No Caller ID

This town deserves its picture on the front page of America's Most Miserable Cities.

I kick the box of Nancy Drew Files that I've read twice over. Travel activities wear thin after months and months of hotel rooms. They're all identical, no matter where we go. TVs, a fridge, and beds. At least most of them have places to swim, though Dad refuses to book another private pool after the last one we trashed.

Timothy glances up from the PrizePicks app he's not supposed to have. “What's your problem, Harlow?”

“We should blow something up. Then maybe they'd stop leaving us here.”

“No. Think of something quieter to do.” He doesn't even look up. How on earth can we look so similar and yet be so different?

I snap my fingers. “Let me see your phone.”

“Look at your own phone.”

“It's broken, remember? Let's do prank calls.”

He sighs and relinquishes it to me, like I knew he would. “Look up one of those revenge sites.”

I find the creepiest one I can. “Here we go.” I know exactly what I'm going to say.

“The number you are trying to reach is not available.”

“Arggh!!” There's nothing to do in this boring old town. Hardly anything in the entire state to do, if you have any taste; you'll never catch me dead at a Mardi Gras party. There's a “family fun center” the size the Minnetonka post office, and a so-called lake. From the pictures I've seen, it's not even big enough to jet ski. And then, of course, there is the oilfield, the city's namesake—and, in extension, Mom and Dad's new home.

I trudge over to the TV and turn on Gossip Girl.

Timothy's phone rings halfway through supper. We look at each other out of the corners of our eyes. He announces that it's Jayden; they don't even look up from the oilfield receipts. He hands me the phone, a private number bouncing on the screen, and we tiptoe to the other room. “Here. You can answer.” We sit on the couch.

I clear my throat. “Hello?” I don't know if we're the prankers or the prankees now.

A raspy voice scratches through the speaker—as redneck as everyone else in this godforsaken place. “I like your blue eyes.”

My face goes white. He sounds like a Cajun Joker. Timothy snatches the phone, while the voice goes on. “I like your… what's the word? Spendy Gucci shoes.”

I unconsciously glance down at the red and white sneakers I'm wearing, while Tim's jaw clenches at the mockery. (Yeah. We're totally the ones who talk strangely. I can't tell you how many times I've had to Google the ridiculous slang they use here. It shouldn't even be classified as English.) “Who is this?”

The man hangs up.

Tim tries to call back. “Shoot. It's a private number.”

My eyes are about to pop out of my head. “How did he know—?”

“It's probably just a guess, Harlow. Lots of people have blue eyes.”

The phone rings.

No caller ID.

He swallows and answers stiffly. “Hello.”

“Hey, blue-eyed city boy. Want to meet me at the swimming hole tonight?” Timothy throws the phone across the room in a knee-jerk reaction. It keeps going; it slides under the bed, and the voice goes on. “It'll be fun. Bring your sister.” Maniacal laughter fills the space and weaves its fingers around my throat. I dive under the bed and grab the phone. Dust flies up into my eyes and makes me cough.

“Hang up, right now.”

“I'm trying.” My finger dances over the red button.

He laughs again. That awful voice. “Don't be scared.”

I finally get my fingers to work. Beeping announces the death of the call.

“Block that number.”

“It won't let me.”

“It has to let you.”

“No, look. It won't. It must be because it's a private number.”

The screen fills with an incoming call. My mouth goes dry. “Timothy…”

“Crap. Don't answer.”

“We should tell Mom and Dad.”

“No! Why would we do that?”

“Because this is creepy!”

“It's just some cracked-out hillbilly. He probably does this for a living; I bet we've earned ourselves a spot on some low-budget reality show.”

The phone vibrates.

Timothy declines the call with a firm tap of the button.

“This is super freaky, and I don't like it. We need to tell Mom and Dad!”

“You think they'll care? All they care about is their precious inspecting job.”

“Fine.” I jump involuntarily when the phone lights up again. “Why does he keep calling?” I whisper tensely.

“Dumb hick.”

I twist my shirt in my hands nervously. “What if he can trace your number?”

“You can't do that. It's illegal.” He pauses, and his face stills.

“What?”

“My voicemail has my name on it.”

I chew on my lip. “Can he trace that?”

“No. Unless… unless he finds my social media somehow.”

“Timothy!”

“Shh. It's not going to happen. There's nothing to worry about.”

Going to sleep that night is the hardest thing I've ever done. Am I overreacting to a simple prank? Maybe it was all guesses on his part. Timmy's right. A LOT of people have blue eyes.

How many people in Oil City have Guccis, though?

The tapping of the pine tree against the window gives me a heart attack. It used to just annoy me. Our real house doesn't have dumb trees trying to climb into the room.

Mom's unusually chipper in the morning. It's different. She's been stretched thin ever since we got here— the locals drive her crazy. She says this town is home to both the sweetest people you'll ever meet and the Devil's offspring, and you never know until they open their mouths. She asks why we're so quiet. “It's Saturday! Let's do something! Let's celebrate how well the company is doing!” All sunshine and butterflies for her. Ignorance must be bliss, after all.

She practically pushes the whole family into the car. She packs a picnic lunch and drags us to the two-bit arcade.

Hey, at least she's trying. It's more than I can say for Dad. Half of his day is spent in business calls.

After we waste a couple of hours on the lackluster bumper cars, she drives us out to the city park and parks the car by the boat ramp. It's so hot outside. A gnawing dread works its way from my stomach to my throat as I look out on the rippling water, tea colored and glistening, but I don't say anything.

She steps out of the car and hands me our Balenciaga lunchbox that probably costs the upkeep of this place. Seriously. Weeds and trash are everywhere. “Let's go eat on the dock.”

Timothy and I follow her reluctantly. Dad waves his hand out of the window. “I'll be there in a minute.”

A lone man sits on the dock in a ragged camping chair, fishing. I don't pay much attention to him. I'm a lot more worried about the brown thing in the water; I can't decide if it's a log or something straight out of Jurassic Park. Mom spreads the blanket several feet behind him and takes the lunchbox. “Here is good, sweetie. Sir, I hope we're not bothering you.” She squints into the sunlight with a smile. I slap a mosquito on my arm.

He turns his head, the top half of his face shadowed by the floppy fishing hat.

“Aw, naw, ma'am, y'all are just fine.” He drawls out, returning her smile. He cocks his head. Studying me and Tim.

“Hey, Blue Eyes.”