Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe

by Coriell, Shelley

  Across the glass, Clementine rolled her hand in a circle, as if she was motioning me across a school crosswalk. She looked so calm.

  Why was dragon Clementine being so calm?

  Because I was freaking out.

  Panic bubbled in my chest. If I opened my mouth, I’d make frothy, dying sounds. Or puke. Or start babbling about tingly knees and earlobes and thumbs.

  If you get overwhelmed, Clem had said, pretend you’re talking to a friend.

  What friends? I was no longer connected to Brie and Merce. The drama club despised me. The entire school was whispering about me again.

  No, not everyone.

  I stared at Duncan. Garbage Games. Paper airplanes. Even Clementine didn’t look so dragonish. I cleared my throat. “Uh, this is uh, 88.8 The Edge.” I licked my trembling lips. “Uh . . . welcome to the realm. Uh . . . this is Queen Chloe, and I’m glad you tuned in.”

  Duncan nodded. Clementine nodded. Haley, Taysom, Frick and Frack, and even Mr. Martinez, who sat in the corner grading papers, nodded, nudging me on.

  With the first words out, the rest came easier. “Uh . . . we’re starting something new here at The Edge, a call-in show starring me, Queen Chloe, and of course you in our first-ever live talk show. Tonight we’re going to kick off things and talk about pet peeves. You can learn a good deal about people if you know what pushes their buttons. As for your queen, something that makes me want to stomp my royal feet is TMI.

  “That’s right, minions, too much information. These days people talk, talk, talk, which is a good thing for our show, and your queen, she loves to talk. But I want you to think about those times where you’re minding your own business and . . .”

  I pointed to Duncan. He cued stinger number one.

  Wham! The banging-hammer sound effect poured out seamlessly.

  “You get hammered with TMI,” I continued. “Over winter break I was at the grocery store minding my own business when a woman in the produce department started comparing the oranges to certain body parts she’d had implanted. At first I thought she was talking to me. Exactly how do you respond to this type of comment? But then I realized she was using a Bluetooth. I mean, really, did I want to hear this? Should I be hearing this?”

  Duncan’s shoulders jiggled, a wonderful, silly movement that stole my breath. But I managed to keep chatting another ten minutes until Clementine gave me a break signal. “Okay, minions, after the break, I’m opening the phone lines and it’s your turn. Let me know about your TMI troubles or tell me a pet peeve of your own.” I gave our call letters and the station’s phone number.

  Duncan dialed up a PSA and school announcements. The On Air light went dark. Over the speaker came a dragonlike growl. Across the glass in the production room Clementine gripped the sides of her head as if her hair were on fire.

  “What?” I asked. I’d been shaky at first, but I’d pulled it together. Kind of.

  “You called our listeners minions,” Clementine said with a hiss.

  “I’m playing up the whole queen thing.”

  Clementine’s head hit her desk.

  “What’s wrong with ‘minions’?” I asked her crinkly hair.

  “You’re insulting our audience.”

  “No, I’m establishing a rapport with them. I’m using fresh, original, memorable language that our growing, faithful audience will associate with my show.” In the talk shows I’d studied I noticed most of the successful hosts had certain phrases and gimmicks unique to them.

  Clementine dragged her body upright. “Calling someone a minion is not going to endear them to us. They aren’t going to listen to radio programming that insults them.”

  “Wanna bet?” Duncan pointed to the phone bank. Three lines blinked red.

  Clementine went off mic and picked up the phone. Her job was to screen callers and make sure they weren’t on crack. She’d patch them through to the phone in the control room, and Duncan would activate the call. The rest would be up to me.

  After the break, Duncan cued the music, and the On Air light came on again. “Welcome back, minions, glad you stuck around. Tonight we’re talking about pet peeves, and the queen hates too much information. Now it’s your turn to dish. Up first”—I looked at the slip of paper Clementine held and smiled—“Josie from Tierra del Rey. Welcome, caller, this is Chloe.”

  “Hey, Your Majesty, love the show. I agree. People don’t know when to shut up. It’s like—how you say—irritating. I run restaurant, Dos Hermanas on Palo Brea and Seventh. Last week this woman buy takeout and talk about her sick kid and she say how green stuff come out his nose looks like the tomatillo salsa in the salsa bar. Aye-yae-yae. We no need to know that.”

  Ana called in next, followed by Noreen, Grams’s neighbor, my dad, two of his students, and my brother Zach’s old girlfriend. Yes, I knew them personally, and, yes, I begged all of them to call in, but that didn’t mean they weren’t bona fide listeners.

  In the next segment I introduced a new topic. Comfort foods. Thanks to Brie and Mercedes, not to mention Grams and Mom, I’d been inhaling plenty of Twizzlers lately.

  “Hey, minions, your queen now wants to talk about the food you love and need when life gets rough. When you get a Rudolph-size zit on the end of your nose right before the big dance. When you get into a fender bender with Daddy’s new car. Visualize with me, minions, you’re down, you’re beaten, and you need munch-ies to make it better.

  “In the queen’s castle, the royal comfort food is”—I reached into my bag and took out a Twizzler and crinkled the plastic in front of the mic—“Twizzlers. Soft, sweet, and oh so comforting. The last time I had more than the recommended daily allowance was the day a certain guidance counselor, who shall remain nameless, disemboweled my Junior Independent Study Project, a story that could be a whole show of its own. But back to comfort foods. What food soothes your battered heart and calms your tattered soul?”

  I stared at the phone bank. It stared back. Dark. Unblinking. I should have told the sisters they could call in twice, but no problem. I was ready for this. I was not going to sound like an idiot on the air. I was going to have fun.

  “While you’re all running to your phones, we’ll chat about some traditional comfort foods. January is National Soup Month, and soup is undoubtedly one of the world’s greatest comfort foods. Who doesn’t like a steamy bowl of chicken soup when you’re sick? Or how about a hearty bowl of chili when it’s cold and rainy?” The phone bank remained frighteningly dark. “Hey, is chili even a soup? I’m not sure about that. We need some data, minions. Yep, we have serious data deprivation here.”

  Across from me Clementine rolled her eyes.

  “Hey, Clementine, can you do a quickie Wiki check and let me know if chili is considered a soup?” Clementine shook her head and glared. “You minions remember Clementine, right? She’s our news guru, and she’s in the castle with me tonight, not on a throne, mind you, but on a stool next door in our production studio. A jester’s stool. Hey, Jester Clem, pop on and greet the minions.”

  Another crinkly head shake.

  Dead. Air.

  “Hi,” Clementine said.

  “No, the queen wants you to say, ‘Greetings, minions.’”

  In the newsroom all gazes snapped to Clementine. “Greetings, minions,” Clem said between clenched teeth.

  “Jester Clem’s a bowl of laughs, isn’t she? But she’s a whiz with information. Dominates the data. And she’s fast, too. As we speak, she’s crunching data.” I pointed at Clementine’s computer and mouthed, Wikipedia. I bantered about soup and a minute later asked, “Okay, Jester Clem, what do you have for the minions? Is chili a soup?”

  “Inconclusive,” Clementine said, her words clipped. “Some call chili a one-pot meal, others group it with soups and stews.”

  “Inconclusive, huh? Okay, I’m making a royal decree. Chili is a soup. With that out of the way, we’re ready to take calls, so dial up.”

  Still no flashing red lights. I pictured my friendle
ss Our-World page and empty voice mailbox. My fingers circled the mic, my knuckles whitening. “Ooo-kay. How about you, Jester Clem, when life gets you down, what do you like to chow on?” She shook her head and ran her jutting hand across her throat in a slicing motion.

  I shook my head and mouthed, Talk!

  “Beets.” Clementine looked like she wanted to beat me over the head with a hammer.

  “I told you, minions, she’s a royal jokester. Seriously, what’s your fave comfort food?”

  “I’m serious,” Clementine insisted. “I like beets.”

  “As in purple, bulbous root vegetables?”

  “What’s wrong with purple, bulbous root vegetables?”

  “They’re weird.”

  “They’re not weird.”

  “They taste like dirt.”

  “They taste sweet and crunchy.”

  “And have you always had a love affair with beets?”

  Dragon sigh. “I guess so. I first ate them years ago at my grandparents’ farm in Temecula, where I spent my summer vacations. Grandpa and I picked the beets, and Grandma and I canned them.”

  “Hmmmmm. Summers at a nice family farm. Fun time with Pops and Grams. Have you ever thought beets are comforting because you associate them with people you love?”

  Clementine tilted her wave of crinkly hair. “Could be.”

  One of the phone lines blinked. Clementine held a sign with the caller’s name. “And good, calls are rolling in. Ernie’s on the line. Welcome, caller, this is Chloe. What’s your favorite comfort food?”

  “Pizza. The mega-meat kind. Pepperoni, sausage, hamburger, and bacon. I also wanted to say I agree with you, Queen Chloe, beets are weird.”

  “A brilliant minion. I think I’ll make you a knight of the realm.” I pointed to Duncan, who played a blare of trumpets.

  Two other lines blinked red. Another caller found comfort in mashed potatoes with butter. “Beets are not weird,” she said.

  “Nor is Jester Clem. She has different tastes. We need to respect her choices.”

  Clementine turned on her mic and piped in, “Can you knight her?”

  I cleared my throat. “Only one knight a night, but I’m making a royal decree. We must respect Jester Clem, and . . . we must respect beets.”

  For the next forty-five minutes we talked about comfort food. At one point, Clementine popped on air and talked about foods scientifically proven to alter moods. “Chocolate increases endorphin levels, making you happier, and turkey is loaded with amino acids that make you calm.”

  Note to self: Give Clementine a chocolate-covered turkey for Valentine’s Day next month. She was working as hard as me to pull this off.

  When we reached the top of the final hour, the phone bank was full. I had to turn away callers. People wanted to spend time with me. Me.

  “Unfortunately minions, it’s time for the queen to abdicate the throne, but only for a week. Be sure to tune in next Friday for the only show with one queen, one universe, one Chloe. KDRS 88.8 The Edge.”

  Duncan cued my theme music and set the Ghost to run the automated programming for the rest of the night. I left the control room, my ankles wobbly. But in a good way. I gave the KDRS staffers a queenly wave (elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, wrist), and slumped into the chair in front of my whiteboard. “Well?” I asked.

  Mr. Martinez, who was gathering the papers on his desk, saluted me with his red pen.

  “You didn’t do anything to get us kicked off the air.” Clementine’s concession trilled through my head. I hadn’t tanked. I filled two hours with witty and engaging conversation. I made Duncan smile. And I hadn’t had to deal with Brie. “How many total callers did we get?”

  Frack looked at a notepad.

  “Come on, Frack, let’s hear,” I said. I wanted specific numbers, proof that people liked my show, that they liked me.

  “S-s-seventeen.”

  I thumped Frack’s back. “That’s more than four times the four listeners who admitted on our survey to tuning in.” Note to self: Include data in weekly JISP progress report to A. Lungren.

  “Don’t forget we had to turn away four at the end,” Frick added. “We could have easily gone on another ten minutes.”

  “Chloe’s survey suggested it, and tonight’s show proved it. Our listeners loved being on the air,” Taysom added.

  It was odd, sitting around the graveyard radio station on a Friday night with a family of sorts. Didn’t these people have places to go? Friends to see? Movies to watch?

  Speaking of movies, I turned to Haley, who had finished watching her DVD and was writing on a notepad. “How was the movie?” I asked.

  “Four out of four comets.”

  “What was it?”

  Haley tossed me the DVD. The Women, a 1939 Oscar winner, according to the box. “Great shoes.”

  One by one each of the staffers and Mr. Martinez left, until it was only Duncan and me. Both Duncan and Clem had keys to Portable Five, and while I don’t think school admin knew, Mr. Martinez occasionally left them to lock up the station. As for me, I didn’t want to leave. For the first time in weeks the universe was in alignment.

  I walked over to the control room, where Duncan was working on what looked like a CD player.

  “No garbage tonight?” I asked.

  “The thrift store closes at six on Fridays. I pushed it and got the trash done early.”

  I sat on my royal throne and kicked off my shoes. “Is it like this every Friday night at the station? I mean with everyone here?”

  He nodded.

  “But why? It’s not like everyone’s needed. Haley could have watched her old movie at home. Frack could have recorded his PSAs elsewhere, and Frick could have written his sports wrap at Extreme Bean, but everyone chose to be here together, yet apart, all of them doing their own thing.”

  Duncan tapped a small screwdriver on the faded denim of his thigh. “Weird, huh?”

  “Like beets.”

  A slow smile slid across Duncan’s lips and fired his eyes. He tossed the screwdriver into a small toolbox and opened his mouth, then closed it. “It’s late,” he said.

  A nice exhaustion hung over me as I followed him out of the control room. It had been a good show and a good night, despite the havoc Brie had caused for the past two weeks.

  I didn’t need her, or Mercedes. I had KDRS, my show, the staff, and Duncan.

  He came back from putting away his toolbox and flicked out all the lights but one over the door. I thought of the paper airplane he’d made. Duncan had reached out to me in his own quiet way.

  I took a pen from a nearby desk and, before he could back away, grabbed Duncan’s hand. My thumb ran across the calluses before I scribbled my phone number on his palm.

  Duncan looked at his palm as if it were an alien body part, but his face softened. “There’s nothing subtle about you, is there?” His voice was barely audible over the transmitter that buzzed in the corner.

  No, I wasn’t subtle or quiet, and I didn’t like distance between me and others. “Does it bother you?” I held my breath.

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t mind.”

  Cool, wonderful air flooded my lungs, and I almost spun on my glittery toes. I refrained, instead tilting my chin toward his hand. “So you’ll call me tomorrow?”

  His fingers curled into his palm against his chest, and he smiled.

  Stop by tuna cn. Big prob. Brng HER.

  N rain b%ts.

  Grams

  ---

  I am a pelican. Fear me.

  IT WAS SATURDAY MORNING, THE DAY AFTER MY SUCCESSFUL radio debut as Chloe, Queen of the Universe, and I should have been reclining in my queenly bed and eating chocolate bonbons iced with the royal crest. That or chatting on the phone with sexy-eyed, scarf-wearing Duncan Moore. Or at least daydreaming about sexy-eyed, scarf-wearing Duncan Moore.

  Instead, I stood in the Tuna Can living room, opening the windows to let out clouds of smoke as an inch of water lapped at my plain w
hite Keds. Grams stood near me, soot on her right cheek, her gnarled fingers wrapped around a broom handle. Mom and Dad were outside with the ceramic squirrel and the Plumber King. Only the squirrel grinned.

  Grams shoved the broom across the floor, sending a violent wave of water out the front door. “Piece of crap pipes.”

  What could I say? There wasn’t anything wrong with your pipes, Grams, until you took a hammer to them. Or maybe, Be glad for those pipes and the sprinkler system that flooded the Tuna Can because they saved your life. You could have been killed!

  “Piece of crap hammer. Piece of crap teapot . . .”

  My shaking hands opened the next window. When Grams woke this morning, she put a teapot on the stove to boil and forgot about it. The water boiled away, the teapot overheated, and a roll of paper towels near the stove caught fire, along with the kitchen curtains and a stack of mail. The fire alarm didn’t go off because Grams had taken out the batteries for her portable DVD player and had forgotten to replace them. Luckily, the fire sprinklers Mom insisted on having installed last year went off and put out the fire before it spread beyond the stove area. Grams, however, couldn’t remember how to turn off the sprinklers, so she hammered the valves, breaking them and sending a torrent of water throughout the trailer. Even worse, Grams tried more than an hour to fix it herself before calling for help. Water now slicked the ceiling and walls and soaked every piece of furniture. Drips still echoed in the closets and cupboards.

  I yanked open another window. Grams should have called someone immediately. There was nothing wrong with asking for help. For the past week I’d relied on help from the entire KDRS staff, and with them I’d pulled off a killer debut show.

  With the windows open, I pulled out the trash basket and thought of Duncan, my trash-toting, fix-it guy. It would be nice to have him here this morning, but something told me not even my fix-it guy could repair this mess.

  Footsteps clanked on the metal porch, and Mom waded into the living room. Her hands, the gentle ones that stitched people’s broken hearts, knotted into tight balls at her hips.