As was I. Because I was shackled with a counselor who couldn’t resist a lost cause.
“It’s clear, Chloe, that KDRS needs a hand, and you can start by putting together a promotions plan for today’s emergency meeting.”
A hand? I wanted to give A. Lungren the Hand.
“By the way, you’ll need this.” A. Lungren handed me a composition notebook.
I was four again and standing on the edge of the Pacific Ocean getting battered by waves, but it wasn’t fun, and Grams wasn’t there holding my hand. “For what?” I asked.
“Your progress reports. You must turn in a report to my office once a week.”
“Why do I need to turn in weekly reports? That’s not a normal part of the JISP.”
“The reports are for your parents.”
“My parents?” Heart surgeons and deans of podiatry schools didn’t have time for parent-teacher conferences or JISP reports. That was a job for grandmothers who ran award-winning soap opera blogs from tuna cans.
“I spoke with your parents this morning, and they are extremely concerned about your lack of progress. They’ve been through this with your brothers and know your JISP is a permanent mark on your school transcripts, one that highly desirable, highly competitive universities will look at in determining admissions.”
I stared at my shoes. What if I didn’t want to go to a highly desirable, highly competitive university? I wasn’t like my brothers. I didn’t have college plans and my career mapped out. I didn’t even know what I wanted to be when I grew up.
With a final kitty grin, A. Lungren escorted me out of her office.
JISP intervention complete.
I stood in the breezeway, where voices chimed, and laughter, too, but it was all muted, as if something stood between me and the rest of my world. Space. Lots of space. As I made my way down the hall, one voice and one laugh were strangely clear—painfully familiar. The voice was low and breathy, and the laugh belonged to a friendly seal.
I gravitated toward those sounds and fell in step behind Brie and Merce. Habit? Stupidity? I shook my head. These were my people, my clan with whom I shared a woven plaid, and not just any plaid. We wore one of the fanciest, most coveted plaids in the school.
Brie stopped at her locker. My feet slowed, and I fidgeted with a pin curl. Brie and I needed to talk. We were best friends, and that’s what best friends did. When life was good we talked. When it was disastrous we talked. When it was confusing we talked. Yes, I should have talked to Brie the night of the Mistletoe Ball. I should have put my best friends above a stupid fungus crown. I screwed up, landed myself in a queenly quagmire of my own making, but it was time to right the universe.
I opened my mouth as Brie looked over her shoulder. A smile that didn’t reach her eyes slid across her frosty pink lips. Words froze in my throat as she linked arms with Merce, who didn’t once look my way. One by one other girls from table fourteen linked up with my two best friends, and they sashayed down the hall arm in arm. I thought of all the times I’d linked arms with them and bent my head for private talk meant for our ears only. It wasn’t a vicious gesture, not meant to exclude. Girlfriends did it all the time, a friendly way of saying, We support each other. We are one.
Today the intertwined arms looked like barbed wire.
SUBJ: KDRS Emergency Meeting
FROM: [email protected]
TO: KDRS Staff
Emergency meeting today after school. Miss it, you die.
Clementine
Aut vincere aut mori.
WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU THE STOMACH LINING OF A COW, MAKE menudo.
It was Josie’s twist on the whole lemon-lemonade thing. As I walked into Portable Five after school, I told myself I wouldn’t think about friends with barbed-wire arms or get into a catfight with the world’s most annoying guidance counselor. Instead, I’d embrace KDRS promotions and help with whatever emergency plagued the station.
I’d make menudo.
Inside Portable Five no one seemed to be doing anything urgent. Frick/Frack sat in one of the two glass rooms in front of a microphone. Haley, who today was Tootsie Pop Mom, sat in her corner with her DVD player, her feet resting on a giant stack of movies. Taysom of the Earbuds flipped through a box of ancient vinyl record albums, and Clementine of the Nose Ring was hunched over a laptop in the main room.
Only Duncan, who stood on a ladder in a corner hammering the cover of a light fixture into place, acknowledged my presence. He stopped tapping long enough to give me a look that asked, What are you doing here?
No, I don’t belong at KDRS, I thought. These days I didn’t belong anywhere. Not at lunch table fourteen. Not in OurWorld. My heart rate quickened, and I hugged my bulging JISP folder to my chest and focused on menudo.
“Everyone ready to talk promo?” I pumped enthusiasm into my voice. When no one said anything, I asked Clementine, “Aren’t we having an emergency meeting?”
Clementine didn’t look up from her laptop. “Twenty minutes.”
Good, in twenty minutes I’d reveal the ideas Dos Hermanas and I brainstormed to grow the radio station audience and attract advertisers. Instead of sitting alone in the cafeteria for lunch and advertising my absolute friendlessness, I had hid out in my car talking on the phone with the sisters about promotions and menudo.
“Do you want to see my notes first?” I asked Clementine.
“No.”
“I have this great idea about—”
“Later.”
I tapped my shoe. “What can I do until then to help?”
Without missing a keystroke Clementine said, “Shut up.”
I turned toward the guidance center. Do you see me, A. Lungren? I’m trying. I’m really trying.
Duncan climbed down the ladder and packed his tools.
“You need some help?” I asked.
He shook his head and carried his things through a door at the far right side of the building I hadn’t noticed before. The air cooled and thinned. Yesterday Duncan had been the only friendly, albeit distant, being at KDRS Radio, the only one who wanted me around, and this morning he went out of his way to make sure I knew about the emergency meeting, like he cared if I showed up. Had he changed his mind and joined the Anti-Chloe Club?
“Stop making noise,” Clementine said with a dragon snort.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your shoe sounds like a jackhammer.”
I plunked my eyes closed. Thanks to growing up in a house with five older brothers, I was used to noise. When I could, I slept with my window open to hear the rush of the ocean, and when I was a kid, I used to fall asleep on Grams’s chest listening to her heart beat.
“And stop that, too,” Clementine said.
“Stop what?” I searched for a peaceful place, a soothing place. The ocean at sunset.
“Breathing.”
My eyes flew open. “You want me to stop breathing?”
Clementine smirked. “Would you?”
Taysom chuckled, and Tootsie Pop Mom, Haley, made a gurgling sound at the back of her throat, rolled her eyes, and thwunked her head on her desk as if dead.
I ground my back teeth. They were all wack jobs, and thanks to A. Lungren, I was forced into their wacked world.
I hurried across the station and through the door Duncan used to a narrow room full of maintenance equipment and janitorial supplies. Duncan stood at a sagging workbench, where he was prying the cover off an ancient clock and studying its intestines.
“Get the possessed lights fixed?” I asked. It sounded so much less pathetic than Would you be my friend?
Without looking at me, he nodded and popped the cover off another clock. He took apart springs and gears and hands and placed them in a neat line on a workbench.
Voices had always surrounded me—my five older brothers, Grams, the soap opera divas on TV, Merce, and Brie. In my world, someone was always talking, and if not them, me. “I have some great promo ideas, some creative, low-cost stuff w
e can do right here on campus that will build our audience.” I watched as Duncan tugged and twisted various clock parts. “And after we get more students listening, we can promote the station to the general public. You know, other schools, the neighborhood, local businesses. Then we’ll start calling on advertisers.”
When I stopped to take a breath, he slid the cover onto one of the clocks, secured it with duct tape, and looked at me, that line creasing his forehead. “I thought you picked a different JISP.”
“It’s Clementine. She’s my crack.” I waggled my eyebrows. “I crave daily insults.”
Duncan’s gaze softened. “Great voice. Perfect delivery.” Turning the knob on the bottom of the clock, he set the time. The second hand started to thudda-click as it chased itself around the clock face. “You’d be good on air.”
“Over my dead body,” Clementine said as she jerked to a halt in the supply room doorway.
I made evil finger—twitching motions and cackled. “I’m sure we can arrange that.”
Her glare said, Bite me, but the expression fell away as she turned to Duncan. “Meeting starts in two minutes. You sticking around?”
He held up the clock. “Need to go.”
“Anything to add to the agenda?” Clementine asked.
“No, I’m good,” Duncan said. Yes, Duncan was good. He fixed broken lights and old clocks. He cared about the station enough to bring in someone to help keep a sinking ship afloat.
Clem gave me another fiery dragon glare and stormed off, her wild hair whipping me in the face.
“She’s not usually this bad,” Duncan said. “The idea of the station closing in May kills her. Radio’s a hobby for most of us, but it’s Clem’s life. She wants to own her own station one day.”
I ran the toe of my shoe along a crack in the linoleum. How nice to have your future planned, like my brothers. As for me, I liked old shoes and spicy Mexican cantinas with stuffed parrots perched on top of salsa bars. And honestly, I could get into KDRS radio if the staff wasn’t so anti-Chloe. The promotional work, not to mention the idea of going on air, made my toes tingle.
“What about you?” I asked. “Why are you at the station?”
Duncan unbuckled his tool belt and hung it on a hook. His back was to me, and I watched the muscles along his broad shoulders and arms bunch under his faded T-shirt. I wondered at the loads he carried on that muscled back. He didn’t say anything.
“Do you want a career in radio?” I asked. “Did you fail to make the badminton team?”
He faced me, his stormy eyes steady. “Do you always talk this much?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Does it bother you?”
He reached for the cord hanging from the bare lightbulb overhead with both hands but didn’t pull. After an eternity, he shook his head, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“So why are you here?” I asked again.
Duncan wrapped the cord around his fingers three times. “It’s fun.”
“Fun? KDRS is fun?”
“Yeah. Fun.” His shoulders lifted in an awkward shrug. “Sometimes that’s hard to find.”
I searched his face. He had to be joking. But Duncan, with his stormy eyes, was no jokester. “Fun is everywhere,” I said. “You just have to find it. Or make it.”
He leaned toward me, his fingers pulling the cord tight. “Tell me, Chloe, exactly how do you make fun?” His face looked earnest, but there was something else there, something that settled around him like a swollen storm cloud.
Duncan Moore didn’t have much fun in his life. The realization slammed me, knocking me breathless. I couldn’t imagine a life without laughter and friends and fun.
I reached for both ends of his scarf, wanting to draw him away from the heaviness of his world and into mine, at least the one I’d known until a few weeks ago. “The recipe for fun’s a top-secret formula.” I pulled him toward me to whisper in his ear, mock severity lining my brow. “If I told you, I’d have to . . . you know . . . kill Clementine.”
Duncan stared at me, a strange look on his face, as if he’d come across a beached whale carcass, fascinating but in a grotesque way. I dropped the ends of his scarf. “Okay, so my sense of humor is warped, don’t mind—”
A soft laugh rumbled around his broad chest, wound through the crowded storeroom, and wrapped around me in a hug. What a wonderful sound. I’d heard so little laughter the past few weeks.
His watch beeped, and his laughing tapered off. “I need to go.”
I fought the urge to beg, Don’t go. Stay and laugh with me.
He pulled the cord, extinguishing the light. When he reached the storeroom door, he placed both hands on the door frame, as if forcing himself to stay, and looked at me over his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Chloe.” Did he like laughing with me? Or was he simply being a nice guy? Could he tell I needed nice? “Someone like you can make a difference.”
He turned to leave, and I reached for his scarf again, looping my thumbs through the ends. “Someone like me?” Say something nice. Say something to make me forget that my best friends hate me and the whole school is whispering something about me that’s not nice.
He stared at my thumbs. Like my science-minded brothers, Duncan was an observer. In his quietness, did he see things others didn’t?
“Yeah, someone like you,” he said. “Someone with a big personality and a big heart. People like you can do big things.” Not mean. Definitely not mean.
As if embarrassed by the sweet words, Duncan unhooked my thumbs, which sparked and heated, like two stubby candles. How crazy was that? Thumbs were . . . thumbs. As I contemplated the tingly heat, he hurried into the main room, where he climbed onto a wobbly desk and centered the clock above one of the glass windows. Then he slid out the door.
Thudda-click, thudda-click, went Duncan’s clock.
Duncan said I had a big heart. I always felt things in a big way, joy on the night of the Mistletoe Ball, worry about Grams’s health, guilt for ignoring my best friends at a time when they needed me, confusion over all the whispers. I definitely felt big emotions; maybe I could do big things.
“Get your butt over here, JISP Girl.”
Time to pour my big heart into my big pain-in-the-butt JISP.
The radio staff and Mr. Martinez, an English teacher who had joined the group while Duncan was wreaking havoc with my thumbs, sat in a horseshoe with Clementine at the center. I took out my promo notes to hand to Haley when Clementine snatched them from my hand.
“The world doesn’t revolve around you, JISP Girl. You’re last on the agenda. Now sit down and shut up.” She turned to the rest of the staff, her voice less snappish as she said, “Bad news. Since the wrestling team got knocked out of the Winter Trophy tournament, we have a two-hour program hole to fill this Friday. I don’t want clutter. What do you all have?”
“I can get interviews with the wrestling coach and captain,” Frick said.
“I’ll take another hour on my format clock, expanding my grunge band segment,” Taysom added. “And isn’t there an indie film festival coming to town next week? Maybe Haley can do a preview. I can help with bites.” Haley reached for another Tootsie Pop and gave a thumbs-up sign. Mr. Martinez, head bent as he graded a stack of papers, saluted with his red pen.
Problem fixed. It was strange seeing this little dysfunctional family at work. Clementine took the staff on an hour-by-hour walkthrough of the week’s programming. When she was done, she closed her eyes, as if trying to find a Zen moment. “Okay, JISP Girl, talk.”
I’d been uncharacteristically silent through the meeting because they weren’t talking a language I understood. Program holes. Format clocks. Clutter. Bites. Sweepers.
However, promo was something I knew and loved.
I looked at every staff member. The soap villainesses had taught me that delivery was just as important as content. I leaned forward, my eyes wide. “Free burritos.”
A loud, hot rumble tumbled from Clementine�
�s dragon snout.
“You want to give our listeners burritos?” Frick said. “That’s . . . uh . . . kind of weird.”
“Not at all,” I said. “We need more listeners to attract advertisers.”
Clementine smacked her hands on either side of her head. “Would someone shoot her and put me out of my misery?”
“What’s wrong with what I said? If we have a broader audience, we’ll have more impressions, so we’ll be more attractive to advertisers. It’s basic marketing.”
Clementine’s nostrils flared. “We’re a noncommercial station. FCC says we can’t have advertisers.” She turned to the rest of the staff. “See, she knows nothing about radio. She doesn’t belong here.”
Wrong. I belonged here thanks to my JISP. “Bad choice of words. Duncan called them . . . what? Sponsors?”
“Un-der-wri-ters.” Clementine enunciated each syllable as if I were dense.
“Okay, un-der-wri-ters like lots of listeners, and one way to attract listeners is to give them free things.” I explained about Dos Hermanas’ buy-one-get-one-free burrito special. “After starting BOGOF, Sunday sales skyrocketed. People like freebies. I’m suggesting we have a contest for listeners, and the winners get something free.”
“What type of things?” Taysom asked.
“We don’t have any things,” Frick said.
“N-n-none.” Frack. Was that snide laughter?
“Stoo-pid.” Clementine.
Tootsie Pop Mom hummed a funeral dirge.
“Stop.” I jammed both hands in the air. This wasn’t fun. This should be fun. Why did Duncan have to leave? “We get donations. I can ask Dos Hermanas if they’d give us a gift certificate. We need eight items.” I pointed to the faded KDRS logo on the wall. “My idea is, 88.8 The Edge, your home to the Great Eight Giveaway. But that’s only the first step. As we’re getting out the word to all of our shiny new listeners, we’ll need to find out about”—another well-timed dramatic pause—“refritos.”
Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe Page 4
