Ghostgirl: Lovesick

by Tonya Hurley

  “I’m still here,” Charlotte whispered to herself, satisfied.

  As the last rose petals dropped through the moist air, Charlotte noticed a weathered plastic bag that had been tucked behind the flowers but hidden from her view until now. She sat up and reached for it, quickly opening the baggie, and was shocked to see her name scribbled on the envelope inside, in the same troubled handwriting she’d seen on Damen’s wall. Charlotte could feel the sheet of folded paper inside the envelope.

  She removed it and started unfolding the letter slowly and a bit tentatively. As the piece of paper grew larger and larger in width and length in her grasp, Charlotte expected to see a torrent of words and emotions spill from the damp page. But each upturn of the tightly creased flaps only revealed more blank space, leaving Charlotte even more anxious and confused. That is until the sheet was completely opened and three small, faintly written words in the very bottom corner of the page were detected.

  Who am I? was all it said.

  It was left with her, Charlotte thought, but it was not for her.

  This kind of soul-wrenching uncertainty was really familiar territory for Charlotte, but not for Scarlet. Scarlet’s confusion about herself, her past, her future, even about Damen. It was all in those three words. Charlotte’s intuition about the photos in Damen’s dorm room had been right on, she thought.

  Without Charlotte, Scarlet literally had no one to share herself with. Maybe that’s why Scarlet was reaching out to the point of leaving a letter dangling from her headstone. Charlotte knew Scarlet would say a therapy session was just like talking to a brick wall anyway, so she might as well confide in a piece of stone with her best friend’s face on it. It was flattering but disconcerting, just the same.

  Charlotte came looking for her place of rest and found anything but. The reasons for her return were becoming clearer, but there was only one problem: if Scarlet was in such distress, why wasn’t she assigned to help her?

  She kissed her granite self goodbye gently on the cheek and walked out of the cemetery to find Scarlet.

  Charlotte approached Hawthorne Manor, which was as stately and gleaming as ever in her eyes. Before entering the ground-floor café, Charlotte felt a wave of anxiety surge through her. She had forced herself to bury how much she missed Scarlet, as a kind of self-defense mechanism. But now, having shed the peaceful ambience of the Other Side, however temporarily, she was free to feel the anticipation of seeing her kindred spirit, her soul mate. Charlotte needed Scarlet more than ever, and if Scarlet couldn’t see her, sense her, or feel her, it would be devastating.

  Charlotte walked up to the door and paused. She was curious about so many things, including what Scarlet would be wearing. How superficial was that, she admonished herself? Charlotte peeked excitedly through the glass-paned door, and her jaw dropped. Scarlet was in full attack mode, wielding her guitar overhead, ready to strike at Eric. There wasn’t much potential for harm since Eric was already dead. So, the main issue Charlotte was having was seeing them together, her best friend and her boyfriend. And the fact that Scarlet could see Eric only made things worse.

  “Careful with that ax, Scarlet,” Eric chuckled, raising his hands in front of his face and pretending to be afraid. “You could kill someone.”

  “You’re the one who ought to be careful,” Scarlet chided. “I’m pretty good with this thing.”

  “You sure are,” he said, acknowledging both her guitar playing and her swordsmanship. “I thought you told me you played a little.”

  They both smiled. Scarlet was impressed that Eric had kept his cool and brushed the whole thing off, even managing to compliment her guitar playing in the process. But she still had questions, like what was he doing there in the first place.

  “How did you get in?” she asked. “It’s hard enough for me to get that huge door open with a key.”

  “I have my ways,” he said vaguely.

  She was sure that he did.

  Her mind started to flood with jailhouse scenarios about how some veteran criminal might have schooled him in the art of breaking and entering. After all, she really didn’t know Eric. He could be some deranged stalker, not just a killer guitar player but a plain old killer. Horrible news reports started broadcasting live from her brain and everything started to go in super-slow motion, except for her racing heart.

  “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” Eric asked.

  She raised her eyebrows, showing neither worry nor confidence.

  “Relax,” he said, sensing her tension. “I came in through the bathroom window. You said you’d be here, and I didn’t want to wait in the rain.”

  “I said I’d be here when the place was open,” Scarlet said, making a mental note to check the shutters from now on.

  “I wanted to try out the PA system with no one here,” he explained. “That’s the only way to really gauge the true sound of a room.”

  She could totally relate to that, seeing that she lived for playing in that empty space. It was almost as if he could read her thoughts. Anyway, he seemed to have a good answer for everything; so either he was clairvoyant, a genius homicidal maniac with an acoustics fetish, or… he was telling the truth.

  “Well, no point in wasting a good opportunity,” Scarlet said, slinging her guitar back around her shoulder. “Can you teach the song to me?”

  “I guess,” Eric agreed, strumming the intro chords to his song with Scarlet watching his hands closely and following along.

  They thrashed away, trading solos and screaming lyrics, lost in the music and the moment.

  Charlotte couldn’t believe it was Scarlet up there jamming with her boyfriend. She was cool as ever in leggings and a vintage tee dress. Her super-straight do bounced along to every head-banging power chord. Eric head-banging alongside her in his black denim drainpipes and red high-top Chucks. In Charlotte’s eyes, they looked like the perfect couple—a seasoned punk duo making a beautiful noise.

  She genuinely didn’t want to be angry, but it was hard to keep her insecurities from running wild any longer. She was nearly crushed by the sight of them, laughing and having fun. They were so original and unique, but they seemed to belong together like two drumsticks on a snare.

  The last few notes sounded from their amplifiers, and Scarlet looked up at the clock to see that opening time was fast approaching. The expression on their faces confirmed that they’d both had a blast, so much so that there wasn’t even a need to say it.

  “Let’s do this again sometime,” Eric said, half-joking.

  “Great,” Scarlet responded, on a total melodic high. “What about coming back to play during business hours?”

  “With you?” Eric asked, putting her on the spot.

  “Maybe,” she answered coyly.

  Their banter made Charlotte feel sick inside, like she’d just been told she had some fatal, incurable, drug-resistant virus that would eat the flesh off her bones. If she had any color, it would have drained from her face entirely. Then Eric uttered the words that pushed Charlotte over the emotional edge.

  “Cool,” he said. “It’s a date.”

  Chapter

  12

  Burning from the Inside

  Who’s going to make me forget you

  And get you off my mind?

  I could be out breaking other people’s hearts

  If you weren’t still breaking mine.

  —Kirsty MacColl

  None the wiser.

  Wisdom is overrated. The enemy of excess and haste, it purports to be the key to what is true, right, and balanced. Without intemperance or impulsivity, however, it would be completely unnecessary, and in fact, we can only acquire it by behaving badly. So, if you ever expect to be wise, you need to spend your life acting stupid.

  I see you’ve set aside time to humiliate yourself in public,” Petula said to Wendy Anderson as she came traipsing down the hallway in a vintage punk tee.

  At closer inspection, Petula realized that it was a tee that Scarlet ha
d thrown out and that she had given to someone on the street. Her heart sank. The Wendys were about to become wet-gloss whistle-blowers.

  “Like my new or, I mean, my old shirt?” Wendy Anderson said, looking Petula straight in the eye, something she rarely did.

  “The jig is up,” Wendy Thomas said. “Soon everyone will know that you’ve been slumming it.”

  “I’ve been slumming it for years with the both of you and no one seemed to mind that,” Petula snapped.

  The Wendys tried to roll with the blow but couldn’t escape the range of Petula’s verbal shrapnel.

  “If you start spreading lies about me, I’ll just have to start telling the truth about both of you.”

  Petula knew that The Wendys were easily distracted, particularly susceptible to reverse psychology, and that the more she challenged them, the faster they’d back down—and probably turn on each other.

  “What truth?” Wendy Thomas asked.

  “Exactly,” Petula said, knowing that she didn’t have anything on the girls, but figuring that The Wendys would find something to accuse each other of later.

  The Wendys began eyeing each other suspiciously, as expected.

  “You know, I really wish I had a lower IQ so that I could enjoy your company more,” Petula said to both of them, cocking her head back for effect.

  The Wendys took this personally since Petula had always questioned the accuracy of this kind of scoring. In fact, she believed that the only real measure of smarts was real-life results. Thus, she’d trained The Wendys in the art of using their anatomical gifts to attract attention as a means of achieving the highest possible grades. Petula called these assets their “learning curves.”

  “Breaking news,” Wendy Thomas announced. “Standardized testing is a flawed measure of intellectual ability.”

  For a change, Petula realized that Wendy’s factoid carried some weight. She’d done her job well. Too well.

  “Even so,” Wendy Anderson added, “we’re still smart enough to know a future bag lady when we see one.”

  She pulled the abandoned T-shirt down, stretching it out for Petula to see it clearly.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Petula pressed. “Huh?”

  “It’s not all I’ve got,” a voice sounded from behind.

  Petula spun around to see Darcy, smirking and fingering the advance button on her digital camera. Petula just glared as Darcy walked around to join The Wendys, and completed the wedge.

  “What is this?” Petula eyed the trio, hands on jutted hips. “Stunt casting?”

  If it was, even Petula had to admit they’d done a good job. Darcy had many of Petula’s qualities and all the characteristics that she loved in her stooges, except for one: she was not a follower. Petula was fascinated at the move being made against her.

  “You don’t replace us,” Wendy Anderson scoffed, gesturing toward Darcy like a new refrigerator on a daytime game show. “We replace you!”

  “What I did or didn’t do,” Petula answered carefully, “is my affair.”

  “I didn’t say you were cheating,” Wendy Thomas huffed.

  “You aren’t even dating.” Wendy Anderson sought to dis. “Everyone knows that.”

  Petula could only stare in amazement.

  “It’s not just your business,” Darcy intervened, coming to their defense. “They have to answer for it too.”

  Judging from the crowd of kids gathered around them, most of whom were eyeing Petula with a mix of confusion and condescension she’d never experienced before, Darcy wasn’t far off. Petula remained indignant nevertheless, choosing to invoke the tried-and-true “So what?” defense.

  “So sue me, bitches,” Petula scoffed, flipping them off as she departed.

  “Now there’s an idea,” Darcy said to her disheartened new followers.

  Damen wanted to see Scarlet, but it was very late, so he decided to play the romantic, and sneak in and surprise her. He approached the house, with Charlotte, still seething from the little Scarlet-and-Eric jam session she’d spied on earlier, unknowingly in tow. Through the window, he could see her listening to music on her bed and flipping through a book, as usual. The tunes from her stereo speakers were blaring so loudly, she didn’t notice anything else, not even Damen and Charlotte peering in at her through the window.

  Damen stood there for a minute admiring her, and Charlotte could see that it was the look of real, genuine love. She had longed to be gazed at like that, to be adored, and she thought she might be on her way to that undiscovered country with Eric. It was more than a little ironic to her that Scarlet, of all people, might be the roadblock in the way of that journey.

  Damen tapped on the window, but Scarlet couldn’t hear him with the music blasting. He didn’t want to knock any louder and alert her mother or Petula, so he waited, a bit foolishly, for the song to be through. He started tapping at the fade-out and finally managed to get her attention. It was a weird, almost sad scene, Charlotte thought. She was feeling too uncomfortable to stay but too curious to leave.

  “Who’s there?” Scarlet asked, slamming her book shut as she jumped off the bed.

  Damen just smiled, completely oblivious to the fact that he was the second guy of the day to surprise Scarlet, and waited for his warm welcome.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” she said. “Why didn’t you text me to tell me you were coming?”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he said.

  “With a heart attack?”

  Hadn’t he learned that his surprises weren’t really working out? Scarlet thought.

  “I just wanted to see you,” Damen said.

  “Get in here before my mother finds you and rips out a never-seen-before internal organ.”

  Damen climbed through the window and looked at her.

  “Is it Halloween, already?” he joked.

  “What?”

  “Your tee,” he said, referring to the band tee she was wearing.

  “That’s funny, you used to like it,” she snipped.

  Charlotte knew where all this was going, at least she thought so, and more importantly she knew why.

  Scarlet was wearing one of her old band tees, the Plasmatics, but she cut the top and sleeves off, reinventing it as a halter, with one asymmetrical strap holding it up across her chest to her back. Her old self was fighting its way back. And winning.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Damen asked, taken aback by her criticism.

  “You have,” she said.

  “You’re taking this the wrong way,” Damen explained, a bit haplessly. “I only said that because you haven’t worn those tees in a while, so I thought you were getting them back out again for a reason.”

  “Yeah, there’s a reason, actually,” she said, biting her lip from unloading on him completely.

  It was almost as if Scarlet was forcing a reaction from him so she could speak her mind. As if she was looking to replay an argument that she’d already had—and won—in her mind. Charlotte wished that there was something she could do. She felt so… helpless.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know this stalker post was taken,” a voice called from the darkness.

  It was Eric. He came around the back of the tree and revealed himself to Charlotte.

  “I was wondering where you were,” Charlotte said, both asking and scolding him at the same time.

  “So, this is how you spend your nights?”

  “It’s actually not; I spend them with him,” she said, referring to Damen. “It’s obviously how you spend yours, though.”

  “Why are we doing this?” Eric asked. “Are you actually jealous of a living girl?”

  “No,” Charlotte said unconvincingly.

  His acknowledgment actually made things worse, and the fact that he brought up Scarlet was proof, she surmised, that he had something to hide. She knew nothing could ever come of it, but his having feelings toward Scarlet hurt just the same, if not worse.

  “Come on, this is crazy,” Eric said dismissively. �
��I didn’t die for her like you did for him. Don’t forget that.”

  “You make it sound so…,” Charlotte began.

  “True?” he said, finishing her thought.

  Chapter

  13

  The Obsolete Girl

  Lose yourself, lose your audience.

  —Noel Coward

  Superiority complex.

  Bad news is good news. Few things satisfy us as fully as the comedown of someone we dislike, or someone we do like, or even someone we don’t even know. We eat it up like a scandalous tabloid story, a “without makeup” photo, or even mildly juicy local gossip. Nothing sells like failure.

  Petula approached her locker cautiously, more than a little suspicious of the pink envelope jutting from it. It could be a letter bomb, she thought, considering the way things had been going. She reached for it slowly, grasped it quickly, and ran her manicured index finger under the flap, opening it. It didn’t detonate, but Petula was ready to explode as she pulled out the pink and purple card inside. It was an invitation, handwritten in girlish sixth-grade-print style.

  YOU ARE OFFICIALLY SUBPOENAED TO A

  TRIAL PARTY FOR PETULA KENSINGTON

  TODAY

  4:00 P.M.

  HAWTHORNE HIGH GYMNASIUM

  RSVP TO WENDY ANDERSON OR WENDY THOMAS VIA TEXT

  Petula was livid. Who were these three wanna-me’s to convene a popularity inquest? By what authority, Petula wondered, since she was the only one with the power to order such an inquiry. She grabbed her things and stomped off to the gym, ready for battle.

  Hawthorne High was eerily quiet after last period. The buses were empty and the parking lot was filled with parked cars. No stereos blasting, no curse words being tossed about, no nothing. All the activity was centered on the gymnasium, where weeks from now, the prom would go down and memories would be made; but today, history of a very different sort was on the slate.