The Charlotte Chronicles

by Jen Frederick

  My emotions swing wildly the other direction. This douche was being mean to my Charlotte? “Sounds like I’m going to have to come over and teach him a lesson in manners.”

  She snorts. “He’s got cancer. You can’t beat up anyone who has cancer.”

  “Oh yeah?” I challenge. “Is there some book that says that? Is that in your medical handbook?”

  That draws out a full-fledged laugh, one that comes from her belly not her throat. She likes when I joke about her illness because it’s more normal for both of us, according to her. “Yes, it’s number five, right after ‘All your hair falls out.’ But his hair looks great. I was really impressed. I guess because guy hair grows back so fast, and it doesn’t need to be long. Nick’s hair grew out right away.”

  My eyelid is twitching. She likes his hair? Thinks it’s great? I can’t even remember what I was supposed to say when I first called because the whole time we’ve been talking it’s been about this asshole from California. And she’s bringing up the fact that Nick shaved his head when she was diagnosed but not me?

  “I thought you didn’t want me to shave my head,” I say, hardly concealing my disgruntlement.

  “What? Of course I didn’t,” she says. “I was just complaining. My hair makes me look five. Do I look five to you?”

  She cares what she looks like? “I wouldn’t have slept with you if you looked five.” I know that was a mistake before the last words leave my mouth.

  She sucks in her breath and then to my utter relief, laughs again.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “No, it just sounded funny. Like, I hope you wouldn’t sleep with five-year-olds.” She giggles again and then sighs. “I miss you.”

  God, how weak am I that I need her to say those words to me? I miss you. And with that, equilibrium is reestablished. I settle into bed. “How much?”

  “So so so much. Like I wish I was there right now and we were holding hands.”

  “That’s all?” I ask softly. There would be a lot more than just hand holding I’d do if Charlotte were here.

  “Um, and other stuff.”

  I can almost hear her blushing. Hating to ruin the moment, the reason why I called resurfaces. “About Greta . . .” I begin.

  “She’s being weird, isn’t she?” Charlotte interrupts. “I think she has a crush on you or Nick or both.”

  “Weird isn’t the right word. Stalkerish maybe? I don’t really know, but I can’t say I like it.”

  “It’s okay. Or rather, while I don’t like it, I know it’s not your fault. It just made me feel . . . embarrassed and even a little insecure.”

  Her voice has gotten soft and small. Is it distance that feeds those feelings? I feel it too, but I’m worried about how she’s going to take the news that I’m leaving after school to go right into Basic. That particular piece of information isn’t ready for consumption I decide. “You don’t ever have to be insecure about us, baby. I love you.”

  Her initial response is a huff of laughter. “I love you, too.”

  “We okay then?”

  “Yes. Totally okay.”

  I feel good after our phone call. We Skype a few times later that week, and while Colin’s name is mentioned quite a bit, it’s generally referencing how he’s managed to piss her off again. We have a good laugh about how he struck out with her tutor, Sandrine, and how I’ve managed to avoid Greta. She stopped texting me after I didn’t respond.

  By Friday, everything is back to normal between us, which is why I don’t hesitate to say yes when Nick asks me if we should hit Juliette Waite’s party at her parent’s house in the North Shore. Juliette Waite is a North Prep graduate. She attends Northwestern and is well known for initiating the young men in our crowd into the pleasures of the female body. A lot of us have learned how to make a girl scream based on lessons taught by Juliette.

  She’s an icon in North Prep history. I had my own time with Juliette when I was fourteen and she was sixteen. Good times. Of course, what goes on in Juliette Waite’s bedroom stays there. That’s the code, and weirdly we’ve all kept it. But her parties are legendary.

  Not going never occurs to me. Charlotte is grumpy when she hears it’s that time of year during a Skype session.

  “I can’t believe I’m missing Juliette’s party.” She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Instead I’ll end up eating popcorn watching episodes of Space Patrol 2050.”

  “I thought you hated science fiction,” I say absently. My phone is blowing up with people asking where Nick and I are.

  “My T. Rex arms aren’t long enough to grab the remote from Colin’s hands and that’s all he likes. But maybe Mom and I will do something. At least I won’t spend the whole night with you glaring at me.”

  “I didn’t glare at you,” I protest. “I was making sure none of the assholes made a play for you. What was Bo thinking, letting you out of the house with that bikini on? I spent the whole night reminding everyone you had just turned fifteen.”

  She smirks. “Got your attention, did it?”

  “So you did wear it to piss me off,” I exclaim. I knew it. Last year Charlotte had stripped off her demure bell-shaped knit dress to reveal a white bikini with gold rings holding the various tiny triangular pieces of cloth together. When she spun around on her wedge heels and announced she was thirsty, nearly every male there surged toward her. “You could have started a riot.”

  “I bought it for you,” she says with a naughty smile. “I’d overheard you telling Nick during one of our boating trips that you loved white bikinis.”

  This makes me raise my eyebrows. “Really? I don’t remember having a preference.” But I do now. In fact, I think I still have a picture of Charlotte in said bikini. I scroll through my phone and find it. Mmmhmm. I know what I’ll be looking at later tonight.

  “Stay away from the white bikinis tonight,” she says, but I’m not paying much attention because a photo of one of the lacrosse players losing control of a beer bong and getting a facial from the excess beer was just shared on the school forum. I show it to Charlotte.

  “You’re obviously very occupied,” she sighs.

  “No, sorry.” Hurriedly I put the phone face-down, but she’s waving her hand at me.

  “Go on. I’m super tired anyway. Mom would kill me if she knew I stayed up this late to Skype with you.”

  We exchange I love yous, and then it takes an impatient Nick and I about forty-five minutes to head out of the city. We have to park about a half mile away because a crap-ton of cars have arrived before us. Thankfully Nick doesn’t say a word about our late start, only asks how Charlotte is.

  “Good. Spending a lot of time with the douchebag Colin.”

  “I looked him up.”

  “And?”

  “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Why would I worry about him?”

  Nick throws his hands up. “No reason.”

  Since we’re nearly at the door of Waite’s house, I don’t pursue this any further. Charlotte doesn’t like Colin. She’s forced to spend time with him. There’s no reason at all that I have to worry about the two of them.

  Inside the house there are wall-to-wall people. Thankfully Nick and I can muscle our way past the crowd. It only takes a couple of people to drop away before a path is cleared for us.

  Juliette is sitting on the patio in a lounger with several sycophants around her. She languidly raises her hand in greeting. “The Jackson boys are here. I suppose we can now start the party.”

  A few of the guys look older—college aged—and they glare at us, but Nick and I are solidly built. We could take them. In fact, it might be kind of fun. I haven’t had a brawl for a long time. It’s not like I’m beating on someone weaker than me. I step back and allow my arms to hang loosely at my side. Nick steps to the side to provide spacing and adopts a similar stance.

  Three of Juliette’s subjects get to their feet, their Greek letters straining across their drug-assisted chests.

/>   “‘Boys’ is right,” says the one in the middle. He must be the leader. The music continues to play, but the energy on the patio has changed. There’s a charge in the air, and everyone out here senses it.

  “I’ve got the guy in the middle,” I say softly to Nick. “You take the guy on the right. The one on the left looks like he’ll flail around searching for a partner.”

  “Got it.” He nods.

  The leader charges me, and I spare a glance to Juliette. Her eyes are sparkling with excitement. Yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing inviting these meatheads here. She probably talked up the fact that we were high schoolers, and these frat guys showed up to teach us a thing or two. Good luck.

  I meet their leader in the middle, about five feet from Juliette’s lounger, and he swings at me. It’s an obvious that is meant to lay me out with one punch, but I can tell by the wide sweep of his right arm as it moves toward me that he’s never fought before. Or if he has, it’s been with people as inept as he is. His primary move seems to be the right jaw punch, only it doesn’t land. I step sideways, and he stumbles between Nick and me.

  Nick grins at me but has to turn back to his smaller, but more experienced, opponent. I watch as Nick swerves to avoid a combination and then counters with an open-palm slap to the face. It’s a complete insult, and his opponent draws back to blink in surprise while everyone around them giggles. I shake my head. One of these days Nick’s arrogance will be the end of him, but not today. The slap spurs his opponent to charge, and Nick allows himself to be pushed back into a table.

  I’m prevented from watching more when my guy comes roaring back. He’s watched too many mixed martial arts fights on television because this time he tries an elbow to the forehead. It’s not a bad move as an elbow can have a greater impact on a target than a fist. But it has to land to do any damage. I duck, hook his elbow and draw him close until we’re flush together. Then I press my other hand on the low of his back and pretend for a moment we’re dancing. This draws a roar from the crowd and a fevered look of rage from my opponent.

  “Don’t like dancing?” I mock. Spittle is starting to form at the sides of his mouth. “You really picked a mouthbreather this time, Juliette.”

  I push him away before he slobbers all over me. Yeah, okay. I’m as arrogant as Nick. The leader motions to the third guy, who has been watching us, and they both rush me. One of them gets a lucky fist to the side of my jaw, and I feel another fist in my gut. The adrenaline is flooding me, and since I’ve not had sex in weeks, this feels almost as good.

  The third player is about six inches shorter than I am. He must have gotten the body shot in. He needs to go down first. I duck to avoid a punch from the big guy and then turn my body toward the third player. Two knees into the rib cage have him folding in half. I finish him with an elbow strike to the temple since he’s lower than me, and he crumples to the ground.

  The leader steps back, bounces around on his heels, and rolls his shoulder like we’re in some cage match.

  “You toying with your prey?” I hear Nick say. He must have sent his opponent to a sweet sleep. “Dad wouldn’t approve.”

  “Nah, but he’d think this was sweet,” I answer. Opening up my stance, I rise to the balls of my feet and, in one swift roundhouse kick, strike the asshole in the temple with my right leg. Shock widens his eyes before the lights go out in his brain, and he falls backward onto the ground. No one catches him. In fact, everyone moved out of the way.

  A silence falls and then cheers erupt, probably from North Prep kids. Juliette hasn’t moved an inch from her lounger, although I see a few blood spatters on the cushion.

  “Very nice,” she says.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t tell them that your high school friends were sons of a professional fighter?” I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth, but there’s no blood there. It must not be mine. A quick check of Nick reveals he’s fine too.

  She presses a finger to the center of her lips. “Hmm. I may have forgotten to mention that. Now which one of you victors is going to celebrate with me tonight?”

  “That’d be me,” Nick says, bending over and scooping Juliette into his arms. I drop into the now vacated lounge chair, and someone shoves a beer bottle into my empty hand. This has the makings of an epic party. I place an arm behind my head and prepare to be entertained.

  21

  Charlotte

  The video makes me sick. Literally. I watch it once and then a second time before running to the bathroom to puke up my fruit and yogurt breakfast. I shouldn’t watch it again, but I can’t help it. I return to the computer with a sore throat and the taste of acid in my mouth. The freeze-framed image on the still video is of Nate sprawled out on a bed with Greta and another girl I don’t know on top of him.

  His jeans are down around his thighs, and his shirt is off. There’s a white substance painted on his chest, and I think it must be whipped cream by the bottle in the unknown blonde girl’s hand. Nate’s head is positioned away from me. I can’t see his eyes. I want to see them. I want to know what he’s thinking at that point. Did he even remember I exist?

  The tears come now. Or maybe they’ve been flowing the whole time, and I’m just now feeling them. The salt and the acid mix in bitter harmony inside my mouth. I guess that’s what heartbreak tastes like.

  I press play one more time and watch the whole three-minute video. It’s dark, and the recording is shaky. I don’t know who’s holding the camera. By the sounds of the harsh breathing and the barking laugh, I know it’s a man. Not Nick though. He comes in later.

  For now it’s just Greta. She climbs onto Nate’s prone body, straddling him. She’s holding his hand as he reaches up to cup her breast over her shirt, and then she seems to help him remove her shirt.

  “Fuck yeah.” It’s the camera man urging her on. Greta’s actions spur the other girl to climb on the bed, and she takes off her shirt and then her bra. She sprays her tits with whipped cream and leans over to offer one decorated tip to Nate. His face is turned away, but she when rises, the whipped cream is smeared. Bile threatens again. I press my thumb against my inner wrist, a technique I learned in treatment, to make it subside. It works about a quarter of the time, and I still feel sickness sitting at the base of my throat. I force myself to watch the rest.

  “Come over and give me a taste,” the cameraman orders. Greta flicks him off, but the other girl obeys. The camera dips to the floor, and I hear the moans and pants of what sounds like a hundred people. I dash the tears away because they’re blurring my vision.

  “You’re fucking up,” Greta hisses. There’s no action on the screen. Instead there’s a blurry blot, like the guy has pressed his camera phone to the back of the girl he’s snacking on.

  “Fuck you,” he drawls but then rights the camera.

  When Greta and Nate come back into view, she’s got her skirt rucked to her waist, and she’s hovering over Nate’s face, a leg on either side of him. “Don’t get my face in it,” she orders.

  “Whatever, bitch,” the camera guy mutters but positions the camera so it’s just Greta from the neck down.

  “Marie, come over and get some,” Greta says.

  Marie, the other girl, goes over and takes up Greta’s old position, straddling Nate around his crotch. His boxers are still on, but that means nothing. Greta rearranges herself so that she’s facing Marie, and she pulls Marie’s shoulders until the two girls are almost touching each other. Nate is motionless this entire time, except when his hands creep up to stroke Marie’s legs and knees lightly once or twice before falling away.

  Nothing that is going on in this video fits the Nathan I know. Nothing.

  “I want to see fucking tongue, ladies,” the camera guy says gleefully. “Pinch those titties.”

  “Shut up and film, asshole,” Greta snaps. And he does. The camera is readjusted to cut off the heads of the girls, and then there’s a full minute of gyrations and moaning and the wet sounds of sucking.

&nbs
p; My head pounds, and the skin around my face is stretched so tight it hurts to keep my eyes open. I press my lips together tightly to keep the whimpers in, but oh my god the pain in my chest is like a knife wound. It hurts worse than all the times I’ve had to stab myself with a needle to administer my daily cocktail of drugs. We first do this under the supervision of a nurse and then left to do it ourselves because when we’re home and we have to do it, no nurse will be there. It hurts worse than post-surgery, after they split my brain open to remove the tumor.

  It hurts so bad that I wish the tumor had taken me because at least then I wouldn’t have to see this. Oh Nate, why?

  At the end, Nick bursts through the door. He shouts something, the camera is knocked to the floor, and the video cuts off. But it’s too late at that point for Nick to save me because it’s already been captured.

  “Charlotte, baby?”

  It’s Daddy. He’s here with me this week. I slam the laptop lid down and wipe away the tears as best I can. I’m tempted to tell him, to climb into his lap and bawl my eyes out, but I’m afraid if I do, he’ll take the first plane back to Chicago and beat Nate bloody. And while I want to see Nate suffer, I know that telling Daddy about this will ruin everything. It won’t be the Jacksons and Randolphs together as a unit anymore. There’ll be a rift, and I don’t know if anything would be able to heal it.

  I’m not going to be the one that destroys everything good in life. I’ll leave that to Nate.

  “Yeah, Daddy?” I answer.

  “You okay? I thought I heard you getting sick in the bathroom.” The bedroom door is shut, and he won’t come in because mom had a long talk with him about the importance of me having privacy now that I am older.

  “Yup,” I say as cheerfully as possible. I get up and grab a few tissues. My face is blotchy, and my eyes are red. Mom would know I was crying for sure. Daddy? I’ll tell him that I watched a video about kittens being rescued.

  “You been crying, baby?” he asks with concern when I open the door.