1
Lola
I remember when a phone call used to be fun.
When your bestie would ring you after school and you’d gab for hours while snacking on Chex Mix as you pretended to tackle math problems together.
Or when the cute boy in art class would finally get the guts to dial you up and ask you to the school dance, resulting in epic squeals of happiness.
Those were the days.
Now, the phone is the enemy.
For instance, it often has the nerve to turn on the flash when I’m trying to take a surreptitious shot of a hot guy reading a paperback on the subway, something I do on behalf of all womankind—since I’m not the only red-blooded female who enjoys the hell out of that Instagram feed that posts pictures of sexy men reading in public.
Because men who read are hella hot. Because a sexy man is a sexy man, but a sexy man who reads? That’s like a unicorn.
Or my device often has the gall to remind me of my fitness inadequacies with its occasional notifications, like You’ve only walked two miles today, to which I say, Fuck you, phone, I can berate myself just fine, thank you very much.
The phone has also made it far too easy for my romance-and-intimacy lifestyle coach parents to hit me up with every “you should try this” opportunity under the sun.
Like, say, a couples’ retreat.
A couples’ date-night package.
A couples’ massage.
I’m not part of a freaking couple.
Pass. Double pass. Triple bypass.
That’s why I’ve set my phone to Do Not Disturb during my morning workout.
Plus, I don’t need my phone as a distraction to survive three miles on the elliptical. I have Amy as a partner, and she’s better than any TV show I’d binge while working out, especially since she’s on a tangent about deep, dark secrets right this second.
“You think you know someone, Lo,” she says, huffing next to me. “And then they just break out the unicycle news.”
I give her a what are you talking about eyebrow arch, then peer at the readout—one more minute and I am finito on this sweat-till-it-hurts machine.
With her hands tightly gripped on the bars, she shakes her head, then bites out, “My fiancé knows how to ride a unicycle. A freaking unicycle. And he didn’t tell me until this weekend. We’ve been together for more than nine months and I am only just now learning this?”
I scoff, playing along with her indignation while I slow my pedaling. “Well, clearly that’s intel he should have dropped by the third date.”
“I know, right? How could Linc keep something like that from me? How could he think I wouldn’t want to witness that sight with my own two eyes?”
“And when you learned of this amazing hidden talent, did you demand he show you right then and there?” I ask as I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.
Her ponytail bobs as she nods. “Of course I did.”
“And then what?” I ask as I near the blissful end of the three-hundred-calorie burner. “Wait. Let me guess. You jumped him?”
She glances at me and offers a sly little grin. “Duh.”
“Gee, I wonder how I knew you’d be turned on from learning your man could ride a unicycle.”
She winks. “Could it be because you know me so well?”
I hit the end button and step off the machine, my heart pounding a thank you for working out rhythm. Amy follows, and as we head to the locker room, my phone chirps—a tweeting sound that’s one of a handful allowed through the Do Not Disturb barrier.
Those are for my best friends—Amy and Peyton—and for my clients.
Alas, Tweety signals neither Peyton nor a client.
The bird trills once more, then stops.
I groan.
Because . . . little sisters.
With dread, I go into the locker room and wash my hands, take ten seconds to dry them, and finish right as the phone warbles once more.
Because Luna doesn’t call like a normal person.
She calls like, well, like Luna.
Rings twice, hangs up. Calls again ten seconds later.
I’ve told her countless times this trick is unnecessary, that my phone does this handy little thing where it blasts her name across the screen.
PITA.
Fine, that is the name I use because that’s who she is.
And okay, it does say PITA WHO I LOVE.
Because I need the reminder.
I love this crazy girl madly, even when she plays her childhood phone games.
I slide my thumb across the screen as a half-dressed gray-haired woman in the corner of the locker room stares ice picks at me. She points to the sign near the door, stabbing the air with her finger. No cell phone pictures. Taking a photo in a locker room is against the law.
“I’m not taking a photo. I’m taking a call,” I say to her.
Sheesh. I wasn’t going to snap a shot of her for Instagram, and that’s not simply because I’m not a lawbreaker. She’s neither male nor reading a book. Those are the only stranger shots I take.
I motion to Amy that I’m on the phone, then I march back out into the hallway, speaking to Luna, “Kit Kat Klub. You’ve reached Sally Bowles. Please leave a message, and I will return your call at a not ungodly hour of the morning.”
Giggles float across the line like bubbles blown through the summer breeze. “Lo! You’re so funny. I love Cabaret.”
“Thank you. Please deposit fifty cents if you ever want this person to answer a call again,” I say, because even though I’m wide awake, it isn’t even seven. Calling at this hour should be illegal.
More laughter spills through the phone. “How do you do that? You’re so fun at nine thirty in the morning,” Luna says, her words gliding out like a song. I’m convinced she’s a nightingale reincarnated.
She also lacks the ability to understand little things like, say, time zones.
“Luna, it’s not even nine thirty where you are. You’re seven hours ahead. It’s . . .” I pull the phone from my ear to check the time in Athens, considering whether I can craft a voodoo doll of the phone because I can’t make one of Luna. And I’ve tried, dear God have I ever tried. “It’s one thirty where you are, and it’s six thirty in New York. That’s ungodly. This is a time reserved for vampires, ghosts, goblins, zombies, and New Yorkers who’ve adopted new workout routines and are trying to stick to them.”
She gasps—such a shuddery little thing, my sister. “Lo, don’t talk about zombies and vampires. You know I can’t handle scary things. I didn’t get your horror-loving genes. Or your morning workout drive either. But you’re awake. Yay,” she says, clapping. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
“You thought I’d be asleep, but you called anyway?” Though the question doesn’t really matter. Luna does what Luna wants. I focus on the mission-critical issues. “Are you dying, sick, in jail, in trouble, drugged, or being held captive by an alien billionaire?”
“No, God no,” she says. “Those all sound horrible, even the billionaire. Besides, who needs money when you can have love instead?”
“Who said alien billionaires were incapable of love?”
“I’ve always thought they were.”