Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe

by Coriell, Shelley

  “And if you need boxes for packing, Grams still has quite a few. I could bring them over, but I’m not sure if they’d fit in my car. Maybe I could borrow my mom’s van.”

  This time Brie shrugged.

  Fine. This was not the time for useless chatter. I had things I needed to say to Brie, but not here in this ghost house, quiet and empty, soulless. “Can we go outside?”

  On phantom feet, Brie turned and headed for the back door. We walked onto the deck and down the steps to the Sonderbys’ crescent moon beach. I looked at the sand, making sure ghosty Brie left footprints. Fiddling with a curl at my cheek I wondered how to talk to a ghost. How could I make her understand the things I needed to say?

  To my surprise, Brie spoke first. “I didn’t start the fire.”

  I slipped off my sandals and dug my toes into the sand. This was probably a good place to start. “I didn’t think you did, but I gave your name to the fire investigator because he asked if I had any people who may have been mad at me. There was that whole guinea pig thing and the Mistletoe Ball and—”

  “Chloe?”

  I clamped my lips together.

  “Shut up.” She held her hands over her ears, then gave her head a shake. “Man, I forgot how much you talk.”

  Sure I talked, but now I listened, and as we walked through the cool, powdery sand, I listened to the seagulls and rush of water, and I listened to my heart. I could never go back to who I was. I’d changed too much, and something told me Brie had, too.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  “I came by to apologize,” I said. “For the whole Mistletoe Ball thing. For being so caught up in me, for not being there for you. Honestly, I didn’t even notice you were hurting so bad that night. I’m sorry, Brie, and I’m sorry I was too consumed with family stuff over winter break to check in with you. I said it before, but I need to make sure you know that.”

  We walked along the water’s edge. The waves barely rippled this part of beach. No squawking seagulls. No motorboats. Quiet enough to hear yourself think. Brie seemed to be thinking. Her teeth gnawed at her lower lip.

  “Three words, Brie, that’s all I need. I need you to say, I forgive you. Work with me, okay?”

  A rusty rumble that might have been a laugh teetered on her lips. “I forgive you.”

  I breathed in the words, let them swirl through my lungs and brush past my heart. They were three simple words so easily given and received. I couldn’t imagine where I’d be today if Brie and I had had this exchange in January.

  We reached the small dock where Brie’s dad’s boat used to be tethered. Today the dock was empty. The winds of change were storming in a big way in the Sonderby universe.

  “When are you moving?” I asked.

  “Next weekend.” Brie ran her foot along the sand, digging a shallow line. “Mom and I got a condo in San Diego. Pretty nice. Exercise center, indoor pool, and private beach. She enrolled me at a school. I start next Monday.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Brie’s toes dug deeper, wider, the sugary sand giving way to damp clumps. I stood still. Waiting. Listening. The channel grew.

  “My parents are getting a divorce,” she said.

  I leaned against the post on the vacant dock. “I kind of guessed that.”

  “It’s been ugly.” Brie kicked at the sand. “My dad, he’s been cheating on my mom for years.”

  “Brie, you don’t have to . . .”

  Brie turned to me, a painful need pulling at her spectral eyes. “He’s had a ton of affairs, always with young women, bodies not brains. Mom always ignored it, always pretended that we were the perfect family. But in December, Mom couldn’t ignore it any more. Dad asked for a divorce because—get this—his eighteen-year-old girlfriend is pregnant.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Mom didn’t take it too well. She has a hard time with messy situations. She fell into a major funk. Me, too.”

  “I’m sorry.” Not that it was my fault, but I didn’t want to see anyone hurting.

  Brie climbed out of the trench she’d dug. “I’m not. It was a wake-up call. Mom needed to make some changes in her life, and Dad’s pregnant eighteen-year-old girlfriend kind of forced it. Mom’s getting stronger.”

  “And you?”

  Brie started walking back to her house. I followed.

  “I hate them, you know. I hate my dad’s plastic-boobed girlfriend, and I hate the baby. That’s pretty sick, isn’t it, hating a baby that’s not even here yet? But honestly, I hate my dad the most.”

  “Because you love him the most. When you give someone your love, you give them power over you.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been seeing a therapist, too?”

  “Grams.” I cocked my head. “Or maybe it was Loretta Hooper Chesterfield Hayes on Passion Bay.”

  “You want to hear something really twisted?” She kicked at the sand again. “I’ve spent the past six months hating you. Even before the Mistletoe Ball there were times when I couldn’t stand to be around you. I hated that you had parents who genuinely loved each other. I hated that you had the world’s greatest grandma and five older brothers who adored you. I hated that you had the perfect family life.”

  Now was not the time to mention the black hole, Parkinson’s, and three-wheeled bikes with flat tires.

  “I hated how people always gravitated toward you when we used to walk down the hall or sit in the lunchroom.” Brie’s ghosty face had heated, and two swirls of red dotted her cheeks. “I hated how when the whole school was supposed to hate you, you found a bunch of friends at the radio station, started your own radio empire, and became the most popular girl in the school again.”

  The hate wasn’t mine. It was Brie’s. I couldn’t control Brie’s feelings. I couldn’t make her world bright and sunny. Only she could do that.

  “Do you still hate me?” Curiosity, not need, fueled the question.

  “Truthfully?” Her eyes turned frosty, her mouth hard. “Sometimes.”

  Not everyone loves Chloe.

  Yeah, tell me something I didn’t already know.

  Call A. Lungren. ASAP.

  G.

  “SIT.”

  Ms. Lungren pointed to the chair across from her desk. She wasn’t smiling, nor was I as I clicked across the floor of her office in my 1920 red-clay sling-back pinup pumps. Many things had changed over the past three months, but not my need for a good pair of vintage shoes when I needed a little pick-me-up.

  Today was the last day of March, and tomorrow I would present my JISP oral presentation, which I’d officially named, Shut Up and Listen: A Junior Independent Study Project by a Queen Without a Castle.

  Last week I’d quietly finished my written JISP, using the copious notes I’d taken during my time with KDRS 88.8 The Edge. I’d documented my promotional efforts, kept track of the rise in calls, and even did another survey last week at lunch table fourteen. The data was impressive. Ninety-nine point eight percent of respondents had heard of the station. Only two claimed total cluelessness. One was a foreign exchange student, the other a senior stoner. Yeah, the fire probably had a wee bit to do with KDRS’s widespread notoriety, but that was one bad day. Okay, one catastrophic day, but before the fire, people were listening to the station. They were excited about my talk shows and calling in. And, yes, I was making menudo out of cow intestines.

  In addition to facts and figures, my JISP included my thoughts about the people of KDRS. I shared my feelings about Frack conquering his stutter and Clementine using the station as a launching point for her career. I wrote about Duncan finding fun and Haley finding people who noticed her, not her belly. And I wrote about me, about how getting a voice on radio made me shut up and listen.

  I’d bundled the entire report, a hefty twenty-nine pages in Times New Roman 12, into a folder complete with graphs and listener fan mail. This morning my written JISP sat squarely on A. Lungren’s desk, the cover page slashed with her red spiky writing, like she’d taken h
er little kitty claws to it. I crossed my ankles and pressed my lips together. I did what I could. It wasn’t the time for pleading or arguing or jokes. Worst-case scenario: Ms. Lungren fails me, my parents go ballistic, I never get into Harvard, and the world will see that I’m not as brilliant as the rest of my family.

  Deep breath in. Don’t worry about things you can’t control. Deep breath out.

  Ms. Lungren slid her paws over my report. “Your JISP has been quite the adventure, hasn’t it?”

  I tore my gaze from the bleeding pages. “Yes.” I didn’t expect to play Garbage Games and make friends with a fire-breathing dragon and have my heart dip and sway like I was on a roller coaster. I didn’t expect to care about whether or not the station breathed its last breath.

  Ms. Lungren skimmed through my JISP pages. More red. I swallowed my heart, which had traveled up my throat.

  “KDRS ended up being something you’re passionate about, it seems,” she said.

  I nodded. Passion was, after all, the number one criteria for a JISP. In my report I shared my passion for the station and the staff. I bared my heart and wrote about what it felt like to be a queen without a castle.

  Ms. Lungren slipped her cat-eye glasses from her twitching nose, letting them swing on the chain hanging around her neck. “But it certainly didn’t turn out all right in the end, did it?”

  I shook my head and bit my tongue. I’d executed an in-depth study, and I’d shown leadership and networking skills with the goal of making a meaningful contribution to my community. It was all there in my report and on my sleeve.

  Tears welled in my eyes.

  I wished Duncan were here.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Those two words unleashed more apologies I couldn’t hold back. “I’m sorry about the fire. I’m sorry Brad’s stupid crush hurt him. I’m sorry Clementine won’t have a radio station to run her senior year. I’m sorry Haley’s DVDs burned, especially all those movies from 1939, which really is the best year ever in film history. I’m sorry Duncan won’t have a place to go when people like Stu come around. I’m sorry . . .” On and on the words flowed.

  “Are you done?” Ms. Lungren asked when my apology tapered off.

  No more words. No more tears. I nodded.

  “Good.” Ms. Lungren closed my JISP report. “No matter how hard we try, some things don’t go as planned. It’s a real-world lesson, Chloe, hard, but real.”

  The real world hurt. I knuckled away the tears. “So what now? Is there any way I can salvage a pass on my JISP? Maybe I can do the shoe project this summer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I pointed to the bludgeoned report. “Aren’t you failing me?”

  “Fail?” Ms. Lungren’s kitty nose twitched. “Not yet, unless you perform dismally on the orals.” She leaned toward me. “You are giving your oral presentation tomorrow, aren’t you?” Her face and voice were suddenly lionlike.

  “But all that red? It doesn’t look like you were too happy with my written report.”

  “Oh, those are my notes.” She tapped my folder. “Your JISP got me thinking about the importance of specialized programs like the radio station. I’ve been talking to school admin. They indicated there are no funds for a new station, and it’s clear Mr. Martinez’s heart isn’t in radio. But admin, along with the school district, believe in the spirit of the station and they’d like to see the program not limited to the Del Rey School students. They’re considering a magnet program open to high school students throughout town.” She wore a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. “So I’ve been talking to Clementine and researching student-run radio stations. Most of the traditional high school radio stations that were so successful in the eighties and nineties have been shut down because of aging equipment and budget cuts. We’re seeing more and more high schools turn to streaming content on the Internet. This change could actually save the station.”

  “Torching the station is one way to bring about change,” I said.

  “Not the ideal way. But at its heart, a JISP is designed to create positive change or action. This change in transmission and turning the station into a magnet program could very well be what needs to happen to keep KDRS on the air. Change can be a great thing.”

  Yes, the world was full of change. You lost best friends. You gained new ones. Grandmas gave up tuna cans and gave life to black holes. Boys with broad shoulders and heavy loads could find fun with garbage and girls with poppy-colored hair.

  Ms. Lungren reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a folder. “Assuming these changes take place, I need to make sure you’re on board.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If this new program gets district approval, we’ll need to have a few knowledgeable staffers in key positions for next year. Clementine has already agreed to be GM, and while it’s still to be decided if there will be talk-show format programs, I was hoping you’d take on the role of business manager.”

  I uncrossed my ankles, then crossed them again. “Honestly, I’d love to stay on with the radio station, but I don’t think Clementine would go for it.” Radio was her life. To me it was a hobby, albeit a fun one. I knew I didn’t want to be a doctor, like my brothers, but I couldn’t see myself in radio, either. With all the free time I had the past few weeks, I managed to crank out an A-plus in econ. Maybe someday I’d run a business, like Dos Hermanas.

  Ms. Lungren’s nose twitched. “Why would you say Clementine wouldn’t go for it?”

  “She hates me.”

  “That’s silly. Everyone likes you.”

  I choked out a laugh. Had Ms. Lungren found the catnip?

  “Chloe, this isn’t a joke.”

  I continued to laugh until my chest ached, because sometimes you needed to laugh.

  Dark, musty air swallowed me as I walked into the Del Rey School auditorium. I squinted through the semidarkness to the chairs in front, where the three-member JISP review board sat before the stage, lit by a single spotlight. The oral presentation scheduled before mine had ended, and a very relieved junior walked offstage into the arms of family and friends gathered in support all things JISP-y.

  I hitched the bag that contained the single prop for my JISP. Today I donned the most vintage of all my shoes. On my feet sparkled a pair of French kid beaded one-strap Grecian pumps, circa 1890. Sometimes a girl needed the strength of shoes that survived more than a century to help her get through a fifteen-minute JISP.

  When I reached the front of the auditorium, Ms. Lungren looked at me and smiled. She sat in the middle seat, a laptop balanced on her knees. On either side sat teachers who I probably would have recognized if I wasn’t so nervous. All I could concentrate on was the booming of my heart. It sounded like a basketball whooshing through a metal hoop and broadcast over a loud speaker at full blast.

  “Are you ready, Ms. Camden?” Ms. Lungren asked. Her earnest face screamed, You can do it, Chloe!

  I nodded.

  One of the other teachers looked around and frowned. “Are you sure?”

  I shifted from one marvelous Grecian pump to the other, refusing to look at the empty auditorium seats behind the JISP review board. Dad was out of town at a conference, and Mom had gotten called into emergency surgery. Of course, Grams couldn’t drive. As for friends, that was laughable. A part of me had hoped Duncan would make it home for my JISP, but compared to what his mom was going through, my JISP was of miniscule importance.

  “Yes, I’m ready.” With a sharp nod, I walked up the stage steps and positioned myself in the center of the spotlight. I didn’t need the easels or projection screen, because I hadn’t brought any display boards or a PowerPoint presentation. I set my bag on the podium.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Repeat. Four times.

  As I opened my mouth, footsteps clattered down the aisle.

  When you’re onstage in the spotlight, you can’t see into the audience. I squinted and shaded my face with my hands.

  Grams! The smile froze halfway to my lips. Had she stolen
a car?

  A shape shifted behind Grams. I squinted, and something gently tugged at the center of my chest. Merce. The smart one. This time, she stopped what she was doing and gave Grams a ride. I wanted to rush off the stage and hug her. The door opened again, and a group shuffled into seats in the shadowy middle section: Clementine, followed by Haley, Taysom, Frick, and Frack.

  I steadied my hands on the podium to keep from pumping them in the air. No one, not even the vilest of villainesses, deserved to be alone for her oral JISP presentation. My throat swelled, and I couldn’t speak. I silently ticked off the rules for natural-sounding delivery Clem pounded into my head all those weeks ago. Breathe between units of thought. Don’t look down at notes, because it’ll close airways. Imagine I’m talking to a friend.

  I focused on that shadowy middle place in the center of the auditorium. “Sometimes change sneaks up on you, carried in on the breath of spring, sliding through the sun-soaked waves of summer, breezing along the whisper and crackle of fall. Other times change prefers a more direct route. It comes down fast and hard.” I reached into my bag and took out my lone prop. Wham! “Like a ginormous hammer . . .”

  As I walked away from the stage, Ms. Lungren was purring with delight, and Grams met me in the aisle.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” I said with a giant hug.

  “Thank Mercedes,” Grams said. “She called me this morning to find out when your JISP was scheduled, and when she discovered I didn’t have a ride, she offered in a heartbeat.”

  Merce stepped out from the shadows.

  The radio staffers hadn’t left their seats. They were giving me private time with Merce.

  This afternoon Merce didn’t look agitated like the day she’d been searching for Brie. She looked at peace and happy, like she had at the bonfire the night of the Tardeada. “So why’d you come?” I asked.

  Her mouth quirked in a half smile. “You make me laugh.”

  So simple and true. I spent much of last year trying to put a smile on Merce’s face after her mother died.

  “And I need to tell you . . .” Merce reached into her backpack and took out a bag of Twizzlers. “I’m sorry.”