“It’s hard.” He shrugged. “Being alone.”
Puzzlement wrinkled my forehead. “Alone? You’re not alone. You have Frick’s pillow, Frack’s cot, and comfort food from Clem. If you need entertainment, you have Taysom’s music mixes or Haley’s DVDs. Your family’s here. They care.”
Duncan looked confused. And exhausted.
I gave him a quick hug. “Sleep on it, Dunc. Maybe it’ll make more sense in the morning.”
As I drove home from the station I couldn’t stop thinking about how the radio staff had turned a storeroom into a safe, loving place for one of their own. Only one thing was missing. Nowhere in that storeroom was a piece of my heart, something to show Duncan I cared.
“Loved the new show, Chloe. I’ve got this great idea for . . .”
“Hey, Chloe, nice shoes! Maybe you can show me where you go thrifting someday.”
As I hurried to Portable Five the next morning, I heard the words but didn’t listen. I was too worried about Duncan. The security guard or custodians may have discovered him. He may need toothpaste or breakfast. I clutched a steaming brown-paper bag in my hand. A breakfast burrito from Dos Hermanas, the Mexican equivalent of eggs and cheese on toast.
When I walked into Portable Five, Duncan stood on a ladder in the middle of the newsroom changing the batteries in the smoke alarm. Just looking at him, no one could have guessed he’d been slugged by his meth-addict mother; had a close encounter of the ugly kind with her scumbag, drug-dealing boyfriend; and slept the night on a Boy Scout cot in a dirty storeroom. Only the damp bottom layers of Duncan’s hair and faint smell of the pink soap used in the gym locker room hinted at anything out of the ordinary.
Not surprisingly, Duncan didn’t mention last night, nor did any of the staff as they trickled in. It was business as usual as Clem prepared the morning news, Taysom and Haley recorded something in the production studio, and Frick and Frack sat at a computer going through KDRS e-mail, which, after my Heartbeats show, had quadrupled.
Despite Brie and her dead-guinea-pig story, Heartbeats was a hit.
Throughout the week, dozens of people stopped me in the hallway or in class to tell me they loved the new show. A local television station called for an interview. My celebrity status reached all-new heavenly heights. Yet I didn’t hear the chorus of angels or feel light-headed from being on top of the world. I was too busy worrying about people I cared about.
All week Duncan continued to sleep in the storeroom at the radio station. To their credit, Duncan and the KDRS staffers were discreet. At night Duncan kept off all lights, and whenever he needed food or clean laundry, the staffers carried things in their backpacks.
As for Grams, she was back in the Tuna Can and acting as if the fire and flood had never happened. Mom was gathering medical records and talking to an attorney in hush-hush tones about things like “self-determination,” “incompetence,” and “conservatorship.”
And then there was Merce. On Wednesday morning, I walked through the school parking lot when my former best friend, her arms loaded with books, cornered me. “Have you seen Brie?” Merce asked with a tremor in her voice.
“Uh, no. In case you forgot, we’re not exactly besties these days.”
“She isn’t returning my calls, and this morning when I went to her house, she wouldn’t answer the door even though her car was still in the driveway. Do you know what’s going on with her?”
“Merce, seriously, the last discussion Brie and I had was about a dead guinea pig.”
“But she’s been gone all week. All week.” The top two books fell from the stack in Merce’s trembling arms.
I stooped to pick them up but didn’t place them on the load in her arms. As a rule, Merce was no drama queen, but she was clearly upset. Unfortunately for her, Brie and I no longer breathed air from the same planet. “And you want me to do what? Put out an all-points bulletin on the radio?”
Merce shifted her books to her other arm, and her mouth quirked as she must have realized the ridiculousness of asking me to help track down Brie. “I . . . I’m sorry, Chloe. I shouldn’t be coming to you with this. But these days when it comes to Brie, I’m lost. She’s not making sense.”
And Merce, with her logical, analytical mind, struggled with things that didn’t make sense. Of course, I owed Merce nothing. She’d sided with Brie, bailed on me, and never once tried to stop the lies or mean gossip. But old habits, and maybe old friendships, died hard. “You okay?” I asked.
A deep sigh rocked her chest and she shook her head. “But I’ll get through it.” She grabbed her books from me, two fat SAT guides, and walked away.
Without consciously deciding to, I looked for Brie all day. I found myself searching through the bodies near the ficus tree, in the hallway outside Brie’s locker, and at lunch table fourteen.
At the end of lunch period I spotted a blond-haired girl sitting on a bench at the far end of the drop-off/pick-up loop, but I figured it couldn’t be Brie. Like me, Brie didn’t do “alone.” But as I drew closer, I got a better look at the solitary figure.
She wore no makeup, no signature diamond earrings, but it was Brie. Oddly enough, even without her frosty pink lips and chunks of ice in her ears, she looked ice-cold as she glared at me.
I hurried away, shivering.
Program Name: Chloe, Queen of the Universe
On Air: Chloe
Boards: Duncan
Friday
HOUR ONE
00 Underwriter Spot
01 Legal ID, Sweep, Banter with Clem, Parkinson’s Disease Intro 05 PD fast facts
10 Event Cal, Weather
15 Sweep, PD calls
20 PD calls
25 PD calls
30 News
35 Sweep, Substance Abuse/Addiction opening
40 PSA
42 SA/A fast facts
50 SA/A counselor interview
55 SA/A calls (flow into hour two)
59 Underwriter Spot
“ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY NO!” CLEMENTINE DROPPED THE notebook with my format clock on my desk with a loud splat.
I shoved my notes at her. “It’s my show. I get to do what I want.” Even to my own ears, I sounded bratty, but I didn’t care.
She waved at the sheets of paper as if she were fanning the stink off old garbage. “But this kind of show isn’t you.”
“How do you know who I am?” I grabbed the last Twizzler in the bag on my desk and tried to find a peaceful, happy place, because tomorrow I had another live Queen Chloe show and the kingdom was in chaos.
Clementine let out a dragon sigh. “I know who Queen Chloe is. She’s funny, at times irreverent, and more than mildly entertaining.” She pointed at my format clock, which detailed in five-minute increments what I’d cover on my upcoming show. “Parkinson’s disease isn’t entertaining, and topic number two isn’t much better. Substance abuse and addiction? My gawwwwwd, Chloe, what the hell are you thinking?”
Exactly. I was thinking. I rubbed at the thoughts hammering my skull. I was thinking about Parkinson’s and meth and upended worlds.
Clem dragged a chair to my desk and sat in front of me. “What’s going on?” She stared at me with a gaze that didn’t waver. She was observant and not afraid to dig deep for the truth, which would make her a great journalist. “You are not going on the air until you talk.” Her dragon snout barely twitched.
I rubbed at my head, then finally said, “I’m worried. I’m worried about the giant shoe that’s about to stomp Grams and the Tuna Can, and I’m worried that the guy I’m starting to care for is up against a monster.” I motioned to my format clock. “I’ve been researching meth. It’s a huge, loud, destructive beast. When it’s in a room, there’s no space for anything else, no people or feelings or words. No wonder Duncan’s so disconnected. And he’s getting worse. Have you noticed he hasn’t laughed all week? Not once.”
“We can’t laugh all the time,” Clem said. “We have to experience sad times, too. They make us a
ppreciate the good times. And Duncan’s strong. He’ll get through this.”
“You sound like a Hallmark card.”
Clementine grabbed both sides of her hair. “Shoot me and put me out of my misery.”
I aimed my Twizzler at her and made a gunshot sound that would have done Haley proud.
“Seriously,” Clem went on, “do you want to spend an hour talking about Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s? Do you think that kind of stuff will be of genuine interest to the audience you’ve built? And do you really want your callers phoning in to talk about substance abuse and addiction?” Clem shuddered. “Duncan, for one, doesn’t need to hear that.”
I stuffed the entire Twizzler into my mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “You’re right.”
“What?” Clem thwacked her ear, vaudeville style. “What did you say?”
I let out a sound that was part groan, part laugh. “Clementine Radmore is one hundred percent, unequivocally right. Do you want me to get on the air and issue a royal proclamation?”
“Can you?”
I ignored the grin on her face. I was a talk show host, and tomorrow I was expected to talk. “Ideas, please.”
Clementine leaned back in a chair and crossed her ankles. “You mentioned your JISP a few times on air. Have you ever thought about a show on the whole JISP thing? It’s timely. I finished my literacy program at the school for kids of migrant workers, and Haley’s almost done with her diaper drive. Beyond the human interest stuff, there are some classically hilarious JISP stories out there, like Lizzy Delgado, who organized that Girl Scout lock-in last year and accidentally booked a male stripper as entertainment. Plus, JISPs give us plenty of options for sidebar discussions. We can talk about the causes people work for and are passionate about. We can put together a list of local nonprofits and their most pressing needs. You could even interview Ms. Lungren.”
“I’d never get her to shut up. JISPs are her life.”
“Honestly, she’d be good.”
On Friday, I learned Clem was right. Again.
For Chloe, Queen of the Universe, I interviewed A. Lungren live. My counselor was an articulate and enthusiastic speaker about the subject of community service, and she even managed to ditch her annoying kitty purr. After the interview, Duncan broke to the news and Ms. Lungren took off her headphones.
“I’m so proud of you, Chloe, for all you’ve done for the radio station,” she said. “KDRS does so much good for the school and our community. I’d hate to see it taken off the air.”
What did a do-gooder like Ms. Lungren see? Did she see Frack, a boy who stutters, find his voice? Did she see Haley wrapped in a cocoon of people who accepted her and the child growing in her belly? Did she see this building as Duncan’s refuge? And mine?
“Funding-wise, we’re good through May,” I said. “But I’m not sure about next year. We’re going to need not just operating expenses but big bucks for new equipment. There’s only so much Duncan can do with duct tape.”
Ms. Lungren made a soft, purring noise. “Hmmm . . . a capital-improvement-campaign proposal.” Her kitty nose twitched, like a cat eyeing a new mouse squeak toy. “Might be a wonderful JISP project for someone next year. It wouldn’t have to be someone as outgoing as you, Chloe, but someone good at mobilizing people and money. Someone who excels at organization . . .”
I wanted to laugh. I was in the presence of a guidance counselor who still thought she could make a difference. A rare species. I slipped on my headphones for the next segment of my show.
During the next hour, we talked about superheroes, including those on Saturday morning cartoons and real-life heroes. No one seemed to notice that I talked less and took more calls than usual. Tonight the minions had run of the castle.
On Monday, the second official installment of Heartbeats, I figured I’d also be able to lie low because we’d have plenty of calls, given Valentine’s Day was coming up. Everyone wanted to talk about love.
Right before Heartbeats kicked off, Clementine gave me the thirty-second hand signal and said over the mic, “If Guinea Pig Girl calls, she’s not getting through.”
I wondered what was going on with Brie and if she’d call the station again with something more appalling than dead guinea pigs. Not knowing what was going on behind Brie’s beautiful face was worse than her rumors, because rumors, even those based on lies, were known. Like Grams had said, an active imagination made the unknown a frightening place.
I kicked off the first hour of Heartbeats talking about the most romantic movies of all times. Haley put together her top five: Titanic, Casablanca, Zefferelli’s Romeo and Juliet, Cocteau’s haunting black-and-white Beauty and the Beast, and another 1939 fave, Gone with the Wind.
“My vote goes to Casablanca,” I said. “Gotta love Ingrid Bergman’s shoes.”
The calls poured in.
“Ghost, that old eighties movie where the guy dies but can’t leave his love, is sooooo romantic.”
Another caller loved West Side Story. “I think what makes it so incredibly romantic is they can’t have each other, and so many times we want what we can’t have.”
I let the callers have free will, and we moved from movies about romantic love to movies about other kinds of love.
“Schindler’s List. A man who loves humanity.”
“Dr. Doolittle. A man who loves animals.”
Animals. Guinea pigs. Would Brie call? Would the hammer come down tonight? By the end of the hour, still no Brie.
At the break for news, Duncan said, “You’re pretty quiet tonight.” He sat in the chair next to me folding a piece of paper. If he was trying to make a paper airplane, it was looking pretty bleak. Too round. Too lopsided. Maybe I wasn’t the only one having a bad night.
“Got a thing against quiet girls?” I picked at a hole in the chair armrest.
He chuckled. “No.” His fingers continued to fold and tear. “I was wondering if you had plans for Valentine’s Day. I have this idea . . .”
When he looked up, all thoughts of Brie fled. The silver of his eyes sparked with something that lit a fire in the center of my chest. He handed me the paper, which I now recognized as an origami heart.
“It’s nothing fancy, and you might not even want to do it.” Duncan shucked his hand through his hair. “But if you’re free and you don’t have anyone else to hang out with on Valentine’s Day, then maybe you—”
“Duncan . . .” I grabbed him by the scarf and pulled him toward me.
“What?”
“Shut up.” Over the past month I’d changed. I left my old clan. I joined the radio staff. I was listening more. But some things about me would never change. I still loved spicy salsa bars, I still had orange-red curls, and I was still bold, still Chloe.
I raised my face to his. The spark as our lips met was a thousand snapping bonfires.
From the look on his face, Duncan felt it, too. He snagged in a few deep breaths. “I guess that means you’ll go out with me on Valentine’s Day?”
“I’ll be there. With bells on my toes.”
His gaze shot to my feet, where I wore a pair of sixties sequined platform wedges.
I swatted him on the arm. “It’s an expression, Dunc.”
With my mind on all things Duncan and Valentine’s Day, I took a greater interest in the second hour of my show, during which we talked about Valentine’s Day food. One caller explained how to make a chocolate fondue spread. Another caller said she put together a picnic one year with all red and white and pink foods. I looked at Duncan and thought of eggs and cheese on toast.
It was the bottom of the hour and Brie—Cheese Girl, Dead-Guinea-Pig Caller, whatever you wanted to call her—hadn’t dialed in. There was something creepy about her silence. Like me, Brie needed to be noticed.
About five minutes before signing off, Clementine flashed the name of my next caller, and I smiled.
“Hey, callers, Brad’s back,” I said as Duncan patched the call through. “Remember him? He’s our sile
nt, suffering poet with a major crush. Well, Brad, how’d it go with your ladylove?”
A nice, dramatic beat of silence filled the air before Brad said, “She hated it.”
“What?”
“My poem. I took my favorite poem, wrote it on fancy paper, and put it in her locker. She read it”—a choky sound waffled over the line—“and shoved it at me, like she was embarrassed or afraid of it. Of me.”
Some people were mean. Time for a bit of Chloe cheer. “This girl, who obviously doesn’t have good taste in poetry or guys, made a whopper of a mistake, and that’s her problem, not yours. Now, what I want you to do is write a—”
“But that’s not all,” Brad went on, as if I said nothing, “her friends found me after school in the parking lot, three of them. They told me to stay away from her.”
“Ahhhhh, Brad—”
“They said not to come within three feet of her or I’d be sorry.” His voice cracked.
Brad was hurting. I didn’t want to use the Great Silencer on him, but I needed to end the call. Clementine gave me a wrist twirl, the signal to wrap up things. “So let’s talk about how—”
“I went home,” Brad barreled on. “At first I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. It was as if my heart had been ripped from my chest, and not only that, someone had thrown it in the middle of the lunchroom, and everyone stomped all over it. Blood was everywhere.”
I fought a wave of wooziness. “Brad, we need—”
“Then I stopped crying. Maybe I ran out of tears or maybe there was no more blood to pour out of the huge hole in my chest.”
Duncan placed his hand on my arm. Duncan. Always at my side.
Brad must have arrived at a more peaceful place, because when he talked next, his words were steadier. “I took all the poems I’d written to her, more than twenty, and I burned them one after another, lots of hot flames and curling, snapping paper. Now I have a pile of ashes.”
Time to take control of the airwaves. “Okay, that’s not a bad thing, Brad. You crushed hard, she didn’t crush back, but you’re not hanging on to her. This is good.”
“No, Chloe, it’s not good.” Brad hung up.
Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe Page 17
