“I want to talk about Brian,” she said.
Mr. O’Sullivan’s jaw clenched. It was gone in a moment. He smiled. Maria thought it was forced. “Brian is gone,” he said. “There’s no point in talking about him. How about you and I going out for ice cream after dinner?” he asked.
Maria hesitated. “Can Mom come too?”
“Well . . . sure,” he said, sounding disappointed. “You ask her.” He bent forward as if he meant to kiss Maria. Maria, not really meaning to, shifted slightly. Her father froze.
After dinner they did go for ice cream, all three of them. Maria tried to be happy, chatting brightly about school. After a while she decided it was all empty talk. She fell into silence. No one spoke.
Each afternoon at four o’clock Maria waited by the phone, hoping it would ring. When it didn’t she felt disappointment, then frustration. Disappointment because she wanted desperately to be called. Frustration because she knew she wanted it to be Brian. But — as she kept telling herself — it couldn’t be him, not really.
Still, she was sure of one thing. Whoever was calling really wanted to reach her. After all, he — if it was a he — kept trying. But who was it? Why should he be doing this? Why should he care so much about reaching her?
There were times Maria felt she really must tell her parents about the calls. They were very protective, which pleased her, mostly. But she knew they would not want her to be talking, secretly, to Brian. Or to any other secret friend.
The moment Maria thought the words “secret friend,” her heart beat very fast. Could the caller truly be a secret friend? Oh, how she wished the person would call now! But the phone was still.
Two days later a call came. At exactly four o’clock.
“Hello?” Maria said, hopefully.
No reply.
“You’re still not going to tell me who you are, are you?” Maria said.
No answer.
“I would like to have a secret friend,” Maria announced. “You know, someone to talk to.”
No response.
Maria took a deep breath. “My name is Maria O’Sullivan. I’m twelve years old. I’m five foot four inches and weigh one hundred and three pounds. I’ve got light brown hair. Not really blonde, or anything like that. I play soccer. I like to read. And I’m good in science, but I don’t like history very much. My grades are good, and I’m a nice person. I think.”
Maria waited for a response. There was none.
She gripped the phone tighter and went on. “I live with my parents. My mother’s name is Sarah. My father’s name is Frederick. And I have — ” Abruptly, Maria hung up the phone.
Maria was not sure she knew why she had hung up. Or why she felt like crying. But the next moment she knew: It was an enormous relief to be talking to someone. Even if — she reminded herself with a giggle — she had no idea who it was.
Maria lay back on her bed and stared up at the ceiling at the stars that were not glowing. She remembered when her brother had taught her to wish by the first star she saw at night.
Star bright, star light,
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might,
I wish my wish would come true tonight.
“Can you wish,” Maria wondered to herself, “by a phony star?”
“I told you who I was,” Maria said the next time the four o’clock call came. “But I haven’t told you the most important thing about me. Do you want to know?”
There was no answer.
“I’m going to tell you. Now.” Maria closed her eyes. “You can hang up if you don’t want to hear any of this. Like, I’d really understand. Anyway, it’s this. See, my brother — his name is Brian — ran away a year ago. I’m really not sure why. I guess he and my parents just couldn’t get along. There were all these arguments. Fights, really. My brother has this foul mouth. He used it too. So much tension. It was awful. My father said they didn’t love each other anymore. I don’t think Brian ever said that. But I’m not sure. When my brother went, he left me — and only me — a note. I came home from school and checked the mail — I always do, though I never get letters — and then I went to the kitchen. For a snack.”
Maria stopped talking for a moment. It had become hard to speak.
Recovering, she said, “On the kitchen table I found a note. I still have it. I keep it in a special place. Anyway, what he wrote on that note — I know it by heart — was,
Maria . . .
I am out of here. I have to find myself. Sorry I’m hurting you by going. Love you. Totally. But . . . I can’t love you very well in this house. Bummer. Don’t ya forget me! Your lovin’ bro,
Brian
“That’s all he wrote. When my parents came home I showed the note to them. Mom cried. Dad went for a long walk. Does that make any sense to you?”
There was no answer.
“I mean, Brian could have just moved out. You know, like to another part of the city. I know other families where stuff like that happened. But since he left . . . well, I haven’t heard from him. At all. Not on my birthday. Or on Christmas. Not once. I’m not even sure my parents know where he is. Or if they do they won’t tell me.
“And . . . I miss him so much. I think about him a lot. And worry. You know what I mean?”
There was no answer.
Maria hung up the phone slowly. Though she felt sad, it was good to talk to someone. If it was someone. She stared at the phone. She hoped it was someone.
“The thing about Brian,” Maria was explaining to the caller three days later, “is that he was very nice to me. I mean, he liked doing things his way and all, and he never did well in school. My parents were always bugging him about working harder at it. He said he was stupid and to get off his back. He was his own person, he said, whatever that means. He said he couldn’t ever learn. He used to tell me all the stuff he did, and some of it was, well, like, bad. And my parents said he was a rotten influence on me. But he wasn’t. He was sweet to me. My big brother. So I’m so mad at my parents. I think they pushed him out. Mostly my dad. But I can’t talk to them like I’m talking to you. It’s as if they want to forget all about him. That’s what’s so great about you, you just listen. You just, you know, accept what I say. Like, you must be very special. I mean, you must be someone, aren’t you?”
There was no answer.
Maria hung up and stared up at her stars. Maybe I’m crazy, she thought. But I know there is a person there. I know there is.
“I know I think too much about my brother,” Maria explained into the phone a few days later. “But it’s mostly, like, worry. I mean, maybe he’s sick or in jail, and that’s why he never calls or anything. What if he were dead? I mean, what’s he doing? Does he think about me at all? Does he worry about me the way I do about him?
“Before he left I heard my father say to my mother — they didn’t know I was listening — that he thought Brian was ill or something. I mean, what kind of ill? Mental or, you know, sick in bed?
“It’s so scary to think about all that. I think maybe, if I just knew he was all right or really, truly gone — you know, really never coming back, ever — I could accept that. Then I wouldn’t worry. I’d just accept it. That’s why I’m so glad I can talk to you about him. I’ve tried to talk to people. But you’re the first one who listens. Really listens. But talking makes me feel so much better. I think if I met you — I mean, in person — I would like you too. And I don’t even know you exist!
“But, can I ask you something? Maybe, just once, you could talk. You could say yes or no, and I’d never, ever ask you again, or ask you to answer anything. Just this once. I even made a wish . . . please. I mean, I really want to know, because sometimes I think . . . want . . . wish . . . well . . . Are you Brian?”
There was no answer.
“I’ve been wondering what you’re like,” Maria said when the four o’clock call came a few days later. “I mean, look like. I’m sure of one thing. I mean, I think I am. You’re a teenager.
I mean, no kid — or grownup — would listen to a kid like me babble on. Right? It’s so cool. I know, you won’t answer. But I do think about you. I decided you are medium height. Good looking. And you have a nice smile. But shy. So you keep looking away. Something like that. And I do wonder why you have the time to listen to me. I think — tell me if I’m right — you want to be a photographer. No! You paint pictures. I figure, you don’t know what I look like, but you have this imagination, so, like, you can see me.
“I do wish I could see you. Actually,” Maria said, her heart suddenly pounding, “I’ve made up my mind that . . . that you are . . . my brother. Brian . . . please . . . is this you?”
There was no answer.
“Guess what?” Maria said as soon as she picked up the phone at four o’clock. “Yesterday my parents took me out for dinner — we don’t usually do that school nights — and they said they were going to have a baby and asked how did I feel about it. Not as if it were up to me, but, you know, how did I feel?
“I didn’t know how I felt. ‘You’re too old,’ I said. It just popped out. They laughed. ‘I guess not,’ Mom said. And they did seem happy. And it is cool because I could see they were happy. I suppose it would be fun to have a baby in the house. They said I would be the most important person in the whole world to it, because I would be its big sister. That’s so weird. Would you believe . . . big sister? I was trying to imagine it, but couldn’t. Then they said they already knew it was going to be a boy. That’s even weirder. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’d never run away from it.
“Then later, at night, when I got into bed — and I was looking up at my stars, I felt sort of lonely. I mean, maybe my parents wouldn’t spend as much time with me. They couldn’t, right? The baby and all. And since . . . it’s going to be a boy, will they forget all about Brian? I suppose that’s what will happen. Maybe the baby is to replace you. That made me feel so bad, ’cause I don’t think that’s fair. Do you have any advice for me?”
There was no answer.
Maria stared at the phone. Did she, she wondered, really believe someone was listening? “Please, please, please,” she whispered, “be someone.”
“I really think I should see you. I mean, if you’re real. I really, really, really think I should. I mean, after a while my mother will be home a lot. With the baby. And then if you call the way you do, she’s going to ask me who you are, and what am I supposed to say if she asks? Tell her? Then my father will find out. They tell each other everything. And he might do something. He can be strict. But if I could say who you are, and you know, I said you are this real friend. . . . Would you please, please let me see you?
“You are so important to me. I can talk to you. You’re like a diary. Only, instead of writing my thoughts down, I tell them. But I don’t know anything about who you are. I mean, well . . . I have decided you are Brian. But what if you’re not? Will you let us meet? Once? Just for a short time?”
There was no answer.
“If you say nothing — ’cause I know you don’t like to say anything — if you say nothing — that will mean yes. Okay?”
There was no reply.
“That means yes,” Maria said excitedly. “It does. I think.”
“I have a half day off from school next Thursday. The teachers are doing something. I didn’t tell my parents. So you and I could meet. At twelve-thirty. Would you be willing to? Just once? You said you would.
“We could meet at McDonald’s. There’s one on Montana Boulevard, near Emerson Street. It’s right on the way home from my school. Lots of kids stop there. It’s big, too. Has an upstairs. I could be at a certain table. Or you could. Would you, please, pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top? I’d really love to talk to you. I mean, in person. Like, I really like you. And if I could just see you, once. Just once. And we’d just talk. Really talk. Be so cool. Just a little. I mean, I’ve told you things that I’ve never told anyone.
“Next Thursday, right? Say yes again? Please. Say yes by not saying anything.”
There was no reply.
“That means yes,” Maria whispered.
“Okay, tomorrow, then. I checked it out. There’s this table at that McDonald’s I told you about with builtin benches, you know, like they have — and it’s way off in a corner on the second level. No one ever sits there. Next to the window, where, if you look out of it, you see down into the parking lot.
“But how will I know it’s you? I mean, if some other person happens to be there. It would be so embarrassing.
“I know! You could be wearing something I would recognize. Actually, I’ve been thinking about that. A lot. And if you would wear . . . well, a red T-shirt. With your dragon tattoo showing. And jeans . . . and yellow sneakers. Sort of too bright, I know, but then I’d really know who you were. Would you, please?”
That night Maria could hardly sleep. Instead she stared at the stars.
Star bright, star light,
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might,
I wish my wish would come true tonight.
“I wish it’s going to be you, Brian. I really, really wish it!”
As Maria walked along Montana Boulevard her heart was beating very fast. She kept brushing tears away from her eyes. And giggling. She had never thought the McDonald’s was so far.
She ran the last part, bursting into the main floor and looking around for a person in a red T-shirt. There were people, but not the one she was looking for.
Finding it hard to breathe, she charged up the steps to the second floor. Her whole body trembling, she raced toward the corner table, only to stop short and stare. No one was there.
Maria sat at the table for two hours. No one came. At first she cried. Then she dried her tears and tried to think what had happened, thinking hard about her conversations with the caller. She made herself acknowledge that the caller had never said so much as one word. In the end she could admit to herself that she didn’t know who had called.
Maria walked home slowly. Once inside her house she gathered the mail from inside the door. There was a letter addressed to her.
Maria O’Sullivan, Telephone Patron
She opened it up and read it.
Dear Telephone Patron,
It has been brought to our attention that the Teledine Automated Marketing Company has been inadvertently calling your number randomly at four P.M. This has been a computer error. We sincerely regret any inconvenience this has caused you and wish to assure you that the problem has been corrected. You will not be bothered again.
Sincerely yours,
The Phone Company
At dinner that night Maria suddenly said, “I’ve been thinking about my brother.”
Her mother looked up sharply. Her father’s jaw tightened.
“No, no,” Maria said as lightly as she could. “The new one. The point is, we have to give him a name, right? What about — Toby? I’ve been practicing. Listen. ‘This is my brother. My baby brother. His name is Toby. I’m teaching him to talk.’ I’d say, ‘Hello, Toby.’ And then, you know, he’d say, ‘Hello, Maria.’”
The whole fifth grade was engaged in silent reading. The students were reading their books while Mrs. Wessex, the teacher, sat at her desk in the front of the room, reading hers. Her book was a huge one titled Crime and Punishment. Fifteen minutes into the period, a large spitball landed on the middle of the page Mrs. Wessex was reading. She gasped — audibly.
As the class looked up, the teacher peered down at the page to see what had landed. When she lifted her face it was the color of chalk.
An uneasy murmur fluttered through the room.
Life in the fifth grade was never good when Mrs. Wessex was angry. Lately, her anger seemed to erupt daily. A tall, big-boned woman with large hands, she had graying, curly hair and wrinkles on her face. That day she was wearing a baggy blue dress that was also wrinkled.
“Nasty,” was the way one student described her. No one disagreed.
She contemplated the class like a surgeon deciding where to cut. “Gregory Martinez!” she called. “Come here this instant!”
A hush fell upon the class as Gregory reluctantly slid out of his chair, then slumped to the front of the class, hands deep in his baggy pockets.
Gregory was short for his eleven years, and heavyset. His complexion was dark, his hair black, his eyes intense and at the moment full of worry. Though he had been in the school only a few months, everyone at Kennedy Middle School knew he was a brain. When Mrs. Wessex asked a question, it was always Gregory who had his hand up. More often than not he had the right answer, too.
Though Gregory liked being smart, his intelligence set him off from the other kids. He wanted to be liked, but they thought of him as different. Lately, however, things had begun to change.
During the past two weeks Mrs. Wessex had accused Gregory of various acts of misbehavior. She had gone so far as to punish him four times. Though getting into trouble improved Gregory’s class standing, he kept insisting he was innocent. As far as he was concerned, Mrs. Wessex was picking on him. He wished he knew why.
Halfway to the teacher’s desk, he said, “I didn’t do it.”
Mrs. Wessex stopped him in his tracks with a hard glare. “Didn’t do what?” she demanded.
Instantly aware he had made a tactical mistake by saying anything before he was accused, he replied, “I was just reading.”
“Come over here!” the teacher insisted. She pointed to a spot on the floor near her desk.
Gregory drew closer. Mrs. Wessex’s desk was always neat. Its uncluttered state was taken by her slovenly students as a rebuke.
“Hands out of your pockets!” she snapped.
Gregory ripped his hands out, bringing a shower of small coins that scattered upon the floor. A burst of laughter erupted from thirty-six kids.
Trying desperately to keep from grinning, Gregory bent over to gather up the coins.
“Do that later!” Mrs. Wessex shouted. She had become angrier.
The classroom stilled instantly. Gregory felt his grin evaporate. As he tried to control his growing anxiety he stared at his feet.