Nine Lives of Chloe King

by Liz Braswell

  And Amy actually seemed pretty cheerful, looking over her nails as they dried. She had talked the most artistic seeming of the women there into painting the lower half of all her nails black, then putting a single clawlike black stripe in the middle of each one. She flexed and reflexed her fingers under the little lamps.

  “Grrr,” she said.

  Chloe was still having hers worked on. She’d opted for the hot paraffin, vitamin-wrap, extra-super-cleany options and was drilling the woman doing it with a battery of questions: Could fingernails be dirty even if they didn’t look it? Could you carry diseases under your nails? What about toxic fungi?

  “Yes, yes, and yes,” the woman replied, zealously buffing. “I knew a girl once, she went to a place—not here, a dirty place—she got a pedicure and had to have her whole toe removed afterward. Nasty infection. Anyway, this will take care of all that. You could eat with them now.”

  Chloe felt relieved. And guilty. She hoped Xavier was okay. She had to somehow check on him later.

  It was kind of funny, though, that she’d managed to spread something diseaselike to her partner before she’d ever even had sex. Funny in a loose sense of the word, of course.

  “This is perfect,” Amy said, admiring her nails. “We’re going to the Temple of Arts tonight—this will freak the shit out of all the vampire role players there.”

  “Cool. I haven’t been there in so long.” Chloe didn’t have anything planned for that evening, except for cooking with her mother (mother-daughter time), something she was anxious to get out of. And it would be an excellent way to get over whatever weird rush she’d felt with Paul earlier that week. The three of them just hanging out would be a good thing. “I promised Mom I’d help her with some weird and complicated recipe tonight, but I should be done by nine or ten.”

  “Oh.” Amy stared more intently at her nails, blushing. “I meant, like, just me and Paul. Like a date.”

  “Like a date?” It had been just a casual, high-tension kissing session before. … When had their status changed? “Oh.” Chloe fidgeted, prompting a smack from the woman working on her. “Oh. That’s cool. No problem.”

  I will be the cool friend.

  “How about tomorrow? We could totally get together tomorrow,” Amy suggested eagerly.

  “Nah. I’m taking my new bike for a ride.” Disappointment and embarrassment and anger raged through her brain, making it difficult to sound casual.

  “All day?”

  “Yeah,” Chloe said firmly, staring at her nails. “All day.”

  At home Chloe began to feel bad about breaking her “I will be cool” mantra when Amy obviously was already embarrassed by the whole discussion. And she had kind of acted like a baby. Of course she and Paul wanted to spend time together. They were dating, dummy. Chloe finally e-mailed:

  You wanna hang Sunday night? Rent a movie or something … xo, C

  That didn’t stop her from being grumpy about it, though. Chloe drowsed on her bed, visions of Xavier, Alyec, and—yuck—Paul spinning around in her head before her mom finally demanded her help with dinner. She was silent in the kitchen.

  “Is something wrong, Chloe?” Her mother was in a rare, selfless good mood.

  “No.” She smashed a clove of garlic with the side of her knife for emphasis.

  Her mom looked at her sideways but didn’t say anything.

  Dinner was fabulous if weird, as all of her mom’s Saturday night attempts tended to be. While Mrs. King napped on the couch in the living room afterward, Chloe channel flipped, pausing at some sort of nighttime soap she never would have normally given a second thought to, but a handsome couple was making out on the beach at night. Chloe watched them wistfully, imagining sand under her own head and lips against hers.

  “How was your bike ride, Chlo?” Amy asked in line for lunch on Monday.

  “It was great.” It really had been. And if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with how pissed she was at Paul and Amy and how she really wanted her own boyfriend, it would have been perfect. She had never noticed how many goddamn happy couples there were all across San Francisco before. Making out in public. Everywhere.

  She felt in her pocket for a quarter that wasn’t there and tried to find something interesting in what the lunch hag was doing. “You never replied to my e-mail.”

  “Sorry about that,” Amy continued bravely. “My phone ran out of juice. I didn’t get the message until this morning.”

  “No problem.” Chloe realized she couldn’t watch the pot of reddish glop—“chili”—being stirred around by the woman with the mustache. The beans looked suspiciously like cockroaches. She turned her head, but there was nothing else to look at in the small line but Amy.

  “You—you want to hang after school today?” Amy got her like a deer in headlights. Her big eyes were trembling: I’m really sorry, they said. “I suck, I know.”

  Chloe resisted.

  “Please? I’ll make it up to you. You and me and Paul, we’ll go watch the sea lions, like we used to. I’ll buy you an ice cream. Please?”

  Chloe couldn’t help smiling. This was Amy, after all. “Oh, all right. But I want two flavors, swirled.”

  “You’re on!” Amy agreed, grinning.

  Whap—their moment of reconciliation was interrupted by a pile of red mush hitting Chloe’s tray with a sickening, definitely unfoodlike sound.

  “Next!” the lunch lady screamed.

  As she and Amy left the lunch line, they ran smack into Alyec.

  “King!” he said, smiling. “When are we going to hang out?”

  Chloe watched his curvy, exotic lips. Smiling at her.

  “This afternoon? My friends and I are going to go down to the pier and watch the sea lions. Want to come?” Amy looked askance at her, surprised.

  It was the lamest, lamest thing she could have ever imagined saying to Alyec. But when the words came out of her mouth, they were confident, and she looked him in the eye.

  Alyec raised his eyebrows; it really did sound corny. “Sea lions, eh? Well, why not? It’s free.”

  “It’s a date,” Chloe said casually as she headed off to a table. Amy trailed, her mouth hanging open.

  Paul and Amy were trying to behave, Chloe could see that.

  Amy was sitting on his lap in the glowy late-afternoon sunshine, contented smiles on her and Paul’s faces. There was no actual making out going on. So why do I feel like vomiting?

  “Arp!” a sea lion barked.

  She licked her cone, using her tongue to carefully pick up the chocolate with an equal amount of vanilla.

  The bay was dark blue and the bridge an ancient, rusty red. Little islands in the distance faded in and out of view as strings of perfect sailboats floated in front of them. The crowds of tourists weren’t even that bad.

  It was almost perfect. Almost. Alyec wasn’t here.

  And why should he be? Why should anything I want ever work out? Come on, this was Alyec—as Paul said, “He is steely-eyed, chisel-faced young Russian.” Why would he show up for a lame-ass double date with three of the out crowd?

  “Hey, look at that one!” Paul wasn’t pointing at a sea lion; he was pointing at one of the few tourists. But this one was a beaut: he wore a hat that said Frisco on it and a T-shirt that said Alcatraz and was trying to take a picture of the pier with a tiny, bright yellow disposable camera.

  It was the most exciting thing that had happened since they came.

  And now the sun was beginning to set. The night ocean breezes picked up, brushing a strand of dark hair into Chloe’s face. She brushed it out of the way impatiently.

  “You wanna go somewhere, get coffee?” Paul asked eventually.

  Chloe sighed. Ah, I am now officially a third wheel.

  “Where are the sea lions? Or are you talking about the fat tourists?”

  Chloe spun around. Alyec was walking up the pier, hands in his pockets, frowning as he tried to make out the animals in the dimming light.

  “Over there.” S
he pointed casually at the water. It took every ounce of her will not to jump up and shout his name joyfully. I am cool, she repeated, finally for a different reason. He was dropdead-gorgeous casual tonight, button-down open over a T-shirt, no socks. The approaching dusk made his blond hair look like it was streaked with honey and brown.

  “Oh! I see them now!” He actually looked interested; his face lit up. “Very cool. We didn’t have any of those in St. Petersburg. Or maybe once we did, but they were all eaten.”

  Chloe introduced Amy and Paul. Alyec shook their hands formally. “Amy—I think I saw you at that café with the chicken. You were reading some of your poetry?”

  Paul looked a little annoyed. Amy blushed. “I do some readings now and then.”

  There was a long, awkward pause. A single sea lion noiselessly slipped into the water. Others soon began to follow.

  “Well, this was fun,” Alyec said, looking around. “But maybe we should do something else now? It’s getting too dark to see the lions.”

  Chloe tried not to giggle. It sounded so cute coming out that way.

  “We were going to get coffee,” Paul said.

  “Okay. Then what?”

  “A club?” Amy suggested.

  “Excellent!” Alyec pointed at her like she had just picked the correct amount for a washer on The Price Is Right. Then he looked serious. “The one thing I really miss about my old town is the dancing. Every night, if you wanted. No cover, either.”

  “I don’t know about going dancing tonight—“Whatever Paul’s reasons were, they were cut off by a sharp jab in the side from Amy’s elbow.

  “Sounds great,” she said. “Chloe?”

  “Absolutely.” She imagined dancing with Alyec like she had with Xavier. Then she thought of Xavier in the parking lot and Xavier on the floor of his apartment, covered in sores. She beat the guilt down as fast as she could. “Um … anywhere but the Bank!”

  Alyec, Paul, and Amy all looked at her.

  “It sucks on a Monday night,” Chloe continued lamely. And Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday. In fact, she would be happy if she never went back there again.

  To Chloe’s relief they settled on the Raven, a place that played a lot of good dance music but didn’t have a dance floor. What they did have was a lot of comfy old couches and a tendency to serve to those who were underage. Also a dartboard, which Alyec and Paul instantly commandeered.

  “Look at them,” Amy said, giggling. Paul was closing one eye and aiming. Alyec had his arms crossed and a serious expression on his brow. “They’re like cavemen.”

  “I don’t think Cro-Magnon men used darts to bring down woolly mammoths.” Chloe sipped delicately from her Hoegaarden. Alyec was impressed by her choice but hadn’t offered to buy it for her. Which was a shame, since it was five bucks.

  “I think he fits in well,” Amy said, meaning Alyec and the trio of friends.

  “I don’t want him to fit in well,” Chloe said with a little more passion than she meant. “I want him to come over here, drag me outside, and kiss me like he really means it.” She took a couple of big gulps.

  “Oh my God, Chloe gets shallow. You really do want a handsome caveman.”

  “I like talking,” Chloe protested. “Talking is good. Later. After the making out.”

  “Well.” Alyec sat down next to her, coming over the back of the couch. “I have taught your friend a little lesson in the finer points of losing.”

  Paul just growled and sat next to Amy, who turned so she could lean on his lap. Alyec put his arm behind Chloe on the back of the couch, touching her occasionally to emphasize points. She wondered if he realized that he was driving her crazy. Probably. That’s how he wound up with a crowd of worshipers in the first place, isn’t it? Chloe made a mental note that no matter what happened, she would not end up in that category. Chloe was different from them, the Keiras and the Halley Dietrichs of the world.

  Paul challenged Alyec to darts twice more, never winning. Amy panhandled for jukebox quarters. Chloe watched Alyec, sipped her beer, and occasionally moderated Amy’s music decisions. At ten Amy’s mom called and insisted she come home from whatever scandalous thing she was doing. All four parted ways at the street comer outside, but Alyec didn’t offer to see Chloe home.

  “See you in Am civ tomorrow,” Alyec said. “Thanks for inviting me out today.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, then turned and disappeared into the night.

  It was nice. A nice kiss. Very nice. Too nice.

  Chloe felt like screaming.

  “You could just wear a T-shirt that says I’m Easy,” Amy suggested.

  In the end, Chloe was glad to walk home by herself. The air was dry and a little chill, just the way fall weather should be. Quick little winds pushed leaves around and around on the pavement, making dry scratchy noises. Clouds skittered across the moon. Very Halloweeny. For the first time in days her thoughts drifted away from Xavier, her fall, and even Alyec: she wondered what Amy would do for a costume this year. They were always spectacular, complicated, and often puns: last year she’d been a Big Mac Daddy, with a red wig, clown shoes, and gold chains. Paul had worn jeans and a jean jacket with a pin of a DNA helix that said Selfish Gene. Chloe had just worn a vintage evening gown and a half mask, one that Amy had helped her take apart and put on a stick so she would look like a Venetian attending a ball.

  “Hey—smile, sister!”

  Chloe broke out of her reverie to see one of San Francisco’s many friendly street people approaching her. He was tall and probably in his twenties, with blond hair in stupid white-man dreads. His clothes were grubby. Chloe forced a smile at him and kept walking.

  “Hey, sister, can you spare a dollar or two?” He ran alongside her and put out his hand. “I really need a beer.” He flashed a toothy grin at her. His honesty was refreshing—and amusing—but Chloe suddenly realized there was no one else on the street with them, and all of the shops were closed for the night.

  Her Spidey sense, as Paul would have called it, tingled. She picked up the pace.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Come on.” He grabbed at her hand. “You gotta have a dollar or two. Everyone does.”

  Chloe pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” He grabbed her harder and spun her around.

  “Let go of me!” She yelled it, looking him right in the eye, just like they had taught her in the self-defense class she and her mom had taken. He put his other hand over her mouth. It stank of old body, dog, and pee.

  “Come on, don’t be like that. We can have a little fun.” He leered at her.

  Suddenly she was angry, all fear gone. Rage burned in her: who did he think he was? What gave him the right to do this to her—to anyone?

  Chloe bit down on his hand, catching a thick piece of palm meat. She ground her teeth down and pulled back her head, ripping something loose.

  “Holy shit—motherfucker!” He pulled that hand away, stared at it dumbly, thick ropes of blood gushing out of it. Then he whacked her in the face.

  It hurt bad. Chloe didn’t care. She spun around. Using his hand to balance herself, Chloe leapt up and kicked him on the chest.

  Which was odd, because she didn’t know a single martial art, and she’d actually been aiming for his crotch.

  He stumbled backward, winded.

  Chloe waited.

  “You little—“He dove at her.

  She leapt easily out of the way and grabbed his hair as he passed. She yanked back hard on it so he lost balance, then spun and kicked him in the side as he fell. She channeled all her rage at the world, at her friends, at Alyec, at her dad who’d left her, at her bad chemistry grade into that kick. There was a very satisfying sound of ribs breaking. He rolled onto his stomach and she kicked him on his other side.

  “Fucking—bitch—,” he wheezed. “I’ll kill you—”

  Chloe backhanded him on the side of the head. He went out immediately. Blood trickled
out of his ear and down his jaw.

  She stood there, panting. What now? Call 911 anonymously for the second time in a week?

  Nah. He didn’t deserve it. She turned and started walking home.

  The night was the same as it was when she began her walk: beautiful, cold, and quiet. Chloe whistled a little tune, still full of adrenaline, realizing something strange.

  She had enjoyed every second of the fight.

  Seven

  Her mother didn’t come home until late that night, after she was home and asleep, so Chloe was spared the almost inevitable confrontation about the bruises and scrapes on her cheeks. She slept dreamlessly until her alarm rang and managed to hide her face from her mom until she got out of the house.

  “What the hell happened to you?” It was blunt, but at least Amy didn’t start off with any is-your-mom-hitting-you bullshit. She was smoking a clove cigarette this morning, trying to look cool by casually dropping it and stepping on it as they approached the school.

  “I walked into a door. Again,” Chloe answered tragically.

  Amy hit her.

  “I was attacked by a bum last night, walking home.” She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to tell the truth, but after not bothering to mention her night at the club or Xavier, Chloe was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the number of omissions and half lies she was telling her friend.

  “Oh my God. Are you okay? Wait, what am I saying. This is the Chloe King who survived a fall from Coit Tower.” Amy raised one eyebrow and shook her head.

  “I beat the living shit out of him,” Chloe couldn’t help bragging.

  “Yeah? Which episode of Buffy was that? Or more importantly, what was he on?”

  “Hey! I attribute it to my awesome strength, lightning-fast reflexes, and that self-defense course I aced.”

  “Uh-huh,” Amy said, nodding and pretending to agree. “So. What was he on?”

  Why didn’t Ame believe her? Was it so unbelievable that she’d managed to defend herself successfully from an attacker? Chloe thought back on the fight. The man had been large, six-foot two or so, but skinny. He had obviously been living on the streets for a while. She tried to play the scene through Amy’s eyes. It seemed believable, almost like a scenario from the self-defense class—up until, with no training, she’s done that high kick onto his chest. And instead of running away, she had finished the fight.