First Summer

AMOS KNEW, BETTER THAN ANYONE, that his best friend was a chatterbox.

June could talk about anything and everything for as long as she wanted without tiring. And for the most part, Amos didn’t mind. He liked the silvery sound of her voice, the jingle in her giddy laugh. He liked to wait for her calls, for the familiar crackle of the phone, for her excited, “guess what?” from the other line.

Talking to June often felt like a ‘choose-your-own-adventure’ story. Sometimes, her messages were a compilation of short and random thoughts she had throughout the day. Sometimes, she called for emotional support after a failed exam. Other times, she called to tell an unfunny pun before immediately hanging up. He never knew what he was going to get.

On the days Amos couldn’t come to the phone, June left messages. Many, many messages. They weren’t as riveting and entertaining as their actual conversations were, but he still appreciated them. He liked the idea of June seeing something, thinking of him, and dialing his number to ramble about it. Even if her musings were entirely meaningless. Once, Amos joked that he would block her after the hundredth message, that he was sick and tired of listening to her yapping and yammering. And she shouted at him. And he laughed.

But now, as he sat by the quiet phone, all he wanted was to hear her voice. All he wanted was to hear was a “guess what I got on my chemistry test?” or a “I found a song you might like,” or a “do you know how to spell pterodactyl?” But the phone remained still, taunting him with its silence.

Amos sighed and lifted his gaze to the clock on the wall as it ticked and ticked in a sleepy, unending song. He watched the window as the autumn wind shook the shutters. He watched his own fingers as they tapped the cushion of his armchair. It was all too familiar, but he did not feel the warmth he associated with the phone. When the days were too long and his heart hurt more than usual, he found his quiet seat by the landline and filtered through all of June’s old messages. It helped him feel as if she was still here, sitting right next to him, fireflies in her eyes, mischief on her lips as she poked his shoulder in a choppy rhythm.

Amos filtered through the list of messages, reading the different dates and times on the little green screen. He selected a random voicemail, pushing away the aching in his chest—June had sent it about a year ago.

“Amos, Amos. I made a song for you!” her voice immediately sprang from the speaker, bouncing across the walls and drowning out the sound of the clock. “Wanna hear it?” She stopped. “Just kidding. Only people who answer the phone get to hear. Pick up, kid!” The line clicked. He allowed himself to smile slightly, allowed his body to relax against the cushion.

He selected another.

“I’m having an allergic reaction to strawberries,” her voice sounded once more. She sighed loudly, dramatically. “Can you believe this? I’m allergic to strawberries of all things, ugh! Please come over. You have to see how swollen I am.” She paused, suddenly laughing at herself. “It’s kinda funny, actually. Hurry, before my mom gets the EpiPen.” The line clicked once more.

Another.

“My history teacher keeps glaring at me,” she muttered nonchalantly. “But I don’t understand why! I always do the homework! I only sleep in her class, like, once a week.”

By now, Amos knew each and every voicemail by heart. Still, he filtered through them, listened to the ones that comforted him the most, the ones that helped him feel a little less alone. But before he could start from the very beginning, a final message caught his eye. The most recent one. He squinted, reading the glowing text.

He knew every voicemail. He listened to every voicemail multiple times. At least, he thought he did. It seemed, after all these months, Amos had missed one.

He brought the speaker up to his ear, his heart hammering.

And he listened.