Lucky Caller(15)

“What are you doing?” I asked finally, because it looked like just the kind of work that was begging to be inquired after.

He looked up at me with a gleam in his eye.

“You know Cat Chat?”

“Yeah…” We had all shared our show themes in class by this point. In honor of the Meridian North Bobcats, one of the groups had titled its show Cat Chat: Judgment-Free Advice for the Bobcat in Need. It was that girl Sammy I had French with sophomore year, her boyfriend Colby, and a couple of other girls. They billed it as a “write-in advice show for students and the community at large.” Joydeep had quietly scoffed when they presented their idea.

“Way to set themselves up to fail,” he had said later.

“I don’t know. It could be fun,” I had replied with a shrug. They were the only group in our class not doing a music-based show. The upside of doing an all-talk show was that you only had to do one hour instead of two. The downside was that you had to talk for basically the whole hour—a couple music breaks were allowed, but the majority of the time had to be talk-based.

Joydeep had just made a face in response, a healthy mix of disgust and contempt.

Right now he said, without a moment’s hesitation, “I’m sending them bogus questions.”

“Why?”

“Because of their mission statement to be totally nonjudgmental. That is bullshit. I will get them to judge something. Also, Colby is my bro. We’re on the soccer team together. We do this kind of thing all the time. Here, listen to this.” He cleared his throat and began reading in an official-sounding voice: “Dear Cat Chat colon Judgment-Free Advice for the Bobcat in Need. I can’t stop eating plastic wrap.”

Sasha let out a snort, and Joydeep’s lips quirked.

“There’s more. From the top: Dear Cat Chat, etc. I can’t stop eating plastic wrap. Sometimes I make food just to wrap it in plastic wrap, so then I can eat the plastic wrap with the food sauce and flavors already on there. I just love it. I call it plastic flavor.” He paused, frowning. “Clear flavor?”

“Invisible flavor,” Sasha said, and Joydeep nodded. I shot Sasha a look and she just shrugged and gave a sheepish smile.

“Perfect. Invisible flavor. I find the texture of the plastic wrap to be…” He made a chef’s-kiss motion with his hand. “Intoxicating. Is this weird? What do you think? Would you ever give it a try? Do you think I should be concerned about the long-term effects on my intestines?”

Sasha let out a snort.

“Sincerely, Gladly Glad-Wrapped in Broad Ripple.” He looked up at us. “What do you think? Should I send it as is? Does it need a little more sizzle?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m gonna send it.”

“How do you know they’ll even answer it?” I asked.

“Because they’re desperate for material. No one is sending in questions.”

“Not true,” Sasha said. “I heard part of their first show. They answered questions basically the whole time.”

“Clarification: They answered my questions basically the whole time.”

“You submitted all of those?”

“Sure did.”

“They were normal, though! How to deal with a friend who moved away, what should I tell my little brother about our cat that died. Stuff like that.”

“I had to lull them into a false sense of security. Then, bam! Invisible flavor.” He looked way too pleased with himself. “You might say that I am the invisible component that gives their show flavor.” Then his expression turned to one of disgust. “No question left unanswered. A judgment-free zone. What complete bullshit. I love Colby, but literally no one is more judgmental than him. He once gave Taylor Barnett shit for like two weeks for wearing red pants.”

“What’s wrong with red pants?” Jamie said.

“Nothing. Colby’s just a prick.”

“I thought you said he was your bro.”

“He can’t be both?” Joydeep replied.

I grinned.





9.


ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON I WAS heading downstairs to pick up a package for my mom when the elevator doors opened at the seventh floor, and there was Jamie.

I used to go months at a time without running into him at the Eastman. It was a big building, after all. We didn’t live on the same floor. But I guess when it rains, it pours.

Today he was dressed in black pants and a black dress shirt, an apron slung over one shoulder. His hair still looked as messy as usual, but a little like he had attempted to corral it.

“So what are you … some kind of waiter?” I said with a delivery like it was an actual joke, despite it not being one at all, not even a little bit.

He flashed a quick smile anyway, stepping into the elevator and pressing the “door close” button.

“I work for Pipers. The catering place?”

The Eastman was a historic building, and part of its history was as a wedding venue. There were three ballrooms of varying sizes located off of the lobby—they had formal names, but as kids, we always called them Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear—and a big, glass-roofed atrium, where the ceremonies were usually held.

There was also an in-house wedding planning and catering company called Pipers, which apparently Jamie worked for.