“SIT.”
A. Lungren, my brand-spanking-new guidance counselor, pointed a sharp-tipped finger at the chair across her desk.
I was so not in the mood. Call me cranky, but getting called self-centered by one of my BFs left me a wee bit irritable. I still didn’t understand what happened in the street with Brie during my burrito shift. I left eight messages for her last night. She hadn’t returned my calls. When I drove to Brie’s house this morning, no one answered the door. Ditto for Merce.
DENIED!
Only A. Lungren showed any interest in me. “This is bad but not hopeless,” A. Lungren said as she leaned over her desk toward me. With her twitching nose and upturned glasses, my new counselor reminded me of a cat, the annoying kind that tangled itself around your legs and left cat hair on your 1984 turquoise suede slouch boots. “But I’m here for you, Chloe. You realize that, don’t you? You’re not alone as we dig you out of the colossal hole you’re in with your JISP.”
“Sure.” I searched the bookcase behind her, looking for root beer barrel candy. When I visited my former counselor, Mr. Hersbacher, he always gave me a root beer barrel candy from the old Red Velvet Pipe and Tobacco tin he kept on the bookcase, and we talked about his feet. When I first met Mr. H. my freshman year, he had a midfoot joint spur, and I hooked him up with my podiatrist father. Mr. H.’s and my relationship had been delightfully pain-free ever since. My new counselor did not have a tin of root beer candy, only a cheap metal picture frame with her college diploma. I squinted. Great. Wet ink. Brand-new and still thinking she could change the world one misguided high school student at a time.
I crossed my ankles, enjoying the way the light bounced off my 1948 black patent-leather wing tips. After that conversation with Brie yesterday, I needed a pick-me-up. What I did not need was A. Lungren changing my world or interfering with my perfectly wonderful JISP.
Juniors at the Del Rey School were required to do in-depth independent study projects on subjects they felt passionate about. We had to write a twenty-page report and give a fifteen-minute oral presentation to peers and faculty. The whole JISP-y thing was pass/fail, and I had no doubt I’d pass. Failure on all things academic was not an option in the Camden universe.
“. . . do you not agree, Chloe?” A. Lungren stared at me with wide cat eyes.
“Uh, about what?”
“About the problems with your current project. Weren’t you listening?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Villainous Vixens.”
A. Lungren cleared her throat as if she were hacking up a fur ball. “Let me go over this again. First, your topic, soap opera villainesses, is unacceptable.”
“It’s a subject area I’m passionate about,” I argued. Since before I could walk, I’d been watching the soaps with Grams, who’d been the editor of the popular soap opera blog, Soap Rants and Reviews. “Passion is the number one criteria on the guideline worksheet. And . . .” I held my breath. Watching the soaps, I learned a good deal about dramatic delivery. There was power in a pause, in the words not yet spoken, words that hovered, like a hammer waiting to drop. I turned to the final page of my JISP notebook. “. . . and my old counselor already approved it. Here’s his signature.”
Wham! Take that, Evil Kitty Counselor.
A. Lungren looked at me with lifted furry brows, then tore the paper from my bright blue JISP notebook. It sounded like the earth ripped in half. “Mr. Hersbacher is no longer here. I am, and I say watching soap operas does not provide a meaningful contribution to your community. Nor does it provide leadership opportunities or the potential to create positive change or action.”
“But—”
“No buts. From what I heard, Mr. Hersbacher was way too indulgent with you these past three years. My colleagues say you were one of his favorites. You may have sweet-talked him into approving this topic, but I went to the JISP review board, and they, too, deemed it unacceptable. You must have a new topic by seven tonight.”
A. Lungren slapped shut my JISP notebook, the rush of air a smack across my face.
Whispers moved through the Del Rey School like the long, wispy tentacles of jellyfish. They wore glowing skirts of spar-kly blue, swanky black, and brilliant yellow. I bolted from the ridiculous meeting with my guidance counselor, at first hardly aware of the jellyfish whispers, because I was singularly focused.
Find Brie and Mercedes. Find Brie and Mercedes.
FINDBRIEANDMERCEDES.
Friends needed friends when counselors with sharp kitty claws shredded their JISPs. My throat thickened as I raced across campus to Our Tree.
The Del Rey School was huge. Grassy areas with leafy shade trees surrounded more than a dozen adobe buildings where clans of students had long ago staked their territories. Jocks hung out in front of unit two, band geeks gathered at the tables in front of the library, and stoners did what they did near the auto shop building. As for Brie, Merce, and me, we owned the ficus tree in the quad, one of the school’s most coveted outdoor hangouts. We hung out under Our Tree every day before school. Every. Day. But when I reached Our Tree after meeting with A. Lungren, they weren’t there.
A tight fist clamped around my chest.
That’s when I first noticed the whispers.
“Is that her?”
“Yep. That’s Chloe . . .”
I spun. The two girls who’d been talking about me passed, their heads bent, their voices soft, but loud enough for me to hear one gasp and the other giggle.
That’s when I noticed another oddity. No one had plucked one of my pin curls and said, “Hey, Chloe, happy Monday.” No one had pointed at my shoes and said, “Sa-weeeeet!”
The bell for first period rang. I stood frozen. Alone. Except for the jellyfish whispers.
I hurried into the cafeteria at lunchtime and spotted Brie and Merce at table fourteen, Our Table. If the cafeteria was a castle, table fourteen would be the royal throne. Queen Brie had made sure our trio had seats there since our freshman year.
That afternoon Brie and Merce looked totally normal as they laughed and talked with the rest of the A-listers. The vise around my chest loosened. The whispers and slights I imagined yesterday and this morning were no doubt a byproduct of watching one too many daytime dramas.
I beelined toward my besties. “Are you ready for a laugh?” I waved the folder A. Lungren had given to me at our meeting. “My new guidance counselor axed Villainous Vixens and suggested I do my Junior Independent Study Project at the Eastside Community Blood Bank.”
Mercedes barked out her seal-like laugh, the one I’d heard almost every day for the past six years. The sound was low and choky. Wonderful. “No way,” Merce said.
“Way.” Blood was fine. Necessary. The problem? I couldn’t stand to look at it, another sign of my genetic mutation. My podiatrist father and heart surgeon mother had no issue with body fluids of the red variety, nor did my five doctor and doctor-in-training brothers. Even Grams could sit through a season of General Hospital without fainting. Not me. “Scootch over.” I pointed to the crowded bench. “I need hugs.”
The chatter of voices and crackle of lunch bags at table fourteen stopped.
“There’s no room.” Brie slipped a spring roll in her mouth.
“None,” someone at the far end of table fourteen echoed.
“Excuse me?” I popped my palm against my ear, vaudeville style.
No one smiled. Mercedes examined her veggie burrito. I knew it was a veggie burrito because Mercedes ate veggie burritos every Monday. Best friends knew stuff like this.
“What’s going on?” I asked. All eyes turned to Brie, who took another bite of her spring roll. It was so quiet I heard her molars grinding rice and seaweed.
Mercedes put down her burrito. “Sorry. With you being late, we couldn’t save you a seat.”
“Hell-o-o. I was late because I waited thirty minutes at Brie’s locker for you two. Why did you leave without me?” The panic nipping at my wing tips all morning skyrocketed up my bo
dy and shot off my tongue. “Where were you this morning? What’s wrong with everyone? Why are people whispering about me?”
Brie waved her napkin toward the freshmen at table twenty-one. “Why don’t you move over there?”
One by one heads at table fourteen dipped in a puppetlike nod. Brie had that effect on people. When she said, “Jump,” they said, “Would you like a double stag or a spread eagle?”
I almost laughed. I should have laughed. But Brie was serious. The lunch bell rang, and for the rest of the day, I kept hearing my name in whispers. After school I caught snatches of a conversation from the row of lockers behind mine.
“Brie said . . . Mistletoe Ball . . .”
“. . . disgusting! Then Brie . . .”
I popped my head around the lockers. “Then Brie did what?” I asked with a smile. “I’d like to be in on the joke.” Because surely this was a joke. My two BFs dissing me. The entire school whispering about me.
The girls shut their lockers and rushed by, eyeing me as if I needed psych meds.
I slammed my locker, ready to hunt down Brie when A. Lungren slinked toward me on little cat feet.
Bad kitty. Go away. Go far, far away.
“Chloe, I’m glad I found you,” A. Lungren said. “I just learned about a JISP opportunity right here on campus.”
At the word JISP, I wanted to bang my head against my locker. I needed a project by seven to keep the word fail off my permanent school record and to keep my dad and mom from going postal. Like my two best friends. Like the entire school. Like my annoying new counselor, who was excitedly waving a flyer in my face and going on and on about the purrrrrfect JISP.
I knew the Del Rey School had portable classrooms and storage units on the east side of campus, but I didn’t know one housed a radio station—a real one, with an antenna, call letters, and a sign on the door that read, Toxic Waste. Keep Out!
According to the flyer from my counselor, KDRS 88.8 The Edge was a low-wattage, student-run radio station broadcasting from campus, and they needed promotions help. On the assumption radio promos did not involve blood, I agreed to look into it.
Dark, musty air swallowed me as I walked into Portable Five. At first glance, it looked empty, but as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I noticed other students. Noticed but didn’t recognize. Outsiders, Brie would have called them, people who didn’t have seats with the clans in the lunchroom or spots on the quad before school.
I squinted through the semidarkness and made out a tall, thin guy with a set of earbuds around his neck, two young dweeby guys who were arguing with each other, a girl with crinkly black hair and a shiny nose ring, and a blond girl licking a candy cane who sat in front of a DVD player in the corner of the room. A faded pair of jeans with a tool belt around the waist jutted from under a large piece of buzzing equipment by the back wall. Everyone but the tool-belt guy looked at me. No one said a word.
“Hi, I’m Chloe.” I waved the flyer. “I’m here about the promo position.”
Nose Ring Girl’s nostrils widened in a dragon flare. “What promo position?” She grabbed the flyer from me. “What’s this? What the hell is this?”
No one seemed concerned that she was screaming at the top of her lungs.
“Taysom, did you post this?”
The guy with the earbuds scanned the flyer. “Nope.”
“Frick, Frack?” she asked the two freshman types, and they stopped squabbling long enough to shake their heads.
The electronic equipment regurgitated the guy in the tool belt and faded jeans. Him, I recognized. Fellow junior. We had first-period economics together. He sat two rows behind me, and he never talked. Maybe it was because he was an outsider, or maybe it was because he slept through econ. On most mornings soft snores wafted from his direction.
For being regurgitated, Mr. Tool Belt didn’t look bad. A ruddy red brushed his pale cheeks, and his thick black hair was messy, like he’d been out in the wind. A nubby scarf looped his neck. I could picture him perched alone on a rugged, windswept Scottish moor.
“I posted the flyer.” His voice was barely audible over the buzzing box, or maybe it seemed that way because he stood at a distance from everyone. He turned to Nose Ring Girl. “We need a new power supply.”
Her nose ring quivered. “That means we’ll have to crack the emergency fund.”
Mr. Earbuds shook his head. “Empty.”
“Music? You bought more music!” Nose Ring Girl’s eyes bulged.
“Music’s the heart of our programming,” Mr. Earbuds shot back.
Other voices erupted, and I wanted to cover my ears, like with Grams and Mom. I waved a hand in the air. “Excuse me, I’m still here. Chloe. Chloe Camden. Ms. Lungren from the Guidance Center said you need promo help.”
“Oh my gawwwwwd. We have a freakin’ JISP. We so do not need this.” Nose Ring Girl stomped toward the back of the cave. Mr. Earbuds popped in his buds, the two freshmen types started arguing again, and Candy Cane Girl turned to her DVD. It was one of the most bizarre scenes I’d ever seen.
But I needed a JISP. ASAP. “I’ve done some promo work for a local business, Dos Hermanas Mexican Cantina, and I’m in the drama club, so I’m used to getting attention. I may be able to help. Why don’t you tell me about the station?”
A growl erupted from Nose Ring Girl’s corner of gloom. “Someone shut her up or I will.”
My feet twitched.
Mr. Tool Belt flicked a switch, and half the lights sputtered on. In the half-light I could now see the main room was filled with a maze of wounded furniture and dusty storage boxes lined up like tombstones. Years ago someone had painted KDRS 88.8 The Edge in giant, jagged black letters on a wall, but most of the letters had faded to a phantom gray. The place looked like a school supply graveyard.
“Sorry about the dark,” Mr. Tool Belt said. “I can’t run my multimeter with the lights on. Crappy wiring.” As if on cue, the lights flickered, and a screech tore from one of two glass rooms at the rear of the building. “Welcome to KDRS Radio, which is about to breathe its last breath.”
Candy Cane Girl glanced up from her DVD, clutched her throat, and made a soft, choky sound.
Mr. Tool Belt slipped a hammer into one of the leather rungs on his belt. “I’m Duncan Moore, and that’s Haley. She handles arts and entertainment.” In the half-light, I could see Candy Cane Girl’s hand now rested on her rounded belly. Pregnant?
Duncan pointed to the others. “Taysom with the earbuds takes care of music. The newbies are Frick and Frack. They handle sports and public service announcements. Miss Congeniality”—he pointed to Nose Ring Girl—“is Clementine, our general manager.”
“Seriously, are you a JISP?” Clementine looked at me as if I were something scraped off the underside of one of the freshman lunch tables.
I squared my shoulders. “I’m undecided. Right now I’m looking into a few options.”
“Options? And if we’re lucky, you’ll pick us?” She snarled the words.
“Someone yank too hard on your nose ring?” I asked.
Candy Cane Mom made a ca-ching sound. However, I wasn’t trying to score points. It was a joke meant to lighten the gloom. I smiled at Clementine. She growled and stomped into one of the glass rooms.
Duncan wound an extension cord in a complicated series of figure eights, keeping space and the cord between us. A chill prickled my palms. Why were people keeping their distance from me?
“Sorry about Clem.” Duncan took a deep breath as if readying himself for an unpleasant task. “Today’s a tough day for us.” He looped the cord over his shoulder, where it tangled with his scarf. I noticed a tiny, lopsided red heart stitched into one of the ends of the scarf. It looked oddly cheery in this dark place. “We just found out school admin won’t renew KDRS funding for next year. With no money for equipment replacement and maintenance, music, supplies, and licensing, we’re officially off the air in May. If we want to continue broadcasting, we need to find people and businesses willing
to underwrite programming. This semester we’re literally fighting for air.”
I could do this promo job standing on one way-hot vintage shoe, like Burrito Girl for Dos Hermanas. But I wasn’t too keen on hanging out in this gloomy place with these less-than-friendly people.
The Edge. I stared at the gray, jagged letters. There was something edgy about this place, about these people. Even Duncan, who had invited promo help, was keeping his distance.
Something beeped, and Duncan pushed a small button on his watch. “I need to go. Clem can answer any questions.”
Candy Cane Mom made a pffft sound.
Duncan went into one of the glass rooms and flicked some switches. When he came out, he announced, “Ghost is set for the night.” He headed for the door, but before he walked out, he finally met my gaze. His eyes were a soft, misty gray. “Thanks for coming. I hope you can help us out. We need . . .” He shook his head. “We need something.”
The door closed behind him. Without him and his nubby scarf, a chill settled over the radio station, but no one else seemed to notice. Haley watched her DVD, Taysom fiddled with his iPod, and Frick and Frack were arguing again. A loud click sounded, and Clementine’s voice boomed over a speaker. “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s time for you to go.” She waggled her fingers at me.
This was not a Chloe-friendly zone. This radio gig was not for me. I returned the waggle and hurried away from Portable Five. I didn’t need KDRS Radio. I needed a JISP by seven, something I was passionate about. I had no passion for 88.8 The Edge. Until today I’d never even heard of 88.8 The Edge.
So where did my passions lie? Easy. My friends. Family. Dos Hermanas. Soap operas. Shoes. Definitely shoes. Preferably of the vintage variety. I squinted at my wing tips. Vintage shoes weren’t foot apparel for the masses, but everyone needed a good, sturdy pair of shoes. I slowed. There were many who couldn’t afford even that, like Dos Hermanas, who walked barefoot across the desert all those years ago. I stopped. What about a shoe drive? I rotated my foot, letting the sunlight flash off the patent leather. And why not for barefoot children in Sonora, Mexico? I flashed the ankle of my other shoe. Brilliant. And, unlike the radio gig, perfect for me.
Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe Page 2
