mystery caller

"It is ME!" she says, unnecessarily, in a voice not heard for nearly a year. I was prepared for her greeting, given the international digits that crowded the Caller ID, but still I smile in wary recognition.

"How are you?" I ask, meaning, "What do you want?"

And she tells me of wanting to move to America-- San Francisco, maybe, or LA--and how her mother, I'm pretty sure, will pay to get her there, or at least to stay away from here. I scan through the mental list titled What Could This Have to Do With Me? I scratch off "school", erase "money," draw a line through "immigration questions." I could never do anything about any of those queries, but I could kinda see why she'd ask them.

"So. . ." I begin.

"My mom says I can't get an apartment."

"You can't sign a contract if you're not 18," I concur, ignoring any and all buts and maybes.

"My friend is 18."

"Okay," I say, noncommittal, noncommittal, noncommittal. It crosses my mind that an advantage of e-mail is that I can prove, kinda, what I didn't tell her.

"I have to search for an apartment next week," she continues. "I will call you then."

I rewind the conversation, backtrack, think it over. Have I contributed, assented, agreed? I have no idea why she called her personal Google to ask that simple question, or what she thinks is next, but I admit, I am intrigued.