I Won't Call This Hell

I sat on my bed, my legs crossed underneath of me. My phone was in one hand, and I kept continuous watch on it as I though. Every so often, I would raise my head and stare around my room, taking in the few boxes I had yet to unpack, before looking back down at the plastic in my hand.

I knew Jeremy was right, I should call John and at least apologize for hanging up on him. I owed him an explanation. I never thought it would be so hard to click a few buttons, lift my phone the few inches to press it to my ear, and wait.

I picked at my comforter with my right hand, pulling the fabric up a bit before smoothing it back down, all the while listening to the call waiting ring.

"Hey," My breath stopped for a second, and I quickly ran over why I was apologizing in my mind. "This is John. Leave a message or something. I'll call you back."

That's when I hung up. Again.

I cussed under my breath, dropping my phone beside me and letting my body fall face first onto my mattress. That didn't work out as well as I had planned. Turning so I was on my side, I grabbed my bag from the foot of my bed, before pulling out my stupid sketchbook (I haven't been able to draw anything for days now) and a regular #2 pencil. Laying the sketchpad beside my head with my chin resting on my mattress, I started to sketch.

Nothing in particular came to mind, but I continued to draw. I continued to trace mosaic patterns in the middle of the paper, the tiny squares stretching out and curving into swirls. Somehow, as my right hand pushed the pencil against the page, my left hand found my phone again, and I was soon met with that voice.

"Hello?"

"Hey, this is Lynette Bryant. Is this John?"

"Yea. How did you get this number?" John asked, his mouth close to the phone and his words were quick. Oh, he didn't know my name. At least Sophie hadn't revealed that luxury to him.

"I could ask the same, but I already know. You called me the other night, and I hung up on you."

"Oh. Oh. Hey," His voice was relaxed now, and I could hear a laugh edging his words, like he was grinning. "What was that about, anyway?"

"I'm really sorry about that. You called during a really bad time. I was having dinner with my family, and my mom gets really upset when people call while we're eating. So, you sort of screwed me over. I'm pretty much grounded, technically."

"Oh, sorry. Wait - are you like, a teenager? Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. This is why I shouldn't ask for numbers. Most of the fans are young, John. What the fuck were you thinking.." I stopped retracing the pattern I'd been drawing, and listened as he spoke to himself.

"I'm 19 years old."

"Oh, oh thank God. All I need is some type of sexual harassment charge against me.."

"I want you to stop calling me," I said. I hadn't meant to make it sound so harsh, but he was rambling and I needed to say it.

"And I want you to give me a chance," he said.

"I don't even know you," This made me want to scream.

"You don't yet. C'mon, give me a chance. We can hang out, and if you really can't stand me then just tell me and I'll quit."

"I don't know you," I repeated myself.

"John Cornelius O'Callaghan the fifth. Google me, and you'll find something out. How about I pick you up next Saturday, around noon, and we'll go do something fun."

"You'll never find me, Mr. Oh," I smiled.

"Sure I won't, Lynette. Not by myself. Thank God someone invented phone books, right?"

Then it was his turn to hang up on me. I dropped my pencil to my paper, tracing the already dark outlines even darker.