Parallel

me.
    Michael answers on the second ring. “Why is Nick Swisher such a d-bag?”
    “Huh?”
    “Abby?”
    “Who’s Nick Swisher?”
    “Such a douche bag!” Ben shouts from the couch.
    “He plays for the Yankees,” Michael explains. “Why are you calling me on Ben’s phone?”
    “I can’t find mine. Did I leave it over there?”
    “I don’t think so, but I’ll look. Where would you have left it?”
    “Your bed,” I reply, forgetting my audience. Ben snickers. Blushing, I step into the hall, letting the door shut behind me.
    “Nope,” Michael says. “Don’t see it. Are you sure you left it here?”
    “I think so . . . I realized I didn’t have it as soon as I got back, and I didn’t go anywhere befo—” Starbucks. I must’ve left it on the counter when I bought my coffee. “Crap.”
    “Uh-oh. Where’d you leave it?”
    “Starbucks. I stopped for coffee.”
    “Call it,” he tells me. “Maybe someone picked it up.”
    I do, but no one answers. As I’m hanging up, I remember that I never listened to the voicemail I got from that 310 number. I quickly dial my mailbox to retrieve it.
    “Please enter your password,” comes the automated voice.
    3-7-7-3.
    “I’m sorry,” the voice says. “You have entered an incorrect password.”
    I enter it again, slower this time, making sure to get it right.
    “I’m sorry. You have entered an incorrect password. Please hang up and try again.”
    I stare at the keypad, puzzled. 3-7-7-3. The last four digits of Caitlin’s home phone number. That’s been my voicemail password since I got my first cell phone in ninth grade. Could whoever has my phone have changed the password? Don’t you need the original password to do that?
    The fight. My parallel self must’ve changed it.
    I try the last four digits of my parents’ phone number and the last four digits of Tyler’s, but neither work. Equally annoyed at myself, my parallel, and the thief who’s commandeered my phone, I punch out Caitlin’s number. As soon as I hit the call button, her name appears on the screen. I stare at it uncomprehendingly. This is Ben’s phone. Why does my roommate’s boyfriend have Caitlin’s number?
    The phone is still in my hands when Caitlin’s voicemail picks up.
    “Hey, it’s Abby,” I say after the beep. “Why does Ben have your number in his phone? I’m calling to see if you need a costume for tonight and if you want to walk over to Inferno with us. Lemme know.” I start to hang up. “Oh—I lost my phone. So call my landline.”
    “Did you find it?” a male voice asks. Ben is standing in our doorway.
    “Nope.” I hand him his phone, then step past him into the common room. “I called Caitlin,” I announce to Marissa, louder than I need to.
    “Is she coming with us?” Ben asks casually.
    “I got voicemail.” I want to ask him why the hell he has Caitlin’s number saved in his phone, but not while Marissa is in earshot.
    Our landline rings, and Marissa reaches for it. “Hey, Caitlin!” she says a moment later. She listens, then nods. “Okay. We’ll just meet you there then.” I glance at Ben, but he’s fiddling with his phone. “Yep,” I hear Marissa say, just before she hangs up. “I’ll tell her.”
    “She doesn’t need a costume?”
    “No,” she replies. “And she told me to tell you she’s probably going to skip Inferno. Said she’d catch up with you at the concert.”
    “Did she say why?”
    Marissa shakes her head. “But she sounded stressed. Work maybe?”
    “Yeah. Maybe.” I glance back at Ben, but he’s still busy with his cell. “I guess I’ll walk over to Starbucks to see if they have my phone.”
    On my way there, I run through reasons why Ben would have Caitlin’s number. Marissa gave it to him. Marissa called Caitlin from his phone and he saved it.
    Ben and Caitlin have a thing.
    I push the thought from my mind. Caitlin wouldn’t do that to Marissa. Not after Craig. There’s just no way.
    My phone, of course, is not at Starbucks. Annoyed, frustrated, and suddenly very tired, I treat myself to a caramel latte with extra caramel and take the long way back to my room. Ben passes me as I’m coming up the entryway stairs. “Going to buy vodka,” is all he says. He doesn’t slow down.
    Marissa is standing on her head in the common room. “Ben’s acting weird,” she announces.
    Dread pools in the pit of my stomach. “Weird how?”
    “I dunno. Just weird. Antsy.” She bends her legs, lowering them