Free Love and Other Four-Letter Words by Carolyn Mackler

Apple. But as soon as I began telling her about our building, she interrupted, making me promise that within the next month one of us would visit the other … some way, somehow.
    After we hung up, I furiously scribbled windowpanes and a doorknob onto my house. I felt a jumble of emotions. I guess I want to see Kitty some way, somehow. I mean, I should, shouldn't I? After all, she's my best friend. So would someone please tell me why I feel lonelier than I did before she called? I pressed the pencil so hard against the paper that the tip snapped off.
    I'd just rejoined Mom at the table when the phone rang for a third time.
    “I'll get it,” I said, standing up. “It's probably just Kitty calling back.”
    “Good … because I've got to take something for these cramps.”
    As Mom headed into the bathroom, I lifted the receiver to my ear.
    “Kitty?”
    Silence.
    I cleared my throat.
    “Hello?” I asked.
    “Sammie?”
    Dad.
    “Sammie …are you there?”
    Oh, shit.
    More silence.
    More throat clearing.
    “Yeah …,” I finally said. My throat was constricting.
    “Mom gave me your number this afternoon.”
    “Hmmm” was all I could say. My air supply was rapidly dwindling.
    “How are you?”
    I considered saying,
Hurt, stranded, asphyxiating and wishing the last few months of my life had never happened,
but instead I said, “Fine.”
    “How's Mom?”
    I considered reminding him that he'd spoken with her a few short hours ago, but instead I said, “Fine.”
    More silence.
    Mom was flushing the toilet.
    “Did you want to speak with her or something?”
    “No.” Dad's voice cracked. “I just wanted to make sure you're—”
    “Fine,” I cut him off.
    “Right … fine.”
    Still more silence.
    The water was running in the bathroom.
    “Well, I'm going to go now,” I said.
    “Okay … fine,” he said.
    “Fine.”
    By the time I hung up, my underarms were soaking through my T-shirt. It must have been a hundred degrees in the apartment.
    “Was it Kitty?” Mom asked as she dried her hands on a paper towel.
    “Huh?”
    “Was it Kitty … calling you back?”
    “No.” I paused. My throat was so tight it felt like I'd swallowed a whole bagel. “Wrong number.”
    Mom gave me a long stare. But then she flopped back in her chair, shuffled the cards and dealt herself a hand of solitaire.

 
    I have a new job. It's called Elevator Duty. Here's the description: I jump on every opportunity to ride our elevator in the hopes that the automated doors will open to reveal Johnny Depp, hunk of the fifteenth floor.
    I know you,
he'll say, luscious lips producing a seductive half smile.
    Not in the biblical sense
, I'll giggle coquettishly, remembering a line I once heard on a late-night talk show.
    Not yet, anyway.
J.D. will wink, tickling me in that special spot above the waist, below the boobs. Kitty always says that as soon as a guy reaches for her T-spot, she knows she's got 'im, putty in her palm.
    But after nearly two weeks of dressing sexy every time Moxie needed to pee, I began to worry. Maybe J.D. doesn't live in the building. Maybe meeting him was a one-time thing. Maybe he took one look at me and called his realtor, begging to move somewhere, anywhere. But then I'd remind myself how he asked if we'd “just moved in.” That means he's familiar with the residents. That means he lives here. And on would go my slinky black tank top, Mom's lacy camisole, a tad of lip gloss, a spritz of vanilla musk, et cetera, et cetera.
    Early Saturday morning, Moxie began circling the apartment, her nails clicking against the hardwood floor.
    “Shush,” I moaned, covering my eyes with one arm.
    The sun was flooding through the windows, which meant that it was a little before eight, a half hour before I usually wake up. Armed with a pocketful of Baggies, I've been walking Moxie in Central Park every morning, where a beagle owner tipped me off to the policy that dogs can be off their leashes before nine A.M.
    I wouldn't