Eleventh-Hour Greeting Card

It's Saturday, June 12, 1993, and I'm the pink princess phone in Melody's bedroom. Since it's nearly 9:00 a.m., I will ring at any moment when her friend Sheila customarily calls. Here I go.

"Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding." Melody never answers on the first round, even if she's close by. 

"Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding."

"Hello?" asks Melody, as she lies on her bed's comforter with pillows propped up behind her back.

"Hi, Mel," says Sheila. 

"Hi. How was work last night?"

"Not bad. I got a big tip near the end of my shift, but I had to fend the dude off as I was leaving."

"Yay for the tip anyhow."

"How was your last day at PCC?"

"Well, I received a gift. A small one—a greeting card, but it's special," says Melody.

"From who?"

"This guy in French class I sat next to all term. Peter."

"Why is the greeting card special? Did he ask you out on a date?"

"He drew it himself." Melody gets up and stares out the window, straining my pink coiled cord. 

"What?! Give me the 411." Cute. She used my information telephone number to get the details. 

"Well, he handed it to me when class ended. His face blushed because he's a shy guy. Anyway, I opened it and couldn't believe my eyes." Melody lifts the card wedged between her lamp and clock radio on her nightstand.

"Go on."

"Hello?" That's the mother talking on my rival phone extension in the kitchen.

"Mom, I'm on the phone."

"I need to make a call, so can you make it quick?"

"I'll let you know, OK? said Melody.

Click.

"You there, Sheila?"

"Yep, go on."

Staring at the greeting card, Melody says, "He drew a beautiful park with colored pencils. Peter's studying to be a landscape architect, so he's great at drawing plants and such."

We hear a scratch at the door. Melody lifts my phone base to extend her reach and cracks open the door. Toby, her white, fluffy dog, bounces into the room and jumps on the bed. 

As she pets Toby's head, Melody continues, "The park has a bench, which Peter drew me sitting on!"

"He drew you, like from memory?"

"Yep. But there's more. Toby is sitting next to me on the bench."

"Oh my god."

"Right?"

"How did he know about Toby?"

"I must have said something about him during a group conversation in French class. And he remembered." 

"Mel, he likes you."

"Wait, there's more." 

We hear a knock on the door, and the mom cracks it open. "Melody, you need to wrap it up. I have a phone call to make."

"Five more minutes, Mom, please."

The mom closes the door.

"What else, Mel? I'm dying to know."

"So, I read the inside of the card, right? Let me read it to you." Melody opens the card she had dropped on the granny square blanket folded on the edge of her bed. “It says, 'Merci d'être mon ami. Ne soyez pas un étranger.'" Melody cradles the handset between her neck and shoulder so she can hold the card and brings her hand to her heart.

"Translate, please, fancy French girl."

"Thanks for being my friend. Don't be a stranger. Then he signed his name. No salutation."

"Ahhhh. That's so sweet. He kinda waited till the last minute, though, didn't he? What happened next?"

"It overwhelmed me, and I got flustered. The only way we could still be in touch would be if I gave him my phone number, so I ripped a page out of my notebook, jotted my number, and handed it to him."

"Gosh, Mel, so do you like him? What's he like?"

"Well, he's quiet. Tall. Kinda cute. Obviously sweet. He's nice!"

"Obviously. What's next?"

"I wait to be called. Maybe today's the day."

"So soon?"

"Yeah, he mentioned in our class group discussions he'll be backpacking in Paris this summer. I think he leaves this month."

"Adventuresome. So you don't want to meet at the mall today because you have to sit by the phone?"

"Raincheck?"

"Mel. You're breaking our pact. Friends before guys. Your mom or the machine could take a message.

"Maybe..."

"You do realize that if you go on a date and like each other, you'll be pining for him all summer?"

"I hadn't thought of that…" Melody stretches out on the bed, looking at the ceiling. Toby rearranges himself to snuggle up close by.

In the hallway, we hear Mother shout, "Mel-AH-Dee."

"Oh, sorry, gotta go. Talk tomorrow?"

"OK. I'm going shopping without you. And you'll have to make this up to me. Good luck with Petey. Bye!"

Click.

Melody gets off her bed, and Toby's head pops up, following her as she opens the bedroom door. She yells down the hallway, "Mom, I'm off the phone."

"I really have to get my own phone line, Toby." He puts his head back down.

Melody slides open her closet doors and runs her fingers along her wardrobe. She feels foolish for not shopping with her friend because she has nothing to wear for her upcoming job interviews. Despite what she told Sheila, Peter probably won't call. 

Melody flashes back to a moment in class when Peter shared a joke in French. It had a double entendre, and Melody laughed and thought how clever he was. No one else got it, but he patiently explained the punchline to a classmate, and Melody thought him kind.

Back in the present, Melody grabs her spiral notebook and favorite pink pen from her small desk, loaded with binders and books. She ponders whether she has too much childish pink in her life and glances at her phone.

I gasp! Not me, Melody. Don't replace me.

As she plops herself back on her bed, Toby wags his tail. Melody lies on her left side so she can look out the window through the rhododendrons and the lawn beyond. She notes the time on her clock radio indicates 9:20 a.m. At 9:30 a.m., she'll ensure Mom is off the phone to keep the line free, just in case.

Melody's to-do list takes shape. 1. Ask Mom for clothing money. 2. Come up with three potential places to work this summer. 3. Pick up job applications. 4. Take Toby for a walk. 5. Look up the university advisor's phone number to call next week. In between each item, she taps her pen like a jackhammer on her pad.

Melody sees it's been twelve minutes, so she pops her head out the door. "Mom, are you off the phone?" Her mom's voice is talking, so Melody plays her trump card.

"Mom, I'm waiting for a boy to call."

Seconds later, we hear, "I'm done."

Melody smiles but knows she'll regret that revelation.

The day proceeds slowly, and by 9:30 p.m., Peter hasn't called. Melody gives up for the day.

The next morning, around 10:00 a.m., I feel a tingling sensation as my wires sense an incoming call. "Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding."

"I got it!" Melody yells.

"Hello?"

She didn't wait for my second round of rings.

"Melody?" a male voice says.

"Bonjour!"