Read Scary Out There for Free Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Maberry
with every sense trained on her phone, willing it to buzz again.
It did, later that night.
The screen blazed bright in her bedroom, illuminating her desk. She fumbled from the sheets, reaching for it. Keenly aware of how her heart tripped over itself with surprise and anticipation.
YOU AWAKE?
She tucked one leg beneath her and sat. âYes,â she whispered. Because sheâd never have the guts to actually write back. After a while the screen dimmed before going dark. But Cynthia just sat there in her empty room, thinking about how somewhere out there someone else stared at his phone, waiting for a response. For now, they shared this moment.
There was something a little beautiful and tragic in that, she thought.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
The next day Cynthia checked her phone between every class, but there was nothing. The same that night and every other day that week. She guessed whoever was on the other end had realized his mistake and rectified it. She wondered if he now stayed up late texting with some other girl.
A girl nothing like Cynthia. Someone fun. Pretty. Interesting. Graceful.
She went back to tucking her phone in her back pocket again. No reason not to. So when it buzzed again during math that Friday, she jolted, knocking her book to the floor. It landed with a loud thwap that elicited several giggles. Mr. Banks raised his eyebrows in her direction, but she used the distraction of scrambling for her book to pull her phone free and slip it between her thighs, pressing them tight together to muffle any additional texts.
He continued lecturing about the difference between parabolas and hyperbolas but Cynthia no longer paid any attention. Every molecule of her being focused on the plastic case between her knees. Her breath shallower as she tried to figure out which she wanted more: another text or for the phone to remain silent.
At the end of class her thumb slid over the sweat dampened screen.
ARE YOU MAD AT ME?
She almost laughed. Had even begun to shake her headin an answer. Before she remembered that the text wasnât meant for her.
The brief moment of elation crumbled. She turned the phone off and shoved it in her purse.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
The next text came after Saturday night had tipped well into Sunday. She lay in the darkness, waiting. Trying to keep her courage up.
Because tonight she intended to respond.
YOU DIDNâT RESPOND.
She pushed herself up, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her fingers actually trembled as she clutched the phone. There was so much sheâd imagined saying, so much she wanted to know about the person at the other end of the line.
Most important, she wanted to know what he expected. What he wanted. Who he wanted her to be.
But instead of asking any of that, she carefully typed out: Iâm sorry, Iâm not who youâre looking for .
Then she reconsidered, deleted the last bit, and replaced it with: you have the wrong number .
She pressed send with a sigh.
Bubbles appeared on the screen, indicating that the sender was typing. Cynthia bit her lip, waiting, running the likely responses through her mind. So sorry. My bad. Dâoh .
What she didnât expect was: NO I DONâT.
Her eyes widened. Iâm not who youâre looking for .
HOW DO YOU KNOW?
It was a valid question when she thought about it. The answer was remarkably easy: because no one was looking for her. No one even knew her number. But she wasnât about to tell him that.
He didnât have to know she was a loser. She certainly wasnât going to tell him if he hadnât figured it out already.
I donât know who you are , she sent him.
His answer took a while to type, Cynthiaâs heart pounding harder with each flash of the bubble on her screen. Until finally: IF YOU DONâT KNOW WHO I AM THEN YOU CANâT POSSIBLY KNOW WHO IâM LOOKING FOR.
She actually let out a laugh at that, though it was a little more high
It did, later that night.
The screen blazed bright in her bedroom, illuminating her desk. She fumbled from the sheets, reaching for it. Keenly aware of how her heart tripped over itself with surprise and anticipation.
YOU AWAKE?
She tucked one leg beneath her and sat. âYes,â she whispered. Because sheâd never have the guts to actually write back. After a while the screen dimmed before going dark. But Cynthia just sat there in her empty room, thinking about how somewhere out there someone else stared at his phone, waiting for a response. For now, they shared this moment.
There was something a little beautiful and tragic in that, she thought.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
The next day Cynthia checked her phone between every class, but there was nothing. The same that night and every other day that week. She guessed whoever was on the other end had realized his mistake and rectified it. She wondered if he now stayed up late texting with some other girl.
A girl nothing like Cynthia. Someone fun. Pretty. Interesting. Graceful.
She went back to tucking her phone in her back pocket again. No reason not to. So when it buzzed again during math that Friday, she jolted, knocking her book to the floor. It landed with a loud thwap that elicited several giggles. Mr. Banks raised his eyebrows in her direction, but she used the distraction of scrambling for her book to pull her phone free and slip it between her thighs, pressing them tight together to muffle any additional texts.
He continued lecturing about the difference between parabolas and hyperbolas but Cynthia no longer paid any attention. Every molecule of her being focused on the plastic case between her knees. Her breath shallower as she tried to figure out which she wanted more: another text or for the phone to remain silent.
At the end of class her thumb slid over the sweat dampened screen.
ARE YOU MAD AT ME?
She almost laughed. Had even begun to shake her headin an answer. Before she remembered that the text wasnât meant for her.
The brief moment of elation crumbled. She turned the phone off and shoved it in her purse.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
The next text came after Saturday night had tipped well into Sunday. She lay in the darkness, waiting. Trying to keep her courage up.
Because tonight she intended to respond.
YOU DIDNâT RESPOND.
She pushed herself up, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her fingers actually trembled as she clutched the phone. There was so much sheâd imagined saying, so much she wanted to know about the person at the other end of the line.
Most important, she wanted to know what he expected. What he wanted. Who he wanted her to be.
But instead of asking any of that, she carefully typed out: Iâm sorry, Iâm not who youâre looking for .
Then she reconsidered, deleted the last bit, and replaced it with: you have the wrong number .
She pressed send with a sigh.
Bubbles appeared on the screen, indicating that the sender was typing. Cynthia bit her lip, waiting, running the likely responses through her mind. So sorry. My bad. Dâoh .
What she didnât expect was: NO I DONâT.
Her eyes widened. Iâm not who youâre looking for .
HOW DO YOU KNOW?
It was a valid question when she thought about it. The answer was remarkably easy: because no one was looking for her. No one even knew her number. But she wasnât about to tell him that.
He didnât have to know she was a loser. She certainly wasnât going to tell him if he hadnât figured it out already.
I donât know who you are , she sent him.
His answer took a while to type, Cynthiaâs heart pounding harder with each flash of the bubble on her screen. Until finally: IF YOU DONâT KNOW WHO I AM THEN YOU CANâT POSSIBLY KNOW WHO IâM LOOKING FOR.
She actually let out a laugh at that, though it was a little more high
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