Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe

by Coriell, Shelley

  Please, please, don’t start yelling at Grams.

  Mom stretched her neck and said in an oddly calm voice, “I paid the Plumber King.”

  Grams said nothing. With Mom in the doorway, Grams aimed her sweeping elsewhere, disturbing the water but sending it nowhere.

  Mom looked at the ceiling, her face a blank mask. “Jack called the water-damage repair and restoration people,” Mom continued in that controlled voice. “He’s waiting outside for them. They should be here any minute.”

  Grams swished a broom full of water under the couch. Why wasn’t Grams saying anything? Why wasn’t Mom yelling at Grams and telling her she could have been seriously hurt? That she could have died? My Keds squished as I shifted from one foot to the other.

  Grams swished another wave of water under the bookshelf that held her DVD collection. Then another. Swish. Splatter. Swish. Splatter.

  “I also called the insurance company, and they’re sending out an adjuster,” Mom added.

  Swish. Splatter. Swish. Splatter. SWISH. The water smacked into the bookshelf, and a stack of DVDs crashed to the floor. Ocean’s Eleven, the 2001 Brad Pitt version, sailed past my Keds.

  Now would be the time to say something witty to cheer up Grams and ease the tension. But I couldn’t. There was nothing amusing about this situation.

  Grams left a teapot on the stove. It started a fire. The sprinklers went off. She caused more damage when she hammered the pipes. This mess was her fault. This mess changed everything.

  The same realization must have hit Grams as she dropped her broom and slumped onto the couch. Water seeped from the cushions. Grams went to that far-off place, the one that glazed her eyes and slackened her jaw.

  Mom took a seat on the soggy recliner and cleared her throat. “You can’t stay here.”

  Grams’s eyes brightened and narrowed. “Can it, Deb. I don’t want to hear it right now.”

  “Given the current state of the Tuna Can, you don’t have a choice but to hear it right now.”

  My fingers tightened around the garbage can. I wished my mom would stop using the word choice in that tone of voice, as if she was giving a child a choice between carrots or peas.

  Grams wagged her index finger at Mom. “You are my daughter, and you will not tell me what to do.”

  “There are six excellent residential facilities you’ve previewed.” Mom went on as if Grams hadn’t spoken. She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick folder. “Well-maintained, exceptional staff, private rooms. All are within close proximity to quality medical care, and two are near the high school, so Chloe can easily stop in for visits and drive you on errands.”

  Grams had been the one who used to drive me places. Again the earth spun, sending everything all topsy-turvy.

  Grams stood, turned her back on Mom, and started wringing water from a throw pillow on the sofa. Her trembling hands squeezed, and streams of water soaked the front of her bathrobe and plinked to the water lapping at her house slippers.

  Mom pulled two brochures from the folder. “I seem to recall you liked this one the best. Minnie’s Place.”

  Grams clutched another pillow and squeezed. Squeeze. Plink. Squeeze. Plink.

  Mom unfolded one of the brochures with shaky fingers, hardly the steady hands of a person who spent her days mending people’s hearts. “When you visited Minnie’s Place, you told the woman giving you the tour you liked the pretty little swing in the butterfly garden.”

  With the pillows squeezed to death, Grams reached for the sofa cushions. Her hands shook so much, she couldn’t get the Velcro strap undone.

  “Minnie’s Place also allowed you to have a microwave in your room, so you could still do some cooking,” Mom went on. “And they have complimentary shuttle service to the beach.”

  Grams tugged and tugged, sodden locks of scraggly gray hair falling over her red face.

  “It’s not too far from here, so Noreen and your other neighbors can visit.”

  Grams pulled harder, grunting and showing teeth, but the strap wouldn’t let go.

  “And it’s close to your neurologist and physical therapist and that new acupressure clinic and—”

  “Stop it! Both of you!” The garbage can slipped from my hands and splashed onto the floor. “Mom, you can’t take control of Grams’s life. And you, Grams”—I pointed a shaky finger at her— “talk to her. Tell her what you want, what you need. You have to speak for yourself.” While you can.

  Grams stared at me. Did she see my worry? My fear? Did she know I wanted to throw myself into her arms like I did when I was six because the world always made sense in her arms?

  At last Grams straightened her spine notch by notch. She reminded me of the matriarchs on the soaps who survived brain tumors, airplane crashes, and cheating husbands with murderous mistresses. “All right, Chloe, all right.” She pushed her wet hair out of her face and turned to my mom. “The Tuna Can’s shot to hell, at least for now.” She strutted into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. “Get your heinies in gear. It’s time to go.”

  Mom froze, relief battled with dread across the pale features of her face.

  Holding my breath I asked, “Go where?”

  Grams snatched the floating copy of Ocean’s Eleven. “Minnie’s Place.” Raising the DVD like a battle flag, she waded to the front door. “They have a sixty-five-inch HDTV.”

  On Monday before school, I walked into the radio station and blew Clementine a kiss. She grunted in my general direction as I sashayed to my whiteboard desk.

  The weekend had started out a sooty, soggy mess, and I’d been outfitted in Keds, but the tide had turned in a big way. Grams had checked herself into Minnie’s Place. Although she claimed she planned to stay there only long enough to get the Tuna Can aired out and back in shape, she and Mom, for the first time in months, weren’t battling.

  After helping Grams set up her room at Minnie’s Place, I worked my Sunday burrito shift for Dos Hermanas. The sisters slipped me a big tip for luring in a bus of beach-bound tourists from Indio. I also received two marriage proposals, including one from a guy who offered to dress up as a bowl of guacamole and be my partner for life.

  “Sorry,” I’d told him, “I dip with someone else.” At least I thought I dipped with someone else. Duncan. I checked my phone fifty times. He hadn’t called all weekend. I reminded myself he worked all day at the thrift store on Saturday and Sunday and probably used the weekend to catch up on homework.

  I arrived at the radio station early this morning hoping Duncan would be there, but his beat-up bike was not leaning against the portable, nor was he standing on a ladder fixing lights or tucked under the transmitter fixing whatever he fixed there.

  Inside Portable Five Frick was recording his weekly sports-wrap show, and he waved when I walked by the glass-fronted production room. Haley, sucking on a toffee sucker, was writing another movie review. I walked to her corner and peeked over her shoulder. Goodbye, Mr. Chips.

  Reaching into my book bag I took out the DVD I’d found in Grams’s collection and handed it to Haley.

  She frowned.

  “You already have Stagecoach?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then take it. Anyone who’s a big fan of 1939 movies, arguably the best year ever in the motion picture industry, needs a copy of Stagecoach.” When she remained still, I set the DVD on her desk. “Okay, I’ll admit the shoes are a little dusty, but John Wayne kind of makes up for it, don’t you think?”

  She studied the DVD with a puzzled frown. “How did you know I like films from 1939?”

  I pointed at her towers of DVDs. “It’s kind of hard to miss.”

  “You noticed,” she said softly. With a strange little smile, she pulled a sucker from the bag on her desk and gave it to me.

  As I unwrapped the sucker, I asked, “Where’s Duncan?”

  Clementine squinted at me. “Are you some kind of stalker?”

  Nope, she wasn’t going to get me down today. Life w
as too good, and much of that had to do with Duncan Moore, who made my thumbs and earlobes feel crazy wonderful.

  “He’s busy,” Clementine said.

  “With . . .”

  “Stuff that’s none of your business.”

  “Will he be in today?”

  Every staff member looked at Clementine, who tugged at one of her frizzy curls. “I’m not sure.”

  Again, I was the odd man out until Taysom pointed to Frack’s computer. “Hey, Chloe, you’ve got mail.”

  With a happy squeal, I hurried to Frack’s desk and looked over his shoulder at a webpage with the jagged black KDRS logo splashed on the screen. “I didn’t know we had a website.”

  “Nothing fancy,” Taysom said. “Program skeds, staff bios, and a listener mail feature. For the first time, someone e-mailed us—well, you.”

  “No way.” I punched Frack’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you shout this glorious news at the top of your lungs when I walked in the door?”

  Frack’s face grew pink.

  I grabbed a chair and planted it next to Frack. Sure enough, three brilliant minions had commented after Friday night’s show. I’d heard somewhere, probably from one of the sisters, that for every person who complained about a product or a service, something like one hundred others would like to complain but didn’t have the time or energy. If I had three fans who took the time to write, I could have three hundred more.

  I spent the next twenty minutes crafting queenly acknowledgments to my three fans.

  Clementine looked over my shoulder at my computer screen. “Don’t you think ‘From the Desk of Her Majesty’ is a bit much?”

  Panic stilled my fingers on the keyboard. “Do you?” I had three people who adored me. I didn’t want to alienate them.

  Clementine frowned. “I guess it kind of goes with your on-air personality.”

  I smiled. I had an on-air personality. As I reread my fan mail, I noticed something else. “Hey, Clem, my fans loved my jester.”

  “I am not your jester.”

  “Seriously, look.” I pointed to the screen. “This listener wants to know what the jester and the queen are going to talk about next week.”

  “Snort!”

  I’d enjoyed taking digs at Clementine, and she’d dug back, but in an air-wave-appropriate way. Nothing mean. Our jabs at each other and snarky banter had a higher purpose. We were trying to attract listeners, and conflict attracted people. During ratings weeks at the soaps, dead wives came back to life, secret babies were hauled out of closets, and villainesses were at their scheming best.

  Brie was a master of conflict. Her lies about the Mistletoe Ball had everyone whispering about me. Her attack on the drama club sent another anti-Chloe wave across the campus. But in the end, the notoriety had been a good thing for my radio show.

  “I think we were engaging,” I told Clementine. “The phones were clogged for the last forty-five minutes of programming, which happened to be the time you and I were going at it on air. The listeners loved it. They loved us. Together.”

  “So?”

  “So, this type of programming boosts ratings.” Sometimes you had to get out of your comfort zone and try new things. Like Minnie’s Place and Garbage Games. At the thought of Duncan, I wondered again where he could be. I hoped his bike hadn’t blown another chain. I aimed my gaze at Clementine. “So why not join my show this week?”

  “Because I don’t want to.” She grabbed the papers on her desk and headed for the production studio.

  Following her, I planted myself in the doorway. Normally I didn’t do confrontation, but today I could tackle anything and anyone. I had a great show. Grams was in a safe place, at least for now. Duncan, wherever he was, held my phone number next to his heart.

  “Why don’t you like me?” I asked.

  Clem sat behind the mic. “Out. I have news to record.”

  I settled my shoulder against the door frame. I remembered the look on her face a week ago as she stared at me through the glass with a glare that mirrored Brie’s. Had I done or said something to hurt her? Was she jealous?

  “Leave,” Clementine said.

  “Not until you tell me why you hate me.”

  Clementine slammed her papers onto the desk. “I don’t hate you, Chloe. No one can hate you. You’re too”—she waved her hand at me and wrinkled her nose—“too you.”

  This was not what I expected. “Was that a compliment?”

  She spun in the chair until she fully faced me. “Okay. Fine. You want to know why I don’t find you too queenly. Here it is.” She aimed her finger at the center of my chest. “You’re a royal skater.”

  I waited for her to go on, but she remained silent. “Is this some new radio term I need to learn?”

  Clementine flung her hands above her head and roared. “You’re a princess on roller skates. People like you skate through life on shiny gold blades to full orchestral music with the wind at your back. Everything comes easy to skaters. You have the right friends. You wear the right clothes. You have brilliant, rich, wonderful families. Everyone loves you.”

  My jaw dropped. “And what planet have you been on lately?”

  “Even with Brie Sonderby’s smack, you’re still skating. It’s freakin’ mind-blowing.” Clementine shook her head, her frizzy hair making a soft, swishing sound. “One of the most powerful people in school smears you, but you manage to skate in here and pull off a stupid talk show that everyone loved, which is good. I can’t argue that.” Clementine stared out the glass at the newsroom, her wild hair settling around her face, which was pale, oddly snuffed of fiery bluster. “But you have no interest in broadcasting, and until a few weeks ago you didn’t know KDRS existed. You don’t care about the station. You’re too wrapped up in you to have a clue what’s going on with any of us.”

  “That’s not true.” I’d given Duncan a lift, helped him with his work, and showed him fun with Garbage Games. I made a sandwich for Frack. Haley gave me a sucker.

  Clementine pointed to Frack, who was still on the KDRS website. “Have you ever noticed that Frack barely talks to you?”

  I had noticed. He said less than ten words to me in two weeks. “Ever wonder why?” Clementine asked but didn’t let me answer. “He stutters. Can’t spit out more than two words without tripping over his tongue.”

  “Frack stutters? But he records all the PSAs.” I’d heard his voice. It wasn’t as deep and smooth as Taysom’s or as animated as sportscaster Frick’s, but clear and certainly without stutters.

  “His PSAs are done on a mic in the production studio away from people. He’s here because radio is giving him a voice he never had.”

  I knew the power of the station. It had been a haven from the sea of stinging jellyfish, and on Friday it officially became my wonderful royal castle. I’d become a part of the KDRS team, but Clem didn’t see it.

  Clem dipped her head toward Haley. “And Haley, she needs a place she can go where people don’t treat her like she has a contagious disease. You think you’ve had to deal with crap the past few months? Hah. Haley’s boyfriend bailed when the pink dot appeared on the stick, her supposed best friends treat her like a leper, and her dad hasn’t spoken to her for four months.” Clementine let loose a sigh, more heavy than fiery. “And Duncan . . . Duncan needs us.” Her eyes drilled me, some of the fire back. “Come April, if we survive that long, your JISP will be over and you’ll be gone.”

  I opened my mouth to tell her she was wrong, but for one of the few times in my life, the words wouldn’t flow. Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. My goal was to host a successful talk show and to JISP well enough to keep an F off my permanent record. Clementine’s sigh was without fire, not even a hint of smoke. “Bottom line, Chloe, you don’t need us, not like the rest of us need one another. We’re not part of your world, and you’re not part of ours. Hell, Chloe, we’re not even in the same universe.”

  With a flick of her arm, she pushed me and shut the production room door. It did
n’t slam, but closed slowly, softly, which gave me time to stare at the ocean between us.

  THE HAPPY TRAILS TRAILER PARK WAS NOT A HAPPY PLACE. Nor was it parklike. It squatted on a tired, dry bit of earth about twenty miles east of town and smelled of wet garbage and cat pee. Mobile homes in faded shades of gold and avocado were topped with rusted, sagging roofs. Spiky weeds clawed up from a spiderweb of asphalt cracks. No smiling ceramic squirrels in this trailer park.

  But Duncan was here.

  He’d called thirty minutes ago, not to chat, but for a ride. On the phone he told me he’d ridden to the trailer park to visit a friend but someone had stolen his bike. I drove to the common area and spotted him next to a graffiti-covered phone booth near a swimming pool with no water.

  “Thanks,” he said as he climbed into my car and tossed a wadded brown-and-beige scarf in his lap. “I can’t imagine who’d be stupid enough to steal my crappy bike.”

  “Someone who has amorous feelings about duct tape,” I said.

  His broad shoulders sunk as he leaned his head against the headrest. He looked hammered—rammed, cut, and spread by the Jaws of Life. I wanted to wrap my arms around his scarf-wearing little neck and hug.

  Duncan reached into his pocket and withdrew a worn wallet. “Let me give you gas money.”

  I waved him off. “I woke this morning and said, Hey, it’s a great afternoon for a picturesque drive.”

  On the way out, we rolled past a dozen overflowing trash cans, where a bony, collarless dog rooted through the bags. A skanky girl smoking a cigarette on a sagging porch gave us the finger. Duncan shook his head but said nothing.

  Talking always helped me to relieve stress and make sense of the world. I talked to Grams, to my brothers, to Mom and Dad when they weren’t working, and to Merce and Brie. I didn’t need to be a psychologist to know Duncan didn’t do much talking. To anyone. If there was anyone who looked like he needed a heavy dose of talk, it was Duncan. And contrary to what Clementine said, I knew how to listen.

  “You said you were visiting a friend?”