Listen to Your Heart

  But he wasn’t calling, and it was getting later.

  Second, it was freezing in the studio. Victoria and I sat in our chairs, shivering. The weather was cooler than normal for the end of September, but the school’s air-conditioning was still programed like it was mid-July.

  And third, Alana wasn’t in the production lab anymore. The newest round of job changes switched her and Frank to Thursdays.

  It all seemed like little changes, but it took me back to my first week behind the microphone, my nerves as raw as if I had never done this before. And with these feelings churning in my gut, Sarah, our new email person, spoke into our headphones.

  “We have an email for you to read.”

  Victoria handed me the iPad. “We have an email, listeners. And since Kat’s an excellent reader, she gets the honor.”

  I scrunched my nose at her but opened up the email. “ ‘Dear hosts who probably have no idea what they’re talking about but are my only option right now.’ ” I laughed. “I like this kid.”

  “We at least think we know what we’re talking about,” Victoria said. “But thanks for the confidence.”

  I continued reading the email. “ ‘I have a problem. I am being bullied. Every day, I dread going to school. I am picked on relentlessly. I don’t know what to do. When I stand my ground, it gets worse. When I try to ignore it, nothing changes. I’m out of options obviously, since I’m writing you. Sincerely, Bully Magnet.’ ”

  My laughter stuck in my throat. The dread that had been brewing in my stomach doubled. How had I never considered that people would present us serious problems like this? Problems beyond crushes and teacher drama … and cheese. Problems we were more than unqualified to answer.

  “You’re right,” I said. “We are not experts on this. You should talk to a teacher, or parent.”

  “Bullies feed off of your fear,” Victoria said as though she’d suddenly become a leading expert on the teen psyche. “You need to work on projecting confidence. Try to surround yourself with friends and support. People like the ones you’re describing are cowards. They won’t pick on groups of people. They want you to be alone and vulnerable.”

  I scanned the students on the other side of the glass. Nobody seemed as alarmed as I was. “Can we get some factchecks on what we’re saying, or at least add a professional quote to the mix? I feel weird about going into this one with just our opinions,” I said, knowing this would be edited out.

  Everyone’s eyes went to Ms. Lyon. “You two are doing great,” she said.

  I swallowed another protest, and said into the mic, “But really. You should tell an adult you trust. We don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  The email correspondence was harder than a caller. I wanted to ask questions, to get clarifications. But an email couldn’t talk back or answer any of my concerns. How come nobody else seemed as worried about this as me?

  The rest of the show went on as if that email was just like any other one we’d received.

  Then we were ending the show and the equipment was turned off and Victoria stood.

  “You okay?” she asked me.

  “What?”

  “You were kind of off today,” she said.

  “It was cold in here.”

  “Right? I hope it warms up more for the festival.”

  “Me too.”

  She smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

  She headed for the door.

  “Victoria?” I called.

  “Yeah?” She turned back.

  “Thanks for carrying us on the show.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I like it.”

  I left the room and made my way outside to my car. I was surprised to see Diego leaning against it. I wanted to ask him why he didn’t call in. Why he had to throw me off like that. But I couldn’t very well say that when he still thought he was anonymous. And even if I could, it made no sense that him not calling in would throw me off. It shouldn’t have.

  He looked past me, like he was hoping someone else was with me. Of course he was. He was hoping for Alana.

  “Hey,” he said when I reached him.

  “Alana changed jobs on the podcast,” I said. “She comes on Thursdays now.”

  “She did?” he asked. “What does she do now?”

  “Um …” I didn’t remember. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask her.” So would I, apparently.

  “I’ll ask her Friday.”

  “What’s Friday?”

  He bit his lip. “The cook-off? Right? Aren’t you judging it?”

  “Oh yeah. I mean yes. I am.”

  “Are you okay? You seem down.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did it not go well in there?” He nodded toward the building behind me.

  “Not my best showing.”

  “How so?”

  I didn’t need to tell him this, but maybe it would help to get it off my chest. Maybe he’d ease my mind about the advice we gave. “We got an email today about a kid who’s being bullied.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s heavy.”

  “I know. I had no idea what to say so I repeated the same thing twice. And then Victoria became Super Psychologist, and I’m just worried we gave bad advice.”

  “What did you repeat twice?”

  “That he … or she, I guess, the email didn’t specify … should talk to a trusted adult.”

  “That’s good advice. What did Victoria say?”

  “Something about projecting confidence and being surrounded by friends at all times.”

  “That’s probably good advice, too.”

  “It’s the probably part that worries me. Should I do something else?”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  There was a parking curb to my right and I sat down on it, suddenly feeling really tired. “I don’t know. Is there some way we can find out where the email originated? Find out who sent it? Send the person help? Maybe a teacher can talk to whoever wrote it.”

  Diego lowered himself onto the curb next to me. “Did the email mention they wanted to hurt themselves?”

  “No.”

  “Then you should probably respect their privacy. But maybe you can say something at the beginning of next week’s show if that makes you feel better. Encourage the emailer to call in and ask more questions? Or even just give some more advice.”

  I nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

  He bumped his shoulder into mine. “It’s a call-in advice show, Kate. Whoever wrote that email knows this. They couldn’t have expected too much.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they said in the email.”

  “See.”

  “Just when I think I’m getting the hang of this, I’m reminded that I’m not.”

  “You make the show, Kate.”

  My heart thrummed in my chest and I met his eyes. Why was he always so good at making me feel better? That was his talent. Making people feel better. No wonder Alana liked to be around him. I broke eye contact and for the first time noticed he was holding a magazine rolled up in his hand.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “You didn’t come to tutoring with Liza on Monday.”

  “Oh, right. I was dismissed.”

  He smiled. “Liza is funny.”

  “Yep, she’s always had a big personality.”

  He tapped my leg with the rolled-up magazine. “We got a new magazine at the center I thought you should know about.”

  “Well, I guess I am the magazine inspector.” How embarrassing that he’d noticed.

  He unfurled the magazine and I immediately recognized it as my favorite water sports one, Lake Life. “Do you read this one?” he asked.

  “I do!” I held out my hands for it, and he placed it in them. I studied the cover. “This one isn’t three years old, though.” The date on it was this month.

  “I know. Someone left it. Have you read this month’s yet?”

  “No. We have them at the marina, but I haven’t had a chance.”

&
nbsp; “You can keep that one.”

  “I don’t need to steal it from the counseling center. I can get my own.”

  He laughed. “You’ve seen how many magazines we have there. It’s like we’re starting a magazine museum.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He waited expectantly, almost like he thought I’d open it right there and begin reading. But I’d already embarrassed myself enough with my apparent magazine fascination.

  I stood and brushed off the back of my jeans. “I better get home.”

  Diego casually stood as well. “Happy reading.”

  I smiled. “Yeah. You too.” I took one step back toward my car. “No, I mean, not you too, you’re not reading. I mean, you might be, but I mean … yeah. Bye.” What was wrong with me?

  A smile spread across his face. “Bye, Kate.”

  Friday, after the podcast aired, we started getting the most outraged emails we’d ever seen. Mr. Looking for Love hadn’t called in, and people weren’t happy with us. As if the podcast was staged, and we arranged who did and didn’t call in.

  Alana read the emails to me as we were getting ready for the cook-off at my house. Apparently part of Alana’s new job in postproduction was responding to emails we didn’t have a chance to read on air, and deciding which ones we should read on future episodes.

  “This girl says that she feels you guys strung her along and forced her to listen until the end with your fake promises,” Alana said, looking at her phone as we stood in my kitchen.

  I let out a single laugh. “That’s probably because at the beginning of the show Victoria said I wonder if Looking for Love will call in today. Do you think people will stop listening because of this?” I asked, suddenly worried.

  “No,” Alana said decisively, putting her phone down on the counter. “People are obviously emotionally invested if they are this angry. And besides, people don’t listen just for Diego.”

  “These emails sure are making it seem like it.”

  Alana turned to her grocery bag and pulled out a pineapple. We had gone to the store right after school for Alana’s supplies. Diego was bringing his own.

  “How are you going to respond?” I asked, nodding toward Alana’s phone.

  “How about: Get a life?” Alana offered with a mischievous grin.

  “Not sure Ms. Lyon would approve of that.”

  She walked back over to her phone and checked the screen. “Here’s a good email.”

  “Yeah?” I put the chicken in the fridge.

  “ ‘Dear Kat.’ ” She paused and wiggled her eyebrows. “It doesn’t include Victoria.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “ ‘I love you on the show. What advice would you give to someone who wants to ask you out?’ ”

  “Ugh,” I said.

  Alana glanced up. “Why is that an ugh? I thought it was nice.”

  “He doesn’t know me at all!”

  “What do you mean? He listens to you every week and he’s smitten.”

  “Okay, fine, then I don’t know him at all.”

  “He obviously wants to change that. I think it’s cute.”

  “No. Not cute.” I pulled a box of chicken broth from the grocery bag. “What are you making tonight, anyway?”

  “Hulihuli chicken.”

  “Mmm. I love that stuff.”

  “I know. It will transform Diego’s heart into putty.”

  “Is that a weird way of saying it will give him a heart attack?”

  “No! It’s an amazing way of saying he will finish falling in love with me.”

  “Oh. Got it.” Our bags were unloaded and in an hour Diego would arrive.

  “He’s bringing a friend, by the way,” Alana said. “Someone else to judge, because he thought you’d be biased.”

  “Who’s he bringing?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Should we go change?” I asked. We were still both in our school clothes, and I felt sweaty and grimy.

  “Definitely,” Alana said. She picked up her phone and followed me to my room. “ ‘Dear Kat and Victoria,’ ” she read aloud while she walked. “ ‘We want less homework advice and more love advice.’ ”

  I rolled my eyes. “Because let’s not forget what’s really important right now in our lives.”

  “My unromantic friend,” Alana declared, “love makes the world go ’round. It will always be important.”

  “Well, I don’t dictate who calls in.”

  “I am not the one writing these emails. No need to get mad at me,” Alana said as we walked into my room.

  “But you’re the one reading them!” I pointed out, closing my door. “Why are you still reading them?”

  “You’re right.” Alana put her phone in her pocket and smiled. “Let’s concentrate on the cook-off.”

  An hour later, I answered my door to find Diego and Frank standing on my front porch.

  I was confused. “This is who you brought to judge?” I demanded of Diego.

  “Yes,” Diego said. “I needed someone biased in the complete opposite way. Plus, I’ve been told there’s some sort of truce?” He cringed as he said the last sentence, like he just now realized he’d been given the wrong intel.

  I glanced at Frank, who, for once, had the decency to look penitent. He really did seem to be adamant about this truce thing. I’d give him that.

  “Fine. Come in.” And for the second time ever, Frank Young walked into my house.

  My dad came down the stairs right at that moment. “Hey, there are people in my house!” he said in his joking way.

  “Yes, Dad. This is Diego, a friend from school, and you know Frank.”

  “Frank Young,” Dad said.

  “Yes, sir,” Frank said. “Nice to see you again.”

  “They came over to cook,” I explained, seeing the surprise on my dad’s face.

  “I only came to eat,” Frank said.

  Diego shifted the grocery bag he held in his right hand to his left and shook my dad’s outstretched hand. “I came to cook. I’ve been told you have an amazing kitchen.”

  My dad smiled. “Oh. Thanks. I haven’t gotten that one before. My top three compliments are: I have an amazing golf swing, I have an amazing ability to sand docks, and I have an amazing head of hair.” He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “But thank you. I’ll add kitchen to the list.”

  “It’s really my mom’s kitchen,” I said. Not that she used it much. But she had designed it.

  “And look at that. My daughter snatched it right back off the list.” Dad grinned.

  “Speaking of golf swings, Dad, Diego claims he can hit a golf ball through the goalposts from that hill behind the stadium?”

  “What?” Diego said, indignant. “This again? You still don’t believe me?”

  “Your credibility was called into question recently and reminded me that no, I don’t.”

  My dad held up his hands like this wasn’t his fight. “It would be impressive.”

  “Exactly. Thanks, Dad.”

  “He didn’t agree with you,” Diego said.

  I laughed, then said to my dad, “I think Mom went next door to Aunt Marinn’s.”

  “And that’s my daughter’s subtle way of dismissing me,” Dad said.

  “Was it subtle?” I asked.

  He laughed and I hugged him. Because occasionally he needed a sign that I loved him. He left the house still chuckling.

  “Alana is already in the kitchen,” I told Frank and Diego, leading them there.

  “Has she started?” Diego asked.

  “I think …”

  I didn’t get the chance to finish that sentence because Diego rushed by me, calling out, “Do we not have rules? We get the same amount of time.”

  “What is this, Chopped?” she asked back.

  Frank and I were left standing together. I met his eyes. “I just need to go lock an office door, I’ll join you in the kitchen in a minute.”

  “Hilarious,” he said, but didn’t giv
e a jab back, like he normally did, so I was left feeling like a jerk.

  I took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

  In the kitchen, Alana had taken over half the island and two burners on the stove.

  Diego began practically flinging his ingredients onto the island beside her stuff.

  “No cross-contamination,” she said, playfully swatting at his arm.

  Frank pulled a barstool out and sat down.

  “Does anyone want anything to drink?” I asked. “We have soda or water.”

  “I’ll take a Coke.” Frank was the only one who answered. Both Diego and Alana were too busy with their food.

  I retrieved a can from the fridge and handed it to Frank.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” Were we in some alternate universe where Frank and I could be civil to each other?

  Diego put a pan on the stove and poured oil into it. He unwrapped a fish fillet from some brown paper.

  “Did you catch that?” I asked.

  He looked up at me through his long lashes with a smirk on his face. He had very long lashes and a very cute smirk. “No, I did not.”

  He put the fish in the pan and it sizzled.

  Alana was running around the kitchen like she really was on Chopped and the announcer had just declared there were five minutes left. She pulled open the oven door and slid a pan of chicken onto the middle rack.

  “I usually marinate the chicken overnight,” she said. “So it won’t be as amazing as it normally is, but it’ll come close.”

  “Are you making excuses, Alana?” Diego asked.

  “I won’t need excuses when I win.”

  Diego drizzled some herbs over the fish in the pan and then covered it with the lid. A pot of white rice was also cooking on the stove. I assumed Alana had that going. She wiped her hands on a towel and sat on the stool, apparently having some downtime now that the chicken was in the oven.

  “Have you been reading the emails?” Frank asked me and Alana.

  In that moment, I realized that Frank might know the secret of Diego’s caller identity, too. He obviously had talked to him, knew his voice. And he had listened to that voice in the recording studio. Had he put two and two together?