by Tonya Hurley
A Who’s Who of Hawthorne glitterati, all of whom seemed to have a vested interest in the success or failure of the current social leadership, filed into the gym. The students packed the bleachers from top to bottom, leaving the very bottom row, which was taped off, open, for what, remained to be seen. They sat there quietly, all anticipating… something.
Slowly but surely, things began to happen. The Wendys and Darcy arrived, pushing dramatically through the gym doors like TV court show litigants, dressed in nearly identical navy two-piece pinstriped power suits with the recently recovered vintage band tees underneath, hard-shell briefcases, spike heels, black retro Lady Clubman eyeglass frames with non-prescription lenses, and their hair twisted up in tight buns.
They took their seats at one empty table, leaving little doubt about whom the sole chair at the empty table across from them was reserved for.
Pam and Prue followed them, instantly taken with the ominous tone of the room.
“I feel like we are about to witness a hit-and-run,” Prue said.
“You would know,” Pam jibed.
They settled in and waited, along with the crowd.
After rifling through, though not really examining, her papers, Wendy Anderson walked over and searched the bleachers for volunteers for the jury. From the awesome response to their invites, The Wendys were confident that they could stack the entire panel in their favor with ambitious Junior Varsity cheerleaders, all of whom could benefit directly from The Wendys’ goodwill and patronage. Sure enough, there was no shortage of volunteers happy to ensure a rush to judgment. With the jury selected and seated, anticipation for the main event built to a fever pitch. And Petula did not disappoint.
As the doors opened slowly, the entire crowd fell silent. Petula took a few steps in and stopped to assess the surreal scene facing her from the other side of the gym. She’d never been so alone, and for many in the audience, had never been seen alone either. Where The Wendys would have been dutifully trailing behind her, she had only her shadow in tow. Even CoCo, still assembling outfits for the next run downtown, hadn’t arrived to provide invisible support. Literally, no one had her back.
Petula approached the empty seat facing the audience and directly opposite Darcy and The Wendys. She refused to give her accusers the satisfaction of looking directly at them and instead stared over them at the peanut gallery waiting patiently in the bleachers. It was the kind of gathering Petula might have assembled in her own honor, filled with the cream of the crop, by Hawthorne’s small-town standards, all perfectly willing to step on or over each other on their way up the populadder. At least The Wendys had learned something from her, she thought.
She walked toward the tables and felt something she’d never felt before. A wave of self-consciousness crashed over her. She could feel the eyes of her classmates on her, picking her apart. A less proud person might have acknowledged the panic beginning to set in, but Petula had no experience with anxiety and instead put her jitters down to a chitosan colon cleanser she’d had before last period.
As Petula took her seat, Darcy stood up and called the proceedings to order, removing one shoe and slamming the spike heel down in front her, like a gavel.
“The case of the Hawthorne High Populazzi vs. Petula Kensington is now in session,” Darcy announced.
Although this was really an impeachment trial, The Wendys preferred to make it a class action suit, assuming there was strength in numbers and that their motives might seem less personal and petty. Petula rolled her eyes in disgust and stared daggers at them for the first time since entering the gymnasium. To her surprise, she was unable to intimidate them. They were all business.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Wendy Anderson advised, confusing an arrest with a trial.
“I know my rights,” Petula responded. “Let’s get on with it.”
“You are hereby charged with actively seeking to ruin The Wendys’ hard-earned reputation by consorting with all manner of lowlifes, dropouts, and losers,” Darcy began. “And of depriving The Wendys of their rightful inheritance as your heirs in the Hawthorne High social scene by replacing them with aforementioned skeeves.”
Petula forced herself to listen carefully to the charges. As far as she could tell, they had no idea what she was really up to downtown, which was fair enough, since she barely did either. Her best move, she surmised pragmatically, was to say little, but to say it defiantly.
Pam and Prue were also listening intently, hoping for some clue to help them better understand what they were supposed to be doing. The more they heard, the more they found their focus shifting to Darcy. The Wendys were shallow and petty, to be sure, but Darcy was malicious. She was enjoying turning the screws on Petula, a girl she barely even knew.
“How do you plead?” Darcy asked.
“Not guilty,” Petula replied arrogantly.
“Objection!” Wendy Anderson interjected, stomping her foot like a spoiled child.
“You are too!” Wendy Thomas shot back, apparently not fully grasping the concept behind the presumption of innocence.
“Prove it,” Petula challenged smugly. “And you’d better have more on me than my sister’s T-shirts.”
Darcy took the cue. She pulled up digital pictures and video clips on her digicam and cell phone and texted them one by one to her buddy list, which just so happened to be everyone in attendance. Petula thought about challenging the admissibility of the surveillance images on constitutional grounds, since taking the pictures was potentially an invasion of her privacy rights, but quickly decided that this situation probably didn’t rise to that level.
“These,” Darcy informed the jury, “were taken downtown the other night.”
As photo after photo loaded into cell phones, jaws dropped and gasps of surprise filled the room. There was proof positive of Petula lavishing attention and designer threads on a gaggle of grateful street dwellers. Oddly, the only person in the room smiling was Petula, whose placid expression, even more than the photographic evidence, revealed the pride and satisfaction she had taken in her handiwork. She couldn’t help herself.
“Every picture tells a story,” Darcy smirked, confident she’d given the jury sufficient reason to believe.
“And every dog has its day,” Petula warned weakly. “Or should I say every bitch?”
“Objection,” Wendy Thomas popped off. “That’s hearsay.”
The irony that The Wendys, who could give a tutorial in gossip, were using “hearsay” as a defense of Darcy was not lost on Petula. It was now plainly obvious to her that this trial was for show. Nothing she was going to say would affect the predetermined outcome. The verdict was inevitable.
Nevertheless, a certain sense of relief at being outed began to fill her as she remained silent.
“The prosecution rests,” Darcy exclaimed.
“Your turn,” Wendy Anderson said grudgingly, pointing at Petula.
Petula did not respond and looked up again at the crowd, almost sympathetically. She could see their minds had been made up as well. It’s not that they were particularly hard-hearted or uncharitable kids, it’s just that people like them occupied a certain role inside and outside of school.
Their obligation to the needy was to host self-financing fund-raisers and put together bake sales, dance marathons, kissing contests, and the like that usually resulted in phantom proceeds. The main purpose of the events was to “raise awareness,” not to actually relieve suffering but to make everyone aware that you cared about the problem—from a distance.
Petula’s big sin was that she’d gotten her hands dirty, figuratively and literally. The kind of aid she was providing was specific and personal. Anybody could throw together a coat drive, she thought. This dealt with the surface issue of protecting against the elements—important work—but also put some ego and color back into their lives.
Petula was a big believer not just in her own superiority, but in her innate exceptionalism. She had an unconditional self-love t
hat she found profoundly lacking in most everyone around her. It had given her tremendous power over others, The Wendys to be specific. Now, she thought, trying to share it, confer it on those most in need of it, would be her undoing. She was beginning to have second thoughts about all of it as she waited for the ax, or rather the heel, to fall.
With Petula twisting in the wind, Scarlet happened to breeze by the gym on her way to the parking lot. She peeked in the door, figuring the Prep committee was always good for a few laughs, but what she saw was definitely not funny. At first, it looked like Petula might be conducting some kind of how-to-dress-for-your-body-type prom seminar, but the vibe was a little too grim for that. Scarlet looked a little closer and spied The Wendys wearing her T-shirts and Darcy standing in full prosecutorial mode. Scarlet had not seen her sister appear so vulnerable since she was in a coma.
“What the hell?” was all she could eke out as she hid behind the door and listened.
After a few moments of silence, it was obvious Petula would not speak on her own behalf.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” Darcy asked Petula.
Darcy turned to the crowd, inviting their participation and seizing the moment to instigate a full-on public repudiation of Petula.
“How about you guys?” she added, cajoling the mob behind her. “Anything to add?”
The sense of betrayal was evident in their mocking voices as all kinds of nastiness rained down on Petula from the cheap seats. Homecoming this was not.
“We made you, and we can break you!” a shout came from the crowd.
“You are a just a bunch of bleach and labels,” a girl vented.
“Thank you,” CoCo said, scoping out the heckler, as she strolled into the chaotic scene.
Pam whistled to get her attention and waved for her to come over.
“What have I missed?” CoCo asked, curious as ever about the misfortunes of others.
By the looks on Prue’s and Pam’s faces, CoCo got her answer.
The three spirits returned their attention to the terrible tribunal.
“Everyone who doesn’t like Petula anymore, raise their hands,” Wendy Anderson ordered, raising her own left arm, palm up, fingers spread widely.
Virtually everyone followed suit as an instant forest of limbs sprang up. There was no need to count. The bleachers looked like a group ad for underarm deodorant.
“Majority rules,” Wendy Thomas noted snidely, stating the obvious. “Case closed.”
“You have been found guilty of abdicating your role as our leader,” Darcy proclaimed.
Petula kept mum. Darcy sat down and turned to one Wendy, then the other, whispering and pointing at Petula as they scrolled through the cell phone pictures. They then turned to the J.V. jury for their decision. After a short deliberation, a note was passed to the popularity prosecutors and the inevitable was announced.
“Petula Kensington, please rise,” Darcy requested.
Petula stood, facing her nemesis, crossed her arms in front of her, and sucked in her cheeks, as the crowd weighed in for good measure.
The Wendys, who had been busily scribbling away on their index cards, jumped up and read Petula’s sentence.
“The name of Petula Kensington will be removed from all prom posters and programs, invitations and floats, and from every school newspaper and yearbook ad,” Wendy pronounced. “In addition, she will be stripped of all authority over the cheerleading and pom-pom squads, disinvited from all parties and pep rallies, and prohibited from speed dialing, instant messaging, texting, socially networking, or communicating with us, by any means.”
“I’m de-listed?” Petula asked skeptically, suddenly feeling like a worthless stock on the popularity exchange.
“D-Listed,” Darcy sniped.
Call it what she liked, the facts were that she was now rendered obsolete. Overthrown by the very kiss-asses she’d once ruled.
“This trial is adjourned,” Darcy announced, once again striking the tabletop with her high-heeled shoe.
Petula remained standing, stock-still, as The Wendys and Darcy grabbed their things and left in formation, followed by the crowd, who filed past, refusing to look at her. The only acknowledgment of her existence, a few disapproving mumbles.
For the first time in her life, Petula Kensington was invisible.
Charlotte sat waiting for Scarlet to arrive home from school. She’d held off as long as she could. Whether it was out of fear that Scarlet might not be able to see her anymore, or had outgrown their friendship, or that she was intimidated by Scarlet’s growing chemistry with Eric was no longer important. She needed to talk to her. Privately. No Damen. No Eric.
She let her feet dangle from Scarlet’s bed for a while, and looked the room over, the contents of Scarlet’s letter playing over and over in her head. It felt very different. There was no new furniture, but most of what was there had been reupholstered and repositioned.
The space seemed bigger and brighter, more open and less cluttered than she remembered. The word Charlotte was looking for, which Scarlet would really hate, was sleeker. The changes were subtle but significant and seemed to Charlotte to be in keeping with the image in the photo she’d seen in Damen’s dorm room.
The best measure of where Scarlet was emotionally, however, always was her wardrobe. Charlotte made a beeline for Scarlet’s closet and rummaged through the gorgeous frocks she had accumulated. Long gone were most of the tees and hoodies she was known for, with just a few managing to make the cut.
This, it occurred to Charlotte, was one of the few things about being a ghost that was so cool. Who wouldn’t want to poke their head, unseen, into someone’s life? It was like eavesdropping, on steroids. There was so much to learn about someone. Without all the emotional filters and facades, you could experience who a person really was, not who they wanted you to think they were. In the case of a friend, however, there are some things it is better not to know. People change, Charlotte thought. What if Scarlet had outgrown her, just like her band tees? Out of sight, out of mind.
Charlotte continued to torment herself for what seemed to be an eternity, when she heard the doorknob, an antique rose crystal job she’d always admired, jiggle. Charlotte wanted to speak, to screech, anything, but she couldn’t make a sound.
Scarlet walked into the room, threw her car keys and bag onto her bed, and walked right past Charlotte, who was propped up, eagerly waiting to be acknowledged. Charlotte was devastated, deflated. How could she make it though all this stuff with Eric, be back on earth—back at Hawthorne, no less—and not have Scarlet to confide in? Her worst fear had officially come true.
Charlotte plopped herself back on Scarlet’s bed. She just wanted to snuggle up and bury herself with pillows; she wanted to hide.
“Hey, don’t get your dead juice on my new coverlet,” Scarlet said while fixing her hair in her art deco vanity.
Charlotte was confused.
“You heard me,” Scarlet said, looking behind her through the mirror.
Scarlet turned around and pounced on the bed next to Charlotte, almost tackling her.
“I thought…,” Charlotte began, trying to wrestle back, but still stunned.
“I know what you thought,” Scarlet said. “It took everything out of me just to walk past you!”
Charlotte needed Scarlet for lots of things, but this reminded her that she needed her for something else—some comic relief.
Scarlet smiled a crooked smile and then fell into a heap on her bed.
“What are you doing here?” Scarlet nearly screamed.
“I got your note,” Charlotte said, smiling sweetly at her friend.
There was so much more Charlotte wanted to tell her, but she decided it was best not to just then.
Scarlet, for her part, was relieved and embarrassed. She never expected Charlotte to get the note, but she was glad she did and gladder still to see her best friend. If anyone understood the ups and downs of the whole “change” thing, and more importantly,
understood Scarlet, it was Charlotte.
Without any further prompting, she started spilling her guts to Charlotte.
“You’re the only one I can talk to,” she said, getting uncharacteristically emotional. “And you’re gone.”
“I’m here now,” Charlotte comforted, sweeping Scarlet’s bangs from her lashes. “Talk to me.”
Scarlet hesitated. Letting everything out would make it much more real. But if ever there was a person to trust, it was Charlotte. Scarlet kept it simple, knowing Charlotte would understand.
“I’m losing myself,” she said, wiping the tears from her hazel eyes.
The pain of the admission was almost as hard for Charlotte to hear as it was for Scarlet to speak, but she’d gathered as much from Scarlet’s letter. If there was one thing that was never in doubt when it came to Scarlet, it was her sense of self.
“Look at me,” she went on, offering herself for inspection.
Charlotte could tell how fragile Scarlet was, so she proceeded with caution. No need to mention the pictures in Damen’s room that had tipped her off to all of this.
“Well, it just looks like you’ve grown up a bit, but I can see the old you,” she explained.
“Can you?” Scarlet sniffed. “Where?”
“In here,” Charlotte said, pointing to her heart. “You’re always the same.”
They embraced, reminded of the bond they shared. Scarlet was touched but still not ready to let it go.
“Be honest,” Scarlet said. “Do I look like the old me to you?”
Scarlet was pressing Charlotte, hoping for some objectivity. After all, they hadn’t seen each other for a while, so she would be the perfect person to make a before-and-after evaluation.
“What is all this obsessing with the ‘old me’?” Charlotte asked. “That’s what’s really new.”
“It’s just because I’ve been reminded of a lot of things I used to love, used to be, by someone,” she said.
