes. I'm really sorry I fell asleep on your bed.
Because I am an idiot and am having word vomit issues-even through a text interface.
I don't get a response.
Until five minutes later.
Brad Sego: I bet you were tired.
Blood rushes in my ears as I read the words Zach Wechsler typed himself just moments ago. That text is the end of a conversation. He didn't ask any questions, so that means our little back and forth is over. Those are the rules.
But...I wonder if his mother never taught him the rules. Maybe he doesn't know that girls aren't supposed to be making chitchat with him via his phone?
Why do I care, though? The whole point is to not prolong this whole ”friendly” exchange. I put my phone down on my nightstand and flop back on my bed. Leave it, I think. It's over.
It feels like my phone has eyes, though, and it's staring at me. ”Don't ignore me,” it says. ”What if he's waiting for a reply?”
He isn't, I think as I roll over and grab my phone. I'm being an idiot.
Kyra: I was, but it was rude of me to just conk out, so I'm sorry about that.
I hit send and say goodbye to any chance I ever had of really getting to know Zach Wechsler.