Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe

by Coriell, Shelley

  Duncan grabbed his toolbox from the backseat. “We’ll make it fit.”

  As Duncan’s broad back bent over Grams’s porch swing, the pounding in my head disappeared. A part of Grams’s world was broken, and Duncan would fix it. More than a month ago, he posted the flyer to get promo help to fix the station, and last week he’d been the one to convince Clementine that with the seven-second delay, VSPs wouldn’t be a problem for Heartbeats. He fixed clocks and toasters and me.

  He must have sensed me smiling at him. He looked up. Nice eyes. Nice face. I took in a wonderful cool breath of ocean air. Duncan was a genuinely nice guy.

  After we got to Minnie’s Place and I explained to Grams and the manager on duty what I wanted to do, Grams whooped, wrapped Duncan in a wobbly hug, then motioned to his toolbox, “You don’t have Brad Pitt in there, do you?” Duncan looked at me with half-terrified eyes but smiled. At least he knew where I got my dramatic flair.

  Duncan was quieter than normal as we took the swing parts to the butterfly garden and started assembly. Maybe because my mom, who’d learned about the broken swing when I called her and told her I’d be late, had arrived and wouldn’t shut up.

  “Make sure the arms are securely attached to the chains,” Mom warned Duncan. “We don’t want her to fall again. Doesn’t the back look like it’s leaning too far? Are you sure the chains will hold? Have you had any experience in putting a swing together?”

  I wanted to boot my mom from the butterfly garden. World War III was brewing again, and Duncan, who needed more fun in his life, didn’t need to be in the middle of missile volleys.

  Grams folded her arms across her chest. “He’s doing fine, Deb. Leave him alone.”

  “How do you know it will be fine?” Mom asked, her voice rising.

  Grams rubbed at her forehead as if the bass drum player had set up shop in her skull.

  “How do you know it won’t come apart like the other one? You could fall and suffer a concussion or a displaced hip or—”

  “Holy hell, Deb, would you just shut up!”

  The lines around Mom’s eyes narrowed as if she’d been pum-meled in the gut. That’s how I must have looked when Brie told me to shut up. But Mom didn’t offer Twizzlers and search for nice words to make everything peaceful. “I’m keeping you safe.”

  Grams’s hands started to shake, then her arms, chest, and legs. Her whole body was a quivering, angry mass. “I’m not a child.”

  “Then stop acting like one!”

  I dropped the hammer I’d been holding for Duncan. He stopped turning the screwdriver. The night silenced. Only the ocean whispered in the distance.

  Grams was the first to recover. She stopped shaking and picked up the hammer and handed it to Duncan with an apologetic smile. With weary but wise eyes, she turned to my mom. “If you’re worried about the swing, you can try it first, okay?”

  That seemed to calm Mom, but I couldn’t shake the antsy feeling. It was as if we were all walking through a minefield, not sure who and what would be set off where. As soon as Duncan locked the swing chain in place, he stood and gave Mom and Grams a nod, then gathered his tools.

  “Sorry about them,” I said as I followed him through the garden to the exit. He probably thought I descended from a family of wack jobs, and he probably wanted to get as far away from the whole gang as possible. “They’re both normally pretty sane, but it’s been a . . . um . . . difficult past few months.” We walked in silence but for the clank of the tools in Duncan’s toolbox. When we reached my car, I tried to stick my keys in the trunk lock, but my hands were shaking. The keys clattered to the ground. I ignored them, instead closing my eyes and dropping my chin to my chest. The war was clearly not over, and a girl who wore her heart on her sleeve couldn’t deny it or the sadness that came with the prospect of more battles. “Grams’s Parkinson’s is progressing, and Mom . . . she doesn’t quite know how to handle it. They fight, and more often than not, I have to dive into the middle of it with a white flag.” I opened my eyes and stared directly at Duncan. “And for the record, Dunc, there’s nothing fun about any of it.” I tried to smile, but my lips refused to curve.

  Duncan shifted his toolbox to his other hand, bent over, and picked up my keys. After opening the trunk and storing his tools, he uncurled my fist and placed the keys on my palm. “People worry about people they love.” His fingers tapped the keys. “They love each other, and love”—the line creased his forehead—“it’s pretty messy sometimes.”

  My fingers curled over his, and relief flooded my chest. Duncan understood. He didn’t think my family was wacked, although that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He got along with all the wacked radio staffers.

  As we got into my car, I pulled out my cell phone and called up my photo gallery, the one I hadn’t looked at since August, when my youngest brother, Zach, left for med school. Looking at the smiling faces of my family reminded me of everyone leaving me. Duncan clicked his seat belt. I wasn’t entirely alone.

  “Meet the whole crazy gang.” I handed him my phone.

  He let out a low whistle. “Five brothers?”

  “Yep. All in med school or doing residencies now. Absolutely brilliant.” I clicked my heels. “But they have lousy taste in shoes.”

  Duncan smiled, and a warm sizzle raced through my 1970s pink espadrilles with hemp trim. He took his time scrolling through the photos, laughing out loud at a picture of my brother Jeremy playing a piano while I stood on a coffee table singing into an eggbeater I was pretending was a microphone. “Your brothers adore you.”

  “I don’t think they’re too bad, either.”

  Duncan continued to flip through the photos.

  “What about you?” I asked. “Any brothers or sisters?”

  He shook his head.

  “Just you and your mom?”

  His smile faded. “Usually.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “She was. She’s back now.”

  I was surprised he answered. Duncan rarely spoke about his personal life, but something was clearly happening between us. I reached for his hand, and he didn’t pull away. “Where was she?”

  “Staying with a friend.” His lips curled as they did when he talked about the friend he visited at the Happy Trails Trailer Park.

  “I take it you don’t like this friend?”

  “There’s nothing to like about Stu.”

  Stu was the name Duncan’s neighbor Hetta had spit out. “A loser?” I asked.

  “Loser. User. Abuser. Take your pick. Unfortunately, those are the guys my mom’s drawn to. Stu got out of jail a few months ago, and my mom went to live with him in that hellhole of a trailer park.” He handed me my cell phone. “Not all of us have picture-perfect families.”

  “Um, Dunc, did you or did you not just witness Grams and my mom almost come to blows?”

  “That’s nothing.” He rolled his head along his tensed shoulders, as if trying to shrug off the thoughts in his head. At last one shoulder slumped, then the other. “Hey, I need to get back to the thrift store and my bike.” His volume had softened, but his words still had a sharp edge. “I have garbage to haul.”

  I remembered the first time I noticed those shoulders, thinking they could carry the weight of the world. Tonight they slumped because of a mother who made bad choices and her jailbird boyfriend who made even worse. Dunc looked like he’d been slammed by a convoy of garbage trucks. I didn’t have a toolbox to fix Duncan’s family, but I knew how to lighten the load.

  “Simple rules,” I said. “Five paper balls. Five lines at various distances. Five shots. The closest line is worth one point; the farthest line is worth five. Player with the most points after the final shot wins, so strategy is key. Got it?”

  Duncan ran his hand along the front of his face, trying to hide a smile. “I’ll get it all right if the property manager comes in and finds me playing games.”

  “So we’ll invite her to play.” Because everyone needs fun, especially Duncan. Es
pecially tonight. On the drive from Minnie’s Place, he said nothing more about his mom and Stu. He shut up, shut down, and closed me out. Dunc shook his head. “No games for me. I can’t afford to lose this job.”

  Because most likely his mom couldn’t keep one. I hadn’t met her, but I was having a serious case of dislike. “When’s the last time the property manager checked in on you?”

  He scratched absently at the side of his neck before putting on a sheepish smile. “Never.”

  “And what are the chances she’ll show tonight?”

  “About zero.”

  I crushed a final piece of paper into a ball and tossed it at Dunc, who caught it. “So the only one holding you back from a little fun,” I said, “is you.”

  He balanced the trash ball on the palm of his hand and shook his head. “Does anyone ever say no to you?”

  With five older brothers and a doting grandmother, the truth was, not often.

  Sometimes you’re so self-centered I can’t stand it. Brie’s biting words ricocheted through my head, and I winced. The thread may have snapped, but that didn’t change the fact that best friends knew you at a soul-deep level. They knew what made you tick and why. Tonight I’d set up trash ball for Duncan, to make him laugh and forget about his mom and a loser named Stu. But that wasn’t the only reason.

  Okay, Brie. I’m not a liar. I’ll admit I also set up trash ball for me.

  I liked how Duncan looked at me. I liked how strange and varied body parts sparked when they brushed against him. Was I selfish? Did I expect the universe to revolve around me?

  I’d been so focused on Heartbeats, I forgot my own grandmother. And I’d abandoned Brie the night of the Mistletoe Ball. Wham-wham.

  “Hey.” With a crooked grin, Duncan wagged the paper ball in my face. “Looks like we both need some fun tonight.”

  The grin, the barest tug on a mouth that rarely smiled, pulled me in and pushed everything else away. The universe consisted of only us and ten crinkly trash balls. “Before we start,” I said as I grabbed a wad of paper, “let’s talk about what we’re playing for.”

  “This isn’t about bragging rights, like in the paper airplane contest?”

  “Nope. Time to raise the stakes.” I stroked my chin, loving the way Duncan’s gray eyes lightened to shimmery silver. “You start. If you win . . .”

  Duncan looked puzzled until a slow smile spread across his lips. “If I win, you’ll help me with the econ essay that’s due next week.”

  Econ was cake for me, and if I recall, our next essay was on the fantabulous topic of supply-side economics. “You’re on.” I tilted my head to the side. “And if I win . . .” You’ll look at me in a way that makes me forget about mean, lying best friends and broken swings. “You’ll handle the boards for my new Heartbeats show.”

  “I’d do that anyway.” His soft gaze melted me. I wanted to ooze to the ground in a warm, bubbly puddle at his feet. Nope, no oozing puddles allowed. It would ruin my espadrilles and this wonderful moment with the most wonderful Duncan Moore.

  “Okay, if I win”—I flexed the fingers of my shooting hand and thought of tingling thumbs and ankles—“you’ll come to the Tardeada this Saturday with me.” I stood at the two-point line and took a shot. Score.

  He walked to the five-point line but didn’t shoot. “Like a date?”

  “Yes. You, me, and some activity that involves copious amounts of fun.” But the look on Duncan’s faced mirrored nothing close to fun. “Hey, it’s not like I’m asking you to stick your finger in a toaster.”

  He shot from the five-point line. Miss. Red crawled up Duncan’s cheeks. “No . . . it’s . . .”

  I took my second shot and scored another two points. “The Tardeada’s a blast.” I tried to keep my voice casual. It was a huge party on the beach with Hispanic crafts, music, and vendors. I’d be there, dressed in my burrito costume for Dos Hermanas, who had a food booth.

  Duncan took his second shot, another five-pointer. Another miss. He squeezed the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. “I’m working at the thrift store on Saturday.”

  “Not at night.” I tried not to rush my words, but nervousness chased them off my tongue. “You can get to the beach by seven, which is when I’ll be done working for Dos Hermanas. We can check out the bonfires.” I shot my third ball, a rim shot that bounced to the floor. “So, how ’bout it? You, me, and roasted corn on a stick.”

  He took another five-point shot. Miss. His eyes didn’t meet mine. “I’m sorry, Chloe, I can’t.”

  I picked up my fourth ball. Squeeze. Crackle. Crumple. For weeks Duncan and I had sparking thumb and ankle encounters. We worked together and laughed together. Tonight he helped me repair a tiny corner of Grams’s world and helped me relieve some of my guilt for totally forgetting about my dinner date with Grams. Didn’t I mean anything to him? Or was it something else?

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” One who knits her heart into your scraggly scarves? I shot. Another miss.

  His head shook. “Definitely not.”

  I shifted from one foot to the other. I didn’t understand why Duncan wasn’t in the arms of some girl. He was sweet and nice and had incredible stormy eyes that glinted with silver when he smiled. “Do you have other plans Saturday night?”

  He flinched before his gaze flicked to the ground. “I don’t have time.”

  “You could make time.” Just like we were making fun. A person made time for people and things they cared about.

  His knuckles grew white as his fingers wrapped tighter around a trash ball. “Forget it,” I said around the lump in my throat. Duncan didn’t need any more angst in his life coming from my corner of the universe. I asked him out. He shot me down. I had to move on. It’s not the end of the world. I’d lost my brothers. I’d lost my best friends. Hey, what was another—

  “Chloe.” Duncan’s fingers caught me under the chin. My chin—my stupid, traitorous chin—tingled at the brush of his touch. Surely he felt it. Surely this thing wasn’t that one-sided. “I . . . I . . .”

  I waited. It was so hard not to scream, I want to be with you, walking on the beach or sharing eggs and cheese on toast.

  “You. You’re nice . . . and funny . . . and . . .”

  This would be the part in the soap opera where Mr. Hunka-Hunka bends over his ladylove, pulls her to his chest, and whispers, And I need you more than air.

  “And . . .” My voice sounded squeaky, like the wheel on the trash cart.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it, like he was in pain.

  Without looking at me, he tossed the trash ball from the farthest line. The ball clanked the rim, then fell in, and he muttered something that sounded like, “God, I suck at this.”

  He walked away, the trash cart wheels shrieking.

  I took my final shot. Miss.

  Final score. Five to four. Duncan won.

  TIERRA DEL REY TARDEADA

  SATURDAY, 10 A.M. TO 10 P.M. ¡MÚSICA Y BAILE PARA TODOS!

  • Ballet Folklórico

  • Mariachi Corazón

  • Del Rey High Latin Show Dance Team

  • Zumba with Anita y Amigos

  • Children’s Booths with Make-and-Take Crafts

  • Face Painting & Balloon Animals

  • Authentic Mexican Food

  • Beach Bonfires

  JOSIE CRANKED THE ROASTING TUMBLER AND SNIFFED THE AIR. “Rojita, get bags, pronto!”

  I set ten brown paper bags on the prep table. Josie turned off the propane tank and plopped a scoop of charred, stiff chilies into each bag. I quickly folded the top, creating a tight seal. The bags puffed, dampened, and darkened as they filled with steam.

  Ana waved a bag and called out, “Buck a bag! Fresh roasted chilies! Buck a bag.”

  All afternoon Ana and Josie manned a booth at the Tardeada, selling fresh roasted chilies for a smokin’ hot deal of a buck a bag. They also sold six different kinds of burritos with all the toppings. The chilies, Josie said, were
their secret promo weapon. “People smell the chilies,” she explained. “They come and buy. Then they see burritos and buy them, too.”

  People at the Tardeada bought plenty. We’d sold hundreds of burritos and bags of chilies. Now it was after seven, and we were closing the booth.

  With the last tumbler of chilies roasted, I slipped out of my burrito shell and started to clean the salsa bar. Josie opened a paper bag of roasted chilies she’d set aside earlier and poured the still charred but now limp mass onto a cutting board.

  “You too quiet.” Josie scraped the blackened, papery skins from the chilies. “Why you no talk? You always talk.”

  I snapped lids on the guacamole, green salsa, pico de gallo, habanero salsa, onions, jalapeños, sour cream, and cilantro sprigs. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “About?” With a sharp knife, Josie slit a chili down the middle and slid the blade along the flesh, scraping away the membrane and seeds. Using the knife in a rocking motion, she chopped the veggie into small pieces.

  “Chilies.” I stacked the toppings and put them in the insulated cooler. All the while, an ache throbbed in the center of my chest, keeping time with the crashing waves on the beach below. For the last few weeks I’d been roasted like a chili thanks to Brie, and a few days ago I’d been sliced and diced by Duncan, who didn’t want to come to the Tardeada with me and who’d been avoiding me since trash ball. “Things haven’t been too good lately in my universe.” I pointed to the cutting board. “I’ve been tumbled and roasted, then steamed and scraped and chopped.”

  Ana squeezed my shoulder. “That good, Rojita.”

  “Good?” Did Ana need more English lessons?

  “Sí, good.” Josie picked up a raw green chili. It was long and lime green, smooth and shiny. “This chili okay. Good for pico de gallo. But”—she pointed her knife at the soft, smoky, roasted chilies—“better with fire. Better for salsas, pollo deshebrado, calabacitas, todos. Fire is—how you say—flavor.”

  “I could do with a little less flavor,” I said under my breath as I packed the rest of the salsa bar and checked my watch. Flavor or no flavor, I had two live shows now to deal with, and I needed to get home and review my research material for Heartbeats, check in on the blog, and call Clementine to see if she had reviewed my format clock for the second hour of my Chloe, Queen of the Universe show.