“No, that’s not Chloe,” Haley said.
Everyone knew me because I wore my heart on my sleeve. They knew when I was sad, determined, and deliriously happy.
“Why not a love-and-relationship-type show?” Haley said.
Every staffer grew still except for Clementine, whose nose ring twitched.
“Seriously, she gets the whole people thing,” Duncan said.
“I could see Chloe doing a show where people can call in and share their love stories and broken-heart woes,” Haley added.
Frick nodded. “With Valentine’s Day a few weeks off, the timing is perfect.”
Clementine shook her crinkly black hair. “A love-relationship show is way too dangerous. Too many VSPs could get too agitated and say too many stupid things.”
“Or n-n-not,” Frack said.
I could see the gears in everyone’s minds turning. Another live show would mean more listeners; more listeners would mean we’d be that much more attractive to underwriters with bulging wallets.
“We could have some killer ratings,” Taysom said.
We. In three weeks I’d become a part of the station.
“Look at D-D-Dr. Phil,” Frack said.
“Chloe is no Dr. Phil,” Clementine argued.
“No, but she has a proven track record of handling callers in an effective and sensitive manner,” Haley said. All duly noted in my bright blue JISP progress report notebook. My primary goal was still to crank out a shiny JISP that would wow my counselor and not disgrace my brilliant family, but now I had a dedicated group of listeners to hang on to.
“No,” Clementine said.
Clementine was a control freak. Was she worried I’d take over her radio station? My toes twitched. “It’s because you don’t like me, isn’t it?”
Clementine looked at her knitted fingers. “This isn’t personal, Chloe.”
“Then what is it?” The entire staff wanted me to take on another show. They were behind me. I was tired of Clementine’s attitude, tired of her trying to close me out.
Tiny lines ringed Clementine’s mouth. “Honestly, everyone’s right. This type of show could probably help our ratings. But we have a responsibility that has nothing to do with ratings. We may only be a rinky-dink high school radio station, but we have a journalistic responsibility to our listeners. My problem is you’re in no position to give advice. You’re not a psychologist or a counselor. What you say could hurt someone.”
Words hurt, whether whispered in hallways, written in frosty pink lipstick on your locker, or keyed in over pictures on Our-World pages. They knocked you over, pummeled you, and left you with a bleeding heart. Thanks to Brie, I knew all about hurt, and that would make me an even better host. “You’re right,” I told Clem, “words hurt, so I’ll be extra-mindful of what I say and where on-air discussions go. You’ve heard me handle callers. You know I can do this. “
“But you’re not a relationship expert.”
“So before taking calls, I’ll feature some tips from the experts,” I added with a huff. Clementine was being ridiculous. “My mom’s a heart surgeon, so she knows plenty of doctor types, and I’m sure my dad has some colleagues at the university who I could interview.”
Taysom nodded. Frick and Frack joined in.
Clem’s nose ring stilled. The idea of giving more airtime to a “skater” like me killed her. “We would need to talk with Mr. Martinez,” Clementine said. “He has to sign off on all programming changes.”
“Fine. I’ll crank out program notes and get adviser approval,” I said. “So if Mr. Martinez agrees, we’re on?”
Clem shook her head. “You still have to address the VSP element. Love is a powerful topic. Things could get messy. What if some wounded heart wants to crucify his ex over the airwaves? And it’s not just wounded people who do or say stupid things. Lonely people, too. I can see some desperate lonely heart using the show to fish for a date. Then he gets together with someone via the show, and the date turns out to be some psycho.”
“Not a problem,” Duncan said from where he hung the last of Haley’s shelves. “We have the Great Silencer.”
Clem threw her hands in the air in surrender. She couldn’t win, not when the entire KDRS staff was on my side. The newspaper had labeled me a radio rock star, but I was something more. I may no longer be welcome at lunch table fourteen or at the ficus tree in the quad, but that was okay. I had a wobbly chair and dented whiteboard desk in Portable Five, a place of honor with my KDRS clan.
Beeeeep.
Okay, JISP Girl, Mr. Martinez gave us the green light for Heartbeats. He also said to tell you thank you for the chicken enchiladas. I can’t believe you freakin’ bribed him (grrrrr). And I can’t believe it freakin’ worked (grrrrr-grrrrr). Anyway, you’re on for next Monday. And . . . (looooong pause) and we got those five underwriters signed up. Admin was impressed. Bottom line. We’re on the air until the end of May, but I swear, if you screw up my station with your new program, I will personally throw you and every pair of shoes you own into the Pacific Ocean.
Beeeeep.
End of messages.
AFTER THE FINAL BELL ON THURSDAY, I RAN TO PORTABLE FIVE and put on a set of glittery gold wings, a perfect match for my strappy metallic Candies stilettos, circa 1980. All week I’d been donning my cupid outfit after school and handing out flyers for Heartbeats, my new love-and-relationship show, which would debut this Monday.
I reached for my quiver, and my ear-to-ear grin fell off. “What happened to my flyers?”
Haley reached under her desk, making a DUNT-da-da-daaaa sound. She handed me a crinkly bag. I pulled out a red heart-shaped sucker. On one side was a sticker that read: Heartbeats, 4-6 p.m. Mondays KDRS 88.8.
“Frack’s idea,” Haley said. “He made five hundred and forty-four.”
“L-l-let me know if you need more,” Frack added with a shy smile.
“And let me know what you think of this,” Taysom, who was in the production room, said over the speaker.
Before I could say anything, I heard a faint thudda-thud, followed by more thuds. The heartbeats gave way to soft music, a lone flute-y sound. A syrupy voice said, “Heartbeats with Chloe Camden . . . Mondays from four to six . . . KDRS Radio . . . where love is on the air.”
Taysom poked his head out of the production room. “Well?”
I tossed him a sucker. “Sa-weeeeet!” I loved the teaser. I loved Frack’s promo suckers. I loved everyone at KDRS 88.8 The Edge.
Clementine walked over and jerked my left wing.
Maybe not everyone. “Hey!”
“You were crooked.” Clementine eyed the other wing and whooshed me away with her fingers. “Now go away and don’t act too stupid.”
“I’m feeling the love, Clem, I’m feeling the love.” With the adoration of my dysfunctional but wonderful radio family, I hurried outside to the bus loop, which at this time of day had the highest density of students. All week I’d paid attention to student density and traffic patterns in my effort to improve my promotional efforts. My JISP notebook was full of dandy notes and numbers and graphs and grids. I was pouring my big heart into my new show. A. Lungren should have been purring.
After I handed out my suckers at the bus loop, I hit the bike compound and student parking lot, a winged promo wonder. When traffic let up, I checked my watch. Perfect timing. The track meet would start in five minutes. I could pass out suckers to people in the bleachers, and maybe I could get the announcer to talk up my show.
As I hurried across the quad, my feet slowed for the first time in an hour. I’d reached Our Tree. Brie stood surrounded by clansmen. Over the past few weeks, more and more people gathered about Brie. She led them around with a royal flick of her wrist, and they obeyed. For a moment I wanted to rush off in the other direction.
Then I thought of the KDRS staff. They liked me, believed in me, made me promotional lollipops, and straightened my cupid wings. Brie was talking on her cell and didn’t seem to notice me. Out of ha
bit I looked for Merce, listened for her seal-like laugh, but she wasn’t there. The other girls noticed me, and a hiss of whispers snaked through the air. I pulled my quiver close to my chest and quickened my step. As I reached the end of the grassy area, my wing jerked, and I heard a soft pop.
“Nice wings.”
I turned. Brie held one of my feathers in her hand. She looked Brie beautiful with hair in a golden knot near the top of her head, frosty pink lipstick, green eyes lined and powdered with carefully applied makeup, and her two-carat diamond studs glinting in her ears. She was obviously not wallowing in misery over our snapped BF thread.
“What do you want?” I asked.
She turned the feather over, as if fascinated with it. “To wish you luck with your new show, of course. Heartbeats, isn’t it? And you’re . . .” She waved the feather at me. “. . . Cupid. Hmmmm . . . a show about love. And you know about love, don’t you, Chloe? Because everyone loves Chloe.” Her words should have been blistering. But they weren’t. They were oddly flat.
“Your listeners love you,” Brie went on, her voice singsongy but without emotion. “The entire student body loves you. Teachers love you. Your big, happy family loves you.”
This was getting creepy. “What do you want? I need to go.”
“Hmmmmm . . . what do I want?” She tapped the feather against her cheek. “I want an end to global warming. I want shoes for every barefoot child in Ethiopia. I want world peace. You hear that, Chloe?” Brie took a step toward me, her serene smile at odds with the feather that she jabbed at my chest like a dagger. “I want peace, and since you’re queen, maybe you can arrange it.” With a hollow laugh, she crushed the feather in her fist, snapping it in two, and dropped it on my Candies.
The hair at the back of my neck stood upright as I hurried away.
While I drove from school to Minnie’s Place early that evening, Brie’s words echoed through my head. I want peace.
Welcome to my world, Brie.
Ever since winter break, I’d been seeking peace—with my BFs, with A. Lungren, with the KDRS staff, and with Mom and Grams. I got out of my car and headed up the front steps of Minnie’s Place. Thankfully, the Tuna Can was still drying out and the peace accord between those with whom I shared DNA was still holding.
Grams had promised to help me brainstorm topics for my Heartbeats show, and I’d promised her we’d do it over green chili burros at Dos Hermanas.
After signing in, I checked Grams’s room. Not there. Nor was she in the media room with the monster HDTV or dining room. I checked the butterfly garden—the one with the swing. No Grams, but I found the swing, or at least what was left of it. Both chains were snapped in two, and jagged splinters of wood that had once been a seat were scattered on the ground.
A blue-haired woman on a bench nearby aimed her three-legged cane at the broken swing. “The new girl broke it. Got swinging too high, and the whole thing came crashing down.”
Was Grams the new girl? “Did she get hurt? Did she have to go to the ER?”
“Heavens no. She said she’d have a sore heinie for a day or two, but she thought the whole thing was a hoot. Practically bust a gut, she got to laughing so hard.”
Definitely Grams. “Do you know where she is?”
The woman shook her head. “Check with the office. They keep a close eye on everyone coming and going.” Good. After highflying on the swing, Grams clearly needed someone to watch over her.
In the office, a clerk checked the logbook. “Looks like she checked out at three this afternoon. She went to Dos Hermanas with her granddaughter.”
I double-checked the entry. “I’m the granddaughter, and she’s obviously not with me.” I jammed a finger at Grams’s uneven handwriting. “Why didn’t someone stop her?”
“This isn’t a jail, dear.”
The clock on the wall read after six. She’d been gone more than three hours. “But she has Parkinson’s, and sometimes she gets lost.” I remembered the police bringing Grams home the night she spent on the near-freezing beach. She was missing a shoe, the wind had knotted her hair, and her bone-white limbs wouldn’t stop shaking. I stabbed a finger at the clerk. “Why aren’t you keeping better track of her?”
The clerk closed the book with a polite smile. “At this point, your grandmother is still in charge of keeping track of herself. She can check herself in and out anytime she likes. Our job is to make sure it’s documented. Now, I suggest you go to Dos Hermanas and join her.”
A sharp tapping beat at my temples as I rushed from Minnie’s Place. I’d been so focused on myself, on promo for Heartbeats, I wasn’t there for Grams.
Just like I wasn’t there for Brie and Merce the night of the Mistletoe Ball.
No, I couldn’t forget that one, either, could I? I rubbed at the sides of my head.
Once at my car, I called Dos Hermanas, but Grams hadn’t stopped by. I checked with Noreen, but she hadn’t seen Grams either. I wiped my palms on my thighs. Maybe Grams had a doctor’s appointment or lab work. Maybe she went to the movies to see the new Brad Pitt flick but got lost.
Maybe she’s bleeding, hurt, dying.
I snagged a deep breath. Maybe I needed to chill on the drama and get a grip. I drove the short route from Minnie’s Place to Dos Hermanas and didn’t see her along the way. I wound through the side streets. No Grams.
Finally, I called Mom.
“How long has she been gone?” Mom asked.
“She checked herself out at three.”
“What! That was three hours ago.”
“I know.”
“She had her physical therapy appointment today, which always puts her in a bad mood. Your grandmother needed you today.”
“I know.”
“You were supposed to go out to Dos Hermanas together.”
“I know.”
“And on Thursdays Dos Hermanas has that green chili burro special she loves so much.”
“I know!” The roar tore from my chest. “I screwed up. Care to pound me any harder?”
Mom said nothing, or if she did, I couldn’t hear her because someone was pounding on the big bass drum that was my skull. I rubbed at the center of my forehead. Grams was missing, and it was my fault.
“Chloe, now is not the time to argue,” Mom finally said. “We need to find your grandmother.” She spoke in her doctor voice, the one she used to calm relatives after quadruple bypass surgeries. “Where do you think she could have gone?”
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “No vehicles have been reported stolen from Minnie’s Place, so she can’t be far.”
Mom puffed out a half laugh, which we both needed. “Okay, Poppy, you know her better than anyone. Think. Where could she be?”
Think. Don’t feel. Just think. Head stuff. But it was hard with the steady pounding at my temples. “Tuna Can is the obvious, but Noreen hasn’t seen her,” I said. “Maybe the boardwalk off Calle del Mar. Maybe the movies.”
“Good. You check those places. I’ll check her church and dash home to see if she went there looking for you. If we don’t find her within an hour, I’m calling the police.”
The pounding rhythm in my head now had lyrics. Find Grams. Find Grams. FINDGRAMS.
Grams wasn’t at the movie theater. She wasn’t at the Tuna Can or on the boardwalk. Dark crept in, and the breeze off the ocean blew cool and damp. Had Grams remembered to put on her coat? Was she cold? Shivering? As I continued to drive through the neighborhood, the charcoal sky gave way to black, but I wouldn’t stop looking. I knew this neighborhood well. So did Grams. She’d been such a huge part of my early years. She took me everywhere. To the beach. To playdates. To school.
I slowed my car. I pictured the splintered pieces of wood in the butterfly garden and whipped my car in a U-turn. Within three minutes I was at my old elementary school, more specifically at the playground next to it. The big bass drum silenced.
Grams swayed on the tire swing.
My legs were boneless, like Twizzlers lef
t in the sun too long.
When Grams saw me walking toward her, she waved. “There you are, Poppy. I was getting worried about you.”
“You were worried about me?” I studied her body for bumps, bruises, and blood. None. Thank gawwwwwd.
“You didn’t call,” Grams said.
Yeah. Another less-than-brilliant move on my part.
Grams’s hand settled on my arm. Did she know she was touching my heart? “It’s okay, Poppy. You’re here now. Let’s go get a green chili burro. I’m starving, and we still need to go over those topics for Heartbeats. Valentine’s Day is around the corner and I have this great idea for a . . .”
Grams talked, but I didn’t hear her. I was too busy hammering myself over the head.
SECOND-CHANCE THRIFT STORE
Because everything deserves a second chance
HOURS:
Monday—Thursday 10 a.m. to 9 p.m.
Friday—Sunday 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.
CLOSED
IT WAS AFTER NINE BY THE TIME I GOT TO THE THRIFT STORE, and I found Duncan walking his bike out the back door. His new secondhand bike had duct tape on the seat and mismatched pedals. Tonight his broad shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped. I thought about not asking for his help, but I pictured that broken swing. The big bass drum in my head started booming again. Guilt made way too much noise. I pulled up next to him and lowered the passenger-side window. “Hey.”
His gray eyes brightened as he straddled his bike and placed his palms on the roof of my car. Tonight he smelled of an ocean breeze and just enough sweat to remind me he was a guy who knew how to work. “Hey.”
“Going to play Trash Man?” I asked.
That incredible half smile curved his lips. When I was with Duncan, the entire universe was in order. “Someone’s gotta keep the evil garbage of this world in its place. So what’s up?”
Even though he looked exhausted, I reached across my car and opened the passenger door. “I need a hammer.”
When we reached the Tuna Can, I pointed to the porch. “There it is. Do you think it will fit in the trunk?”
Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe Page 12
