Hearing his bizarrely upbeat tone, she wonders if he's, like, actually developmentally disabled – and whether that makes her blow up better or worse. On the one hand, dude could literally have no idea what he said, what that sounded like, why it felt bad, simply because everyone else's reality is not the same as his, and he should not suffer because of this. On the other, if you think about it – not treating him differently would be a woke move, right? Who knew she'd be a total anti-able-ist.

Wha- That's not what I...!

...Y'know wha', doesn't matter.

She makes a very italianesque handgesture, full of the emotion and and nuance of a first-year drama major, signaling the end. Her palms flat against an unseen surface, she sweeps all previous items on the agenda off the table. The ID doesn't matter. For all she cares, the homework doesn't matter - the fact that he's so fucking nonchalant overwrites every other points.
She wants to ask why he's acting this way, but his tone seems so natural and genuine that she starts to feel like the weird one, even though it feels like meeting a Care Bear in real life. She just insulted him and yelled at him for no reason, and he's - what. Happy she's talking again?

Dude's either seriously messed up in the head or has really weird preferences in how women treat him. Judged by her experience with men, it's probably both.

Why... Are you apologizing to me?

Like yeah, that's what she wanted but you don't expect it. Kinda like when you make a joke about wanting to die like the gen Z you are and there comes somebody, offering you a help line phone number. Like, it ain't that deep, bro. Don't make me face my actual trauma by taking me seriously.

You always let people walk over you like that? Is that a kink you have? 'Cause I don't think you can pay my hourly rate, bro.

He truly sounds senile, greeting her with the exact same (pleasant) surprise as a couple minutes ago,

Louuuu, you're baa-haack!

, and when she reminds him of the existence of caller IDs, he lowers the phone to double-check. When there seems to be some kind of misunderstanding, he's usually the one who misunderstands, and he can barely believe it, but he's almost certain it ain't him this time.

I mean, I think so... But you ain't in my contacts yet if that's watchu mean. Pretty sure I gave you my number on a post-it.

The cheek, the nerve, the gall, the audacity and the gumption. The fact that - as she sees it - he's trying to backpadal as soon as he feels any counter force only makes her blood boil more. Yet another reason why she hates people who say 'arguing is productive, it's fun, it's mentally challenging and opens your mind' – when she says something, that's her viewpoint. She doesn't care what others think, and she won't be the one to come off as the imbecilic white trash she clearly is. It's kinda like the n-word. Might be true, you still don't have a pass to dish it out as you like.

So when another white trash tells her she's doing something wrong, she can't call her out on facts, but her initial reaction is to attack, which is, obviously, the best defense, fancy arguments be damned.

Nah-ah, Mac Miller, you don't get to insult me and then say sikes!

Turns out though, he can. Once he drops Miranda's name like that, her jaw actually hangs open - nobody can be this thick, right? But it seems they can; or he's playing stupid so he can get off easily. So she does the sensible thing and end the END CALL button like it's a Nokia 3310.

She gets about a minute of feeling superior, but as soon as she starts stuffing orange chicken into her mouth, the feeling exponentionally disappears.
First of all, she still has the homework to finish. Secondly, she's gonna have to meet him tomorrow. He's either gonna look at her like a lost puppy kicked to the curb, or he's gonna ignor her, both of which scenarios warrant some kind of meet me in the parking lot response. Which is, she's guessing, against the group work rules. Miranda juuust might put them in a get along t-shirt. So she's better off calling now, right? At least they're not face to face, she can grimace to her heart's content.

Uuuh... Hello?

She expected him to not pick up. She could still feel like, yeah, I've tried everything, ain't my fault without actually trying everything and here he comes, ruining her plans once again.

Y-you do realize what a caller ID is, right?

Caught off guard by the change in her tone, he holds the phone slightly further away from his ear, blinking in surprise. Damn – shawty in dire need of a chill pill for sure.
Actually, no, scratch that. No more chill pills for this lot.

Yo, that ain’t what I’m sayin’, man, ‘s just… Damn, y’know what, forget it...

She doesn't know if there's such a thing as relating too much, but if there was, Rick was falling into the deepst pits of its hell, the same as all the other 'motivators' and 'mediators' and 'mentors' she's ever encountered. She was sure one of the reasons these programs never worked out for her was the sheer amount of disgust her body produced whenever she heared these oh-so-empathetic phrases like, I've been there, I know how you feel, I'm exactly like you, only better because I've worked past my issues – the last one may have been something she read between the lines but that's what it was about, wasn't it? It's like those type of skinny girls who used to be fat and since they ain't that anymore, they just excrete this aura of better-than-youness. Which is fine; she knows she's a shit person.
She simply thought Rick would be fine with that as well.

Are you seriously bitching to me right now? About me havin' fun?!

Who the fuck do you think you are is the perfect summation of her tone. It's almot comical, her sitting in the dark by a single, shitty desk lamp – 'cause she can't reach the ceiling lamp even when she stands on a chair, but it's fine, she can live her life like a trash goblin in the dark –, the day-old takeout getting colder by the minute, and there's this white guy telling her how she should act.
She knows he's right, of course, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel a certain amount of rightousness behind her anger.

What's next, you're gonna tell on me to Miranda? You didn't have a lot of friends in high school, did you?

How's YOUR ADHD MY problem, dude?

She sounds exactly like he used to sound and he doesn’t think there’s a problem with that, not necessarily. It’s not like he enjoys drug court, enjoys dropping everything and hopping in line for roll call whenever his P.O. so much as snaps her fingers.
It’s simply that he’s tired of taking shortcuts that only lead to dead ends. For the first time in his life, he wants to do something properly.
And that’s not the only way – there’s lots’a folk who graduate drug court like clockwork, all the while openly hating every second of it. Rick ain’t that dude, though, Rick ain’t got the discipline. He’s got to enjoy this, he’s got no choice, it’s the only way he’s gonna make it through.

Y’know what, Lou...? I been there. That whole “get it over with” thing.

Was she purposefully trying to trick someone she knew to be mildly gullible into writing her shit? Yes she was. Was she feeling bad about it? Ashamed? Not in the slightest. Things like these fed the idea in her head that she has no place in a program like this. She probably should have taken this seriously, this supposed last chance. Like Rick seemed to have. Dude's really out there, giving actual thought to a piece of paper.

She rolls her eyes when he finally catches on. Like come on. They were almost there. So she just throws the pen she bought specifically for this shit (cause she's not a pen person, you why, why would she EVER need a pen, co-signing on mortgage?) back on the table.

Come onnnn, dude, gimme a break! You really think any of this shit matters? I just want to get this over with.

None of the shit that goes on 's supposed to be this way. But that' s just like obvious, no? Like what do I write. Littering bad, crime bad, misogyny bad?

Blame…, shifting…

He mutters, writing printed letters that are somehow still closely joined together like scribbles on a wall. His teachers used to tell him they couldn’t read his handwriting, he should write normally – he told them if he wrote differently, then he wouldn’t be able to read his own handwriting, and then they sure as hell won’t be able to, neither. Only after writing it down does he actually reflect on the idea,

Yeah, I guess it is. My social worker called it the “blame game”.

And if it weren’t for Lois, he might’ve never stopped playing that game. He wondered if everyone in the group got as lucky with their social worker as he did.

Well, my first one’s m…

Yooo, I can’t tell you thaa-haaat! Good one, Lou, almost had me there. Never thought someone would try and copy their homework off me.

Yippy...

The fact that she wasn't happy for him came as a surprise to no-one, or it should have. Being genuinely happy for others, especially people she didn't know, has never been her forte, not even before the whole shit she called life went down. The only reason she tried not to sound too mean was because some shit must have rubbed off on her during these sessions, about understanding and respecting others - she also needed answers still.

Okay Katy.

This was being nice. She listened on to his babbling like it was the humm of her broken fridge. What the Hell was he on? Glue?

Pretty sure it's collectivism. Or just blame shifting.

What are your other realities though, for real? I can't think of one. I know shit's bad, that's not why I didn't manage to quit earlier.

Siii-hiiick. I already got three, then.

And it sounds like he's already jotted "CRYING" down, and then Lou comes right out and says EXACTLY what he was thinking!

Aaaay, facts, man! That's deadass just what I thought.

How come I ain't think of climate change, though, I mean, classic... I'mma add that as number nine.

And when I buy, like, a plastic bag, I always feel like crap and then I'm like, y'know, "It's not me, it's Wall Street," it's "Big Oil"... I'mma add that to behaviors.

Shit... How you put that in less words, though?

How do you have more than five?

Nerd. And here she was, thinking this is a well-renowned establishment where they only let in the truly awful and vile. Meanwhile, Mr. Prepschool's over here overdoing homework. No wonder he doesn't want to go to prison, he'd be everybody's bitch in no time and he'd even say thank you.

...Guess it does if that's how you roll.

Right there she almost came in with 'why, you cry when you suffer bro, that's so lame bro' attitude like it's middle school. She'd spent her fair share of ugly bawling on toilets and she swears she's trying. But you gotta admit - this is weird. Here's this rando being all open and honest on the phone. What's his deal?

I don't fucking know what they mean by 'realities', anyway. Like, do they expect us to say... Dunno, climate change? Or that Barney's not real?

Uh... Lemme see.

A piece of paper rustles in the background – looks like he just began writing that shit up, too. Sheets of paper filled with blanks have always given him some kind of test anxiety. Even if there are examples given, he tends to second-guess himself, wondering what the author really could have meant, like, what level of reality are we talking here? "There's no cocoa puffs left in the pantry" realities or "My addiction has ruined the lives of those around me" realities? Tough question.

I mean, I got down a lot'a realities and ways to suffer if you need any. Like, I got more than five.

For behaviors, I kinda got writer's block over here. Giving uuuup, shooting uuuup... Used to, I mean... And that's kinda it, bro. I'on'now, crying? Does that count?

The first time she hears his cheery voice bounce off the walls, coming through all crackling (courtesy of the shitfuck speaker), she regrets every life decision that lead to this moment. Who the phuck does he think he is, being all chill and happy when they're way past high school, still writing homework on weekday nights? She contemplates ending the call right then and there. But the minute has already started, might as well make it worth it.

Yeah, well, don't get your tinsel in a tangle waiting.

I'm callin' 'cause... I just got home, remembered Miranda asked for this bullshit reality acceptance paper for tomorrow's sesh. And I' m like... D'you think you need to write five answers for all of them? Cause like... Shit ain't that deep with me, fam. I don't have five ways I experience shit.

Hello?

Louuuuu, wassuh-huh-huuup!

Damn. I didn’t think anyone would, like, call me for real.

Gotta get real hands-on when you’re trynna make friends at 25 – gotta hand out your contact info to everyone in the group with a “Hit me up anytime, bruh”, not even realizing just how dealer-y that comes across.
Instead of taking the post-it, D’Angelo just leaned on his knees and sized him up from below, decades-old ink fading near his squint, “…Yeah, miss me with that fiend shit, homeboy…”, and Rick missed him so fast he left a cloud of cartoon dust in his wake.

And I agree, fuck that shit. Whatever it is.

... fuck that shit.

It almost sounds like the end of a sentence but it isn't, just a muttered proclamation. Something sharp rustles on her side and then a soft 'clank' as she puts the phone down to the desk.

Heyy, Rick, right? It's Lou. From the cool kid table.