Zombified by Adam Gallardo

relieved as I started to pull the phone away from my head.
    â€œThat you, Courtney?” I heard come from the other end and put the phone back.
    â€œHi, Brandon,” I said.
    â€œIt’s good to hear from you.”
    Was it really Brandon? The voice sounded too thick somehow, too slow.
    â€œNothing to say?” he asked.
    â€œBrandon?”
    â€œWho else?” he asked. He laughed, but it sounded all wrong. The Brandon I knew had a laugh that was light and friendly. This laugh was slow, and thick, and somehow mean.
    â€œYou sound different,” I said. Stupid, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
    â€œI’m still me, Courtney,” he said. “Want me to say something only I’d know?”
    I didn’t answer. I grasped for something to say.
    â€œYou compared me to John Travolta when you broke up with me,” he said and chuckled.
    â€œNot really,” I said. “I compared myself to Sandra Dee from Grease .”
    â€œRight,” he said, “but that would make me Danny Zuko in that analogy, right?”
    â€œI guess so,” I said.
    â€œSee,” he said, “I went out and watched the movie after you broke up with me.”
    I winced. He kept saying that—that I’d broken up with him. It was true but mentioning it again and again seemed like bad manners. Like calling attention to someone with a disability or something.
    â€œI liked it,” he went on.
    â€œGood,” I said. “I’m glad you did.”
    â€œLet’s meet up,” he said.
    I nearly gagged. That statement did not flow logically from what we’d just been talking about. We were supposed to talk about the relative merits of Sid Caesar’s performance as Coach Calhoun, the awesomeness of Rizzo’s overall aesthetic, and the way “Beauty School Dropout” almost flushes the whole production down the toilet. We weren’t supposed to jump nearly context-free to suggesting we get together. I sat up in bed. Even though we were talking on the phone, I felt like I needed to be ready to run away.
    â€œI don’t know, Brandon,” I said. “I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”
    â€œI’m not going to force it, Courtney,” he said. “I just think it’d be good to see you.”
    â€œYeah, well, I . . .” I started.
    â€œAnd I think you’d like to see me, too.”
    â€œI just wanted to know if you were doing okay,” I said. “That’s why I was asking folks at school about you. You weren’t at the football rally.”
    He laughed, a genuine Brandon laugh. Somehow it chilled me more than relieved me in that context.
    â€œNo more football,” he said. “It just doesn’t seem worth it.”
    â€œWhat changed?”
    â€œMeet me and I’ll tell you,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. Whenever you’re ready. Listen, I gotta go. An old friend of yours is calling. I’ll say hi for you.”
    â€œWhat?” I asked, feeling lame. “Who?”
    â€œI’ll talk to you later, Courtney. Thanks for calling.”
    The line went dead.
    I sat on the bed looking at the phone wondering about the last thing he said to me. An old friend of mine was calling him? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Crystal? Were they a thing now? And if they were, why was he suggesting that I meet with him? I had no idea what was going on and it was frustrating the shit out of me.
    â€œI refuse to let you control me,” I said to the phone as if it was Brandon I was talking to. “I broke up with you and I refuse to let you manipulate me into changing my mind. Also, I am talking to my cell phone.” I needed to go to bed.
    This time I got up and changed into my nightclothes. Then I went to the bathroom, did my business, and brushed my teeth.
    I climbed into bed and made sure to turn my phone off so any new, incoming messages