The Charlotte Chronicles

by Jen Frederick

  Mom shrugs. “It’s true.” Leaning over, she smooths a hand around my cheek. “If it’s meant to be, love survives anything, even separations.”

  “But you and Dad weren’t separated,” I protest. “You just said so.”

  “We had our own tests,” she said. “And we passed because that’s what love is. It’s about overcoming the obstacles in your path—both the ones you erect and the ones people throw your way. But in order to do that, you have to decide whether it is worth your time and effort.”

  I heave a sigh. Before I left, everything was amazing, and now I feel so insecure. “Are you telling me to grow up?” I ask, a bit disgruntled.

  “Nope,” she says with a slight smile. “I kind of want you to be my baby forever. You’re growing up, even if your dad, myself, and you aren’t ready for it to happen.”

  “But you are saying that if I want something, I need to work hard to keep it.”

  Mom grabs my hands and squeezes tight. “Not just work hard, baby, but fight. You’ve got to fight for what you want. You fought to beat this cancer. Everything else is so easy from there.”

  “Is it?” There’s a hitch in my voice I can’t hide. “Because it seems like fighting for what you want can be really painful.”

  “Anything worth having is.”

  * * *

  Nate doesn’t text me until the early evening hours. The seven hour time difference usually means I get a text in the middle of the night, which I read in the morning, and then one when Nate gets up in the morning, which is about tea time here.

  I wonder all day whether Nate will bring up the party or whether I should. Mom gives me covert stares of worry as I pick at my food at lunch. The pale light of twilight settles in before I finally get a text, only it’s not Nate but his brother.

  We partied late. Didn’t get to sleep until three this morning. Go easy on him.

  Miss you. Heard you were coming over for my birthday.

  After, I think. Have baseball. When will you be back?

  Aug or Sept. Things are going well.

  Great. We’ll have a rager when you get back. c ya soon.

  Nate’s texts are followed on the heels of Nick’s, as if Nick told him it was safe.

  Sorry I didn’t text you this morning. Slept in. Epic headache.

  From an epic hangover?

  How’d you guess? Nick?

  No. North Prep telephone ring.

  Milhawk’s basement. Had to do the shots that Nick couldn’t. Keeping him on the straight and narrow.

  Sounds fun.

  Three texts. No mention of the picture.

  Missed you.

  Me too.

  Let’s Skype later. What time?

  I don’t want to. He didn’t bring up the picture. Maybe he’d been too drunk, and he didn’t even know it was taken. Maybe. Whatever the excuse may be, my feelings are still hurt, and I want time to get over it. I don’t want to be that girl—jealous and clingy and needy. Not only would Nate not like that, but I wouldn’t have much respect for myself. So until I can get into the right frame of mind, I don’t want to talk to him in a setting where I’m apt to blurt out some baseless accusation.

  Can’t. Treatment. Studies. In fact, I’ve got to run.

  Sorry C. Should’ve gotten up early. Know that’s the best time for you.

  It’s okay. Love you.

  I power down my phone so I’m not tempted to read any responses.

  “I’m going down to the game room,” I tell my mom. She waves a pen at me. All this technology and she still marks up reports with a pen.

  The hotel is adjacent to the hospital, and many of the patients and their families stay here. There are mostly two or three room suites or mini apartments along with an indoor pool, gym, and a game room for the kids.

  “New girl,” a voice barks when I walk into the room. The game room contains arcades, a pool table, multiple televisions with different game consoles, and, the favorite, a virtual reality room.

  “You there,” the voice calls again. I turn and see a boy about my age sitting in a lounge chair just outside the VR room. I haven’t seen him before so he must be the new person.

  Despite his rudeness, I stroll over because I’m one of the oldest of the under-eighteen set. Most of the kids here are younger, which makes it both bittersweet and a bit boring. Insolent or not, he’s more intriguing to me than the rest of the crowd.

  As I draw closer, the fine features under his beanie cap look very familiar. “Oh, wait aren’t you—”

  Before I can say his name, though, he cuts me off. “Yes,” he says with an imperious wave for me to come forward. Like royalty, I guess he expects me to genuflect or something. “Who are you?”

  I’ve never been this close to someone famous. There were a few times we sat in the front row of a concert at the United Center, but this guy’s parents are on the cover of some magazine nearly every week. “Um, no one. I mean, Charlotte Randolph, but my parents aren’t famous . . .” like yours, I finish silently. I can tell he doesn’t want me to say their names out loud. Maybe no one else recognizes him here. I glance around and see that no one is paying us any attention. But if he stepped out in any U.S. mall, he’d be mobbed, and not just because of his parents’ fame but his own. His dark eyes and cut torso were part of a major label’s campaign last summer. It surprises me to see him here.

  “But they must have a lot of money if you are here.” He narrows his eyes at me, as if squinting will bring clarity.

  “I guess. My mom runs an investment fund, and my dad’s in construction.” I sit myself in a chair opposite him.

  “So what’re you here for?”

  “Tumor. It’s excised. I have a shunt and am undergoing chemo/radiation.”

  “With drugs not allowed in the U.S.?”

  I nod.

  “Ha, me too. Stem cell washing. Lots of drugs. And weed, of course.” He pats his lap where I see a small metal container.

  “Weed?”

  “Yeah, don’t you get any?”

  I shake my head.

  “Shit, your parents must be withholding from you. Poor girl. Let me know if you want some.” He wiggles the box at me.

  “No thanks. Did you just get here?”

  “Yeah, my cancer was in remission all of a year. Isn’t that grand? But now it’s back, and I’m here. I thought I’d be bored but maybe not.” The examination he gives me is rather insulting, but in spite of that I can see how we’re going to end up spending time together. There isn’t anyone else around. We’re on our own desert island.

  “You looked great in the ad campaign,” I say lamely. “And you still look great. Really healthy.” That is no lie. His face is full, and his hair is shiny. He looks ruddy and built—not the slender gauntness that marks so many of us.

  “Have to bulk up between bouts. Plus steroids and human growth hormones are considered appropriate treatment.” He flexes, and I see the outline of biceps. He’s not as muscular as Nathan or Nick, but I give him a smile of approval. I don’t want him to feel bad. Looking good is probably very important where he lives. “What’s your story? You got anyone back home?”

  “Yes,” I nod emphatically. “His name is Nathan. You?”

  “Nah, I’ll probably hook up with one of the nurses. Did my tutor the last time I was here. But maybe I’ll have other options this time.” This time his perusal makes me frown because I know what he’s suggesting and I’m not interested. “What’s your Nathan like?”

  “Strong, smart. Very kind.” Wonderful but maybe not being entirely truthful with me. I don’t say the last part out loud. That’s between me and Nathan, and not to be shared with this rude stranger.

  “No, I mean, does he have the hero syndrome, or is he a narcissist?”

  “Neither,” I scowl at him.

  He waves off my answer. “Don’t be naive. He’s either the hero because he gets off on this idea that he’s saving you—like a firefighter who starts fires so he can save people—or he’s a
narcissist who gets off looking like a good guy by being with you.”

  “You have a really dismal outlook about people. Nathan isn’t like that. We were friends a long time before we became a couple.” I don’t even know why I’m explaining myself.

  “So you guys dated before you got sick?”

  “No. We were friends. His father and my mother are in business together. His dad and my dad have been best friends since junior high school.”

  He chews on his thumb. “Did you sleep together before you were sick?”

  “No.” I pinken. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Then narcissist. He’s boning you because it makes him appear like he’s making a huge sacrifice. ‘See Nathan willing to have sex with the gimp. What a hero!’”

  “I’m not gimpy,” I protest.

  “Hey, it’s your funeral. I had a girl I dated before I got sick. She even shaved her hair in solidarity when I got the diagnosis. Everyone told her how brave she was. I was the one fucking losing my hair, but she’s the brave one. I punted her. Screwed her two best friends.” He stretches out his arm and cracks his knuckles. “Then I took her back and licked her tears of sadness. Best boner ever. Screwed her and kicked her out like the pathetic narcissist she was.”

  “You’re really kind of horrible, aren’t you?” I say, feeling a bit shocked by his commentary. Then I remember seeing Internet articles about him during his first round with cancer. Many of the comments were that the girlfriend was so awesome for sticking by this guy as if she was doing him a favor. The memory chills me a bit.

  “I’m a realist, sugar. And you will be too by the time you’re done with treatment.”

  “So it’s a bitter party for one now?” I ask. I shift in my seat wondering if I should leave or face him down. We’re going to be thrown together because of language and age and illness. If I turn tail and run, he’ll needle me forever, but I’m not well equipped for this kind of fighting.

  “It’s common sense, not bitterness. Who’s your tutor?”

  “Sandrine Kielholz,” I say stiffly, feeling uptight and hating it as if I am horribly uncool. This famous boy has a way of making me feel awkward.

  “Ah, she’s got a tight—”

  I turn away abruptly. I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I’m positive it will be crude and demeaning. At that moment I don’t care if he torments me until I go back to Chicago. I’m not staying another minute.

  “Wait, just wait, dammit.” He shoots up from his chair, his tin of contraband spilling onto the floor as he reaches for me. He doesn’t want me to leave, and I reluctantly turn back.

  “Sit down. I won’t say another word about her. Let’s start over. Colin Matthews.” His outstretched hand hangs between us.

  “Or any other girl?” I press.

  “Shit, why not.”

  “Charlotte Randolph.” I take his hand, but just the fingertips so he knows I don’t trust him very much. He gestures for me to sit, and I settle gingerly into the club chair opposite his. Colin’s hair is long and unruly. I wonder if he’s had it cut since it grew back. There’s a long swoop that he pushes back to reveal his mother’s famous blue eyes. “Does everyone call you Colin, or do you have a nickname you go by?”

  “No, it’s Colin. Why, do you have a nickname?”

  “Everyone calls me Charlotte, but my mom’s friends all call her AM.”

  “Like the time?”

  “No, radio. Like AM/FM radio.”

  “That’s weird.” He pulls out a pack of spearmint gum from his pocket and offers me one. It’s a peace offering I guess.

  “Mom says it’s a life marker. High school people know her as AnnMarie, but her best friend starting calling her AM for short and it stuck in college, so you know how long people have known her by what they call her.” I’ve always thought was neat. Daddy calls her Sunshine sometimes, but I don’t share that with Colin.

  “I’m going to make up a nickname for you.”

  “I don’t think so.” Nicknames are for friends. I don’t see Colin as my friend.

  “You’ll like the nickname I give you.” He smirks. I can’t even imagine what horrible thing he’d come up with. Colin is a weird mix of arrogance and uncertainty. I’m intrigued against my better judgment. Nate would probably despise him though.

  “Is this your second time here?”

  He holds up three fingers.

  “Three times?

  “I want to get better. I guess I’d take anything at this point.” I’m way underweight, which is part of the reason I’m here. His glowing health makes me envious.

  “I figure I’ll die before I’m eighteen. I want to live as much as possible until then.”

  I don’t know his situation, so I don’t give out the reassuring platitudes that adults reflexively offer. Maybe he will die before the age of eighteen. Sometimes I think you know. That there’s a place inside you that holds the truth of your future, but only the brave or stupid or hopeless look. I’m none of those things . . . yet. “You’d think with all these advancements they could make some elixir that would make us completely healthy in an instant.”

  Colin leans back and stares at the ceiling. “There’s always a catch. Like if you took the elixir, you wouldn’t be able to ever have sex again or it you’d take 25 years off your life at the end of it. No one lives without paying a price for it.”

  20

  Nathan

  Greta has taken to texting me repeatedly, telling me she’s so sorry about last night and how she was drunk and it was all an accident. At first, I agreed it was an accident, but the more that she keeps assuring me that it was—the more that she fucking will not leave me alone—makes me wonder about her motivations. Nick told me to watch out, and maybe I need to pay closer attention.

  I haven’t said a word to Charlotte about the picture, and I regret it. I should have brought it up first thing and that I haven’t makes me look like I’m lying to her—at least by omission. But what am I going to say?

  Hey, your weird friend fell on top of me, and someone else took a picture. It’s nothing?

  That sounds like I am trying to concoct a cover up as well.

  The photo’s already being passed around. It has been sent to me by about four different people.

  “What’d Charlotte say about the picture?” Nick asks. I told him I wasn’t interested in another party, so we’re playing a video game.

  “I didn’t tell her,” I admit.

  He glares at me and then closes his eyes. “You’re determined to fuck this up, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up,” I snap back. The whole thing is giving me a headache the size of Lake Michigan. “It’s no big deal. I’ll talk to her in the morning.” If I stay up late enough, I can catch her when she wakes up, and I’ll explain everything. Greta’s weirdness. The photo setup. Everything.

  “Just remember that it’s not just your relationship that will get screwed. It’s my friendship. It’s our families’ connections.”

  “Yeah, I got it.” The steel in my voice sinks in, and Nick stops hassling me. But he’s not wrong. If I hurt Charlotte, I hurt all of us.

  * * *

  I stay up until two in the morning so I can catch Charlotte right after she wakes. Nick has fallen asleep behind me, the game controller still clutched in his hand. He’s dead to the world. I switched over to a movie, but I’m not really seeing the super soldiers fighting the aliens. I’m thinking about everything. My future. Charlotte’s health. Where we are all going in a year or two years. I’m having uncharacteristic second thoughts. I never have doubts. Doubts are for people still trying to figure it all out.

  I’m not saying that I know it all, but I know myself. I want to join the military, do something worthwhile. I want to be with Charlotte. I want to have a family. I want us all to be healthy and safe forever. Kind of in that order. Otherwise, I’m just a dudebro getting drunk, hanging out, and leeching off my old man. Thanks but no. Of course part of not being that guy i
s making sure you aren’t crushing your girl’s self-esteem by ignoring that there are somewhat questionable pics being sent to everyone the two of you know.

  Said old man would be all over my ass about talking to Charlotte about this issue right away, just like Nick was. I get up and head to my room, abandoning Nick to the company of the infomercials flickering silently on the television screen.

  “Hey baby,” I say when she picks up on my first ring.

  “Nathan.” My name surfs out on a tide of relief and gratitude which makes me feel doubly the asshole. I’m responsible for making her feel insecure by not addressing the weird things that Greta has been doing.

  “I completely screwed up,” I start. “I want—”

  “You’ll never guess who’s here,” she interrupts. Without waiting for a response, she hurries on, “Colin Matthews.”

  “Huh?” I don’t know any Colin Matthews.

  “You know. The son of the actress and the baseball player? He had cancer and then was in remission, but I guess not anymore because he’s here. It’s his third time. They’re doing some kind of experimental drug therapy on him that’s not allowed in the U.S. yet.”

  I rub my forehead as I digest this information. “Okay, that’s interesting.” Not really, other than the fact that some Hollywood asshole is far closer to my Charlotte than I am. That’s actually not okay at all. I bite back a few choice words that would likely place me in the dickhole category. Words like “Don’t fucking talk to him again” and “Does he know you belong to me?”

  She blithely ignores my lack of enthusiasm. “When I saw him in the common room last night, I was so surprised. But he wasn’t very nice to me.”