Are You Still There by Sarah Lynn Scheerger

it. I murmur something that vaguely resembles a “thank you.” It’s so awkward I can hardly meet his eyes, so I scramble to pack up my books and jam out of there. Halfway to my locker, I prick my finger on a thorn. I spend half the government test sucking on the finger so it won’t bleed all over my paper.
    Chloe has perfected the art of parental manipulation. The girl should win an award. She has a whole strategy.
    Step One—Secure parental sympathy (slink around in room groaning about PMS, I’m so depressed, and no one understands me).
    Step Two—Spring the big question (which may vary based on situation).
    One time her strategy backfired and they made her see a shrink. Today, however, she’s having a sleepover. The living room has been taken hostage by sophomores, with their pillows and blankets, nail polish, cell phones, and magazines strewn all over. I smell burnt popcorn kernels and nail-polish remover. Ice-cold sodas decorate the coffee table, and I have this irresistible urge to slide coasters underneath them so that they don’t leave rings.
    Beth and I are standing in the doorway with our mouths open. We’ve got three tests next week, so we thought we’d get a head start on prepping.
    Chloe waves me in, all enthusiastic. “Hey Gabi! Come kick it with us.”
    I try not to groan. “Uh, no thanks. We’ve got to study.”
    â€œIt’s Friday night—live a little. We’ll give you a makeover!” She says this like it’s a good thing, then rips off a piece of red licorice with her teeth.
    â€œYou’re not touching my hair.” I tell her, sinking down onto a mound of blankets and sleeping bags. “My toes maybe, but not my hair.” Beth sits stiffly on the very edge of the couch.
    â€œDeal,” Chloe agrees. “Does Beth know everybody?”
    I look around. “I think so,” I tell her, but I introduce Beth anyway. They’re all girls Chloe has been friends with since middle school. They’re like a funky mismatch of lost socks, each without a mate, but hanging out together makes them one of a group. That girl Mel sits with a sour face in the corner, painting her toenails black. She seems like even more of an outcast than the others.
    Beth watches half of Scream 4 and then takes off, mumbling about due dates for essays and upcoming quizzes. I hate to see her go, but I’m not in the mental space for studying anyway. I allow my toenails to be painted silver by a girl who is bouncing off the walls.
    â€œGod, you’re such an idiot, Chloe. When Mom sees this room, she’s gonna be hella pissed.”
    â€œYep.” Chloe grins. “That’s pretty much the point.”
    Mel surprises me by joining our conversation. She drops down onto the couch. “Why do you want to piss her off?”
    â€œHave you seen her get worked up? It’s hilarious. True entertainment.”
    â€œYou’re lucky she gets worked up,” Mel says. “One time I went on a silent shower strike. I didn’t shower or talk for a week, but no one noticed. I’d planned to wait until someone said something, but no one ever did.”
    â€œWhat finally happened?” Chloe asks.
    Mel shrugs. “I got so tired of my own stink that I gave up and showered.”
    Chloe and I laugh at this, but not for long because Mel isn’t laughing. Dad walks in just then. I can tell by the way his gait falters and then speeds up that he is as surprised as I was to have our living room taken hostage. He covers it up, though, with a curt, “Hi there, girls,” followed by a brisk walk to the stairs.
    â€œHe even walks like a cop,” Chloe says.
    â€œHow exactly does a cop walk?” I ask.
    â€œThe way he does. Like with his whole body.”
    â€œDoes your dad have a gun?” Mel asks, all curious. Her fingernails are nonexistent. Either she bites them or she files them down really low. It looks