by Tonya Hurley
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “You don’t really look like you belong.”
“I should ask you the same,” he replied.
She didn’t really have an answer for him, and so she never got one from him.
“We must be around the same age,” she said.
“Yeah, we’ve got that in common,” he said.
“I’m sure we have more than just that in common,” Petula said.
“Yeah, like what?”
“We both worry about clothes,” she said, thinking fast. “I worry that I have the latest and the hottest pieces, and you, well, you worry that you have… any.”
“I guess that’s something,” he said, smiling slightly.
“Hey, your teeth are really white,” she said, taken aback by his shiny grin. “Like, professional white.”
The guy looked more than embarrassed by the compliment.
One thing about homeless people that was hard for Petula to take was their lack of dental hygiene, and there was nothing Petula hated more than butterteeth. She even kept a Baggie of whitening strips and travel-size toothbrushes in her purse to help them combat their fuzzy tooth sweaters.
“These are for you,” Petula said, eyeing him as she handed over the jackets, shirts, and suit pants she’d pilfered from her guest-room closet. “I think they’ll fit.”
Petula didn’t just think it; she knew it. She was an expert at evaluating body types.
“Thanks,” he said shyly, as if he were taking something he didn’t deserve. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Just as he began to limp away Petula called out to him.
“I’m Petula, by the way,” she said, pursing her lips and quickly slipping on a latex surgical glove as she thrust her hand outward to greet him.
“Tate,” he said, grabbing her forearm and squeezing. “Nice to meet you.”
Petula saw that he wasn’t actually hurt. He was faking his limp. She could tell because she’d “come down” with homeless-leg syndrome occasionally herself whenever she exited her car in a handicapped space at the mall. Between his faux gimp and the pearly whites, Petula thought something didn’t quite compute.
As she watched them say their awkward goodbyes and Petula started back to her car, CoCo was startled by the pay phone ringing behind her. She looked around to see if anyone else heard it, but then noticed the out-of-order sticker on the dial. She decided it could only be for her. Ever the neat and clean freak, she balked at touching the receiver and instinctively used the cuff of her sleeve to cover her hand as she picked up the phone. CoCo was a creature of habit and death had changed very little for her.
“Showroom,” CoCo answered firmly.
“CoCo, it’s Gary.”
“I’m just in the middle of something, darling,” CoCo said hurriedly. “Can I get right back to you?”
“You are wanted at the office,” he advised.
“But what about Petula?” CoCo began to ask.
The click in her ear signaled the end of the connection and the conversation. CoCo watched in frustration as Petula headed toward her car and sped off, slowly fading from view.
Charlotte was looking for a way out, literally. She headed to Hawthorne and the intake office with Pam and Prue following behind anxiously. The last time she was here it was to save Petula. This time, Charlotte thought, it was to save herself.
“I’m going back,” Charlotte said as she grabbed for the office door.
“What do you mean you’re going back?” Pam asked, using her foot as a doorstopper.
“You can’t go back until you’re called,” Prue added.
“Everything is going wrong,” Charlotte said. “There’s no point staying.”
“But that’s why we’re here,” Pam scolded. “To make things better.”
“We’re making things worse,” Charlotte argued. “For the living and ourselves! Maybe we failed.”
Pam and Prue didn’t respond. It was something they’d been thinking, as well, but were not quite willing to admit.
“Don’t be so self-absorbed,” Prue finally shot back. “Just because you and Eric might not work out, doesn’t mean that nothing here will.”
Charlotte bristled at the criticism, not just because she was angry with her friends, but because they had a point. Being back always brought out the pessimist in her, and this time was no exception.
“It’s not just about me and Eric,” Charlotte said. “Everyone is lonely and miserable, except, of course, The Wendys.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pam asked.
“It means that the two people who deserve happiness the least are getting exactly what they always wanted,” Charlotte scolded. “Nice work.”
“That’s not fair, Charlotte,” Pam said. “We’re all trying.”
“As long as we’re here, there’s still work to be done,” Prue said, frustrated. “Get a grip.”
“Okay, I will,” Charlotte said, gripping the door handle. “Get out of my way.”
Pam stood aside and the door opened. It was the same as it was the first day she arrived there. Cold and spare. She made her way to the counter and took a number. There was the same secretary, the one who didn’t look up, sitting behind the desk in her same funeral home attire with the casket-ready ruffled blouse Charlotte wouldn’t have been caught dead or alive wearing.
“Sit down and I’ll call your name,” she said.
Charlotte was tempted to say hello, but the secretary didn’t seem to recognize her. Not surprising, Charlotte thought, since she processed so many souls.
“We can’t let you do this,” Pam argued. “It’s just not right.”
“It is right for me,” Charlotte insisted.
The threesome continued their argument as they walked over to the bench, oblivious to the fact that there was someone else in the room. A girl, nervous and coiled up in the corner.
“They should really play better music in this place,” Pam said, trying to make small talk.
The girl didn’t look up. She was too afraid. They could certainly relate to that and put their differences aside for the moment to reach out to the new arrival. It looked to them as if she’d been there for a while, though her name had not been called or a greeter assigned to escort her to the Dead Ed classroom. She seemed disoriented and very much out of place.
“Hi. I’m Charlotte,” she said softly as she approached. “This is Prue and this is Pam.”
“Do you know where you are?” Prue asked.
“Has anyone come for you?” Pam inquired further.
The girl shook her head “No” silently.
“What’s your name?” Charlotte asked gently.
The girl looked up at them slowly. Her face was a familiar one. Prue and Pam’s jaws dropped in shock. Charlotte’s too. And for maybe the first time ever the three of them were speechless.
“I’m Darcy,” she answered.
Pam, Prue, and Charlotte quickly excused themselves and stepped outside the office.
“What the hell is going on here?” Prue asked in frustration.
“If that’s Darcy in there,” Pam continued, “Then who is that hanging out with The Wendys?”
“They’re both Darcy,” Charlotte said cryptically.
They were all thinking the same thing, but no one wanted to be the first to blurt it.
“What are we going to do about it?” Prue continued.
“What can we do?” Pam responded.
Before Charlotte could respond, the new Dead Ed classmates came walking toward them. Charlotte shushed Pam and Prue and signaled that they’d pick up the conversation later. They were struck by how young and naive the new girls appeared and realized they must have seemed the same back then. It was funny, and a little bit sad as well, how much a little knowledge and experience could change you.
“Hi, Charlotte,” Mercury Mary called out. “Remember us?”
“Sure, Mary,” Charlotte said. “These are my friends Pam and Prue. Ladies, meet
Mercury Mary, Toxic Shock Sally, and Scared to Beth. ”
With the niceties out of the way, Charlotte hit on an idea.
“Hey, girls,” Charlotte asked, “would you mind doing us a favor?”
“Nothing dangerous, is it?” Scared to Beth asked.
“Not at all,” Charlotte said.
“Okay, then,” Sally agreed, stifling her tremors for the moment.
“There is a girl named Darcy sitting in the office,” Charlotte said. “She’s a little lonely. Would you mind hanging out with her for a while?”
Pam and Prue instantly caught Charlotte’s drift.
“Maybe find out more about her,” Pam added. “You know, how she got here.”
“No problem,” Mary said eagerly, more than happy to help.
Mary, Sally, and Beth entered the office and closed the door behind them, leaving Pam, Prue, and Charlotte to finish their conversation.
“I have an idea,” Charlotte whispered.
“Uh-oh,” Pam teased.
She was worried Charlotte was about to turn from supernatural to super sleuth.
“In order to make things right,” Charlotte explained, “we need to get Darcy out of the picture.”
“But to do that…,” Pam prompted.
“Darcy must die,” Charlotte said.
Chapter
18
I Know You by Heart
How will you know if you found me at last
’cause I’ll be the one with my heart in my lap.
—Neko Case
Love song.
Like a tune that you can’t get out of your head no matter how hard you try, love is something you can’t get out of your heart. You become trapped in an emotional cul de sac, going round and round and ending up exactly where you started. Breaking free, or not, is usually determined by whether you want to get somewhere slowly or nowhere fast.
Scarlet loved to hang out at Vinyl Frontier, a used-record store she frequented. It used to be called Permanent Records until it burned down and was rebuilt. It was a little hole-in-the-wall place, but it was a place where she could spend hours listening to any record she wanted without having to buy anything. The owner, Mr. Hood, was a cool guy who taught English lit at her school. He was a closet musician who played local clubs and considered teaching his day job. He used to sleep the last ten minutes of each class and say that if he got that time, he didn’t need to sleep at night.
Scarlet liked being at Vinyl Frontier for the same reason she liked scrounging through thrift stores and even visiting the cemetery. There was so much life to be found among forgotten things. In fact, if she wanted to, she could take her fingernail or the pin from her brooch and place it gently in the grooves and with a few careful spins, resurrect all the passion, energy, and magic that had created it. Try doing that on your touch screen, she thought.
Hood liked Scarlet. Whenever she paid a visit, word would get out, upping the store’s hip factor and, consequently, his sales. It was like a celebrity in-store appearance, so he didn’t mind giving her free run of the place after hours. It was a fair trade. That, and the fact that Scarlet wasn’t some stupid kid; she was a music historian, a true music lover. She knew her stuff—from the classics all the way to the most esoteric. They had many a late-night discussion about all the different genres of music, but mostly they didn’t talk, they just listened.
She shared with him not just a love of the sound of an analog recording playing back but a devotion to the actual platters and square cardboard album jackets themselves. Compared to the digital liner notes that were now offered for download, they seemed like museum-quality artwork.
The thing about records, Scarlet felt, was the physical relationship they created to the music. Unlike CDs or computer files, vinyl was fragile, easily damaged, and hard to replace. It needed to be cared for, respected, and protected from harm. She could relate.
Hood also explained a little to her about the business side of music, knowing she might have some aspirations in that regard. He told her how so few artists made money from records, even if they sold well. There was something called “breakage” deducted from an artist’s royalties that literally took into account that a certain percentage of vinyl albums were likely to be damaged in shipping to shops like his. She was fascinated by the concept, by the fact that “damage” was anticipated. Maybe that was the way people should enter relationships, she thought.
It was so common-sensible. Nothing lasts forever, she thought: albums, people, or even relationships, especially if they aren’t handled with care. The other side, of course, was that the scratches and chips that were cut into the grooves were proof that the disc had been played. It made them a record, not just of someone’s music, but of someone listening to it.
Lately, Scarlet found herself being drawn to songs about loneliness and heartbreak. It was obvious that she missed Damen, but she felt that their separation was for the best. Things take time. She knew that, and with time and some really good music, she would heal. She listened intently with the oversize headphones cementing her black hair to her ivory skin. The music began to fade and then out of nowhere, blasted in her ear.
“What the…?” she screeched angrily, pulling the headphones out a few inches.
Mr. Hood was sitting behind the register gathering his things, getting ready to close up.
Scarlet went back to listening, and no sooner did she get back into the song than it happened again. She looked around and past the displays into the back room where Mr. Hood and his band would practice. It was a raw, loftlike space packed with instruments and amps. She saw Eric standing there, laughing and looking totally at home. She didn’t want to alert Mr. Hood, for fear she would get Eric in trouble, so she excused herself to go use the restroom.
“Hey,” Mr. Hood said. “I’m going to head out.”
“Okay, I’ll lock up,” she said.
“I trust you,” he said as he shut the door and locked it behind him.
Scarlet felt a little uneasy but not enough to leave.
“What are you doing here?” she asked Eric curiously. “I’m not allowed to have friends here after hours.”
“I was walking past and I saw you in the window,” he said. “Just thought I’d drop by and say ‘hey.’ ”
“You could use the front door,” she said.
“Too predictable.”
Scarlet started fiddling with one of the guitars, fingering the chords to one of her songs.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, nothing, just some stupid song I wrote,” she said.
“Sounds cool to me,” he said.
“Actually, it was entered into this radio contest, but it got disqualified ’cause of a conflict of interest,” she said, not wanting to get too deep into the details. “My boyfriend entered it, but he works at the station, so…”
Eric got it. It clearly meant a lot to her to have her song in the contest, and she wanted it to be heard. He could appreciate her disappointment.
“There’s always a conflict,” he said vaguely.
“What do you mean?” Scarlet asked, thinking her situation was pretty unusual.
“Between guys and girls.”
She smiled, knowing exactly what he meant.
“I wrote this song for a girl I was really into, but we split up before I ever had a chance to play it for her,” he said as he strummed the first few chords.
“That’s beautiful.” Scarlet nodded along. “She must have meant a lot to you.”
“Still does,” Eric added, still playing.
“I hear you,” she said, simply swaying to the beat, feeling his music and his emotions too.
“My dream was to perform in front of a crowd,” Eric said to Scarlet, the disappointment in his voice contrasting with the joy in his music. “But right now, all I want to do is play this for her.”
“It’s never too late,” she replied. “I learned that from a very good friend of mine.”
As Eric continued to play
, Scarlet began humming a melody line and a few words and phrases over it. Scarlet saw a softer side of Eric that she hadn’t seen before. She was staring at him but thinking of Damen as the verses for a new song came to her. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought Eric had planned it that way. As he ended the song, Eric made an enthusiastic pitch that he thought might be good for both of them.
“Maybe we can work on something together,” he suggested. “You know, collaborate.”
Scarlet wasn’t sure if asking to “collaborate” was his way of hitting on her. She hoped not, but it reminded her that they were virtual strangers all alone together in the back room of a locked-up record shop. She didn’t want to end up on the evening news, but at the same time, she felt close to him. Spiritually, more than anything else.
“I don’t think I’m ready,” she said, hoping to answer several questions, asked or not, with a single sound bite. “But if I was going to collaborate with somebody, it would be you.”
“I just thought that maybe they’d let you replace your old song in the competition.” Eric pulled back a little, thinking he might have come on a little strong. “I bet your boyfriend would like that.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said, escorting Eric out of the store, “anymore.”
Mary, Beth, and Sally stepped out of the intake office to be debriefed about Darcy.
“She has no idea where she is,” Mary began, “or why she’s there.”
“That’s not news,” Prue said, showing her usual impatience with underclassmen. “Nobody ever does.”
“Did she tell you the last thing she remembered doing?” Pam asked, more calmly.
“She said she was taking some glamour shots for the Gorey High yearbook,” Sally added, “but that’s all.”
It took her a second, but Charlotte figured it out. She’d been a pretty avid picture taker when she was alive, mostly of Damen, granted, but in her studies she’d come across a few cases of people who were prone to epileptic fits from a flashgun. That’s one of the reasons why she always adhered to the rock-star rule of no flash photography in the stage pit. That, and the fact that it was much more difficult to sneak a picture of someone across the room with a strobe popping.
