“Hello”
Lorenzo Schellman yanked the wheel to the right, pulling on to the shoulder, wincing a bit as he heard the gravel shooting up against the undercarriage of the Ferrari. I really shouldn’t have made the phone call from the freeway, but if I didn’t call now...
“Bobby Vanderport?” Schellman asked, though his gut told him that it was damn well Bobby Vanderport.
“This is Bob Vanderport.”
“Bob,” Schellman said, correcting himself, “this is Lorenzo Schellman.”
A mirthless laugh came through the speaker.
“Turnip Schellman? Wow. You sure? I would have figured a guy like you would have people making his phone calls for him.”
“Yeah, Bob, it’s Turnip. Got a minute?”
There was a pause. Schellman’s gut told him it wasn’t gonna be a hang-up, but that Bobby Vanderport considered it.
“I probably have more time on my hands than you, Turnip. What’s the nature of the phone call?”
“Checking if you’re aware that Arjun Mehta has put together a GoFundMe for our BHS classmate Rachel Foster.”
Another long pause, and what sounded like a sigh.
“Yeah, Schellman, I’m aware. I can’t help, but thanks for--”
“Hang on Bobby, sorry, Bob. I’m not calling for money.”
Schellman had to spit but didn’t want to roll down the window and let Bobby Vanderport hear the freeway noise. Didn’t want him to feel slighted or unimportant in any way.
“I’m paying child support on four kids, Turnip.”
This time Lorenzo Schellman’s old nickname came out like a slur. It didn’t shock him.
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