Nine Lives of Chloe King

by Liz Braswell

  “I’m blooming,” she answered with a hint of irony in her voice.

  “Exploding, more like.” She winced at Chloe’s look. “In a good way,” she quickly added. “What’s Brian look like?”

  “Tall, dark and brooding, handsome, brown eyes, mysterious smile … He didn’t kiss me good night, though.”

  “Gay,” Amy decided.

  “I wasn’t exactly getting a ’gay’ vibe,” Chloe said defensively.

  “All right, maybe he’s just shy.”

  “Hey.” Chloe suddenly really saw her friend’s necklace. It looked suspiciously like a cat, lying down, a smug little smile on her face. She furrowed her brow and reached for it.

  “Don’t you remember? Nana gave it to me when she came back from Egypt. For my bat mitzvah.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But what is it supposed to be, exactly?”

  “Um … a cat goddess of some sort, I think.” Amy pulled it out and tried to look at it. “Bastet or something? It was back when I was totally obsessed with cats, when I got Pharaoh.” That was the original name of the all-black kitten she’d rescued from an alley. Now he was huge and fat and just called Kitty.

  “Ma chérie!” a draggle-haired Moulin Rouge extra in a long white silk scarf called to Amy. “We await your presence.”

  “Yeah—give this to Paul when he comes, will you?” Amy fished a brown, letter-sized bag out of her giant denim one. “He left it at my place Wednesday night.”

  After her friend joined the other poetry weirdos, Chloe pulled the package closer to her so no one would take it or sit on it. Left it at her place Wednesday night. The three of them used to watch cheap DVD rentals at Amy’s midweek when everything was getting too stressful, usually Bollywood musicals. She was the only one with a TV in her room. They would pop popcorn and watch gold and pink dancers twirl and sing and elephants march by and feel like they were at the edge of another world, somewhere far more interesting, beyond Inner Sunset. Chloe wondered what they watched last night, or if they just made out.

  She opened Paul’s package: comics. Wednesday was comic day, something he had drilled into her since they were nine.

  She flipped through them—some starred recognizable characters like Batman and Green Lantern, others were just as brightly colored but with superheroes she had never heard of. Some were called things like Hellblazer and filled with amazingly disgusting scenes of people and demons doing extreme violence to each other. Chloe had learned a long time ago to avoid looking at those.

  She pulled a couple out; there was at least another fifteen minutes before the readings began. Batman was familiar but way too short, and the ads were more intriguing than the plotline. She opened another one about a woman called Selina Kyle and followed the four-color panes through her adventures leaping and running across the Gotham City skyline. Chloe grinned, thinking of herself.

  Then she frowned.

  Is that it? Is that what I have? Superpowers?

  She had never thought of it that way before. It sort of added up, though, if you looked at it from a comic book point of view: She’d survived a fall that should have killed her, she’d fought a guy—with no previous training—who was twice as big as her and used to living on the street, she could run for miles without getting winded and jump hurdles like a track star—when she used to have all the physicality of a slug. And here she’d been assuming that part of it was just some sort of growing spurt ….

  “Hey, since when did you become a comic mooch?” Paul asked, sliding into the booth across from her.

  “Since I was bored out of my mind.” She showed him the comic book she was reading. “Do any of these guys have, like, more subtle powers? Besides flying?”

  “Selina Kyle doesn’t have powers,” he said with a little bit of smugness. “Neither do Batman or Robin. John Constantine is … questionable. Aquaman can breathe underwater, which I guess is subtle, but he can also talk to fish. Why?”

  “Just wondering.” She watched as he carefully put the comics back in their Mylar bags and slid them gently into the brown bag. “So, how long is this horror scheduled to last?”

  “An hour and a half.”

  Chloe groaned. The lights dimmed and people clapped politely. The man with the scarf gave a little introduction. Chloe almost wished she still had a comic to look at. The poets were theoretically in order of who signed up first, but they tended to let the least worst go last.

  Which meant that Amy was usually second or third.

  If I’m a superhero, Chloe idly thought, I should definitely get some better clothes. Clingier. Spandex. Tank tops and bike shorts. Where did superwomen keep their extra tampons, anyway? Her foot tapped; she tried to keep it quiet through the first few readings. She would have given almost anything to be able to run outside. She hoped one of the poets’ clove cigarettes would fall and catch the place on fire.

  “And now, Amy Scotkin, reading three of her works.”

  “Whoo-hoo!” Chloe shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth like she was at a sporting event.

  “Go, Amy!” Paul shouted.

  Amy blushed. “My first one, ’Night Swan.’”

  “Holy crap,” Chloe whispered in horror. “She’s doing the ’Swan’ again? All thirteen verses?”

  “Hey, a little support and positive thought might be welcome here,” Paul suggested.

  Lo, my lover lies asleep

  In a twin bed with black satin sheets

  In the gable nook of our hallowed nest. …

  Chloe clenched and unclenched her hands the entire time, her fingernails tingling. She looked over at Paul; he sat still—trying to look serious, she thought.

  Call, call! My night black swan!

  Weep for the love that is lost

  The scarlet threads of shame and shadow

  That flow betwixt my breasts …

  Thirteen verses and approximately fifteen minutes later it was over. There were still two more Amy “specials,” but the last one was new, so at least it was an unexpected horror. And there was a break just two poets later.

  “Holy shit,” Chloe said as she and Paul went up to the bar afterward to reorder. “I think it gets harder every time.”

  “Yeah, some of those poets were atrocious,” he agreed.

  “And what about her new masterpiece? What gothic shit was she listening to when she wrote ’Daylight Incubus’?”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  Chloe turned to stare at her friend. “Um—hello? It sucked, Paul.”

  “I don’t think it was that bad,” Paul demurred.

  “If you mean that it wasn’t any better or worse than any of the other stuff she’s done, I agree.”

  “Why did you bother coming if you’re just going to trash her?”

  He didn’t say it nastily—it wasn’t a challenge. It almost sounded like a genuine question.

  “Because that’s what we always do, Paul!” Chloe said, exasperated. “We keep on trying to get her to drop this shit and do the stuff she’s good at, she ignores us, we keep coming here to support her, she reads her poetry, and we—well, commiserate.”

  “She’s my girlfriend, now, Chlo,” Paul said softly. Like it was supposed to shock her.

  And it did.

  “That doesn’t change everything. Or at least it’s not supposed to.” Chloe spun on her heels and walked away, ignoring the tea that was set in front of her. Has everyone gone insane? It seemed like she was just getting back into sync with Amy, and Paul suddenly went off the deep end, taking this whole girlfriend-boyfriend thing way too seriously. He had always been a harder person to get to know than Amy, sometimes difficult to read, but these dreadful readings used to be their bonding time. He used to relax.

  “Hey, good job,” she said, kissing Amy on the cheek. “I gotta take off.”

  “Oh! Thanks!” Amy grinned. “See you tomorrow!”

  Chloe stormed out into the cold, hands balled up into fists in her pockets again. She didn’t feel like running; she felt an alm
ost uncontrollable rage. Paul had always been kind of secretive and weird about his girlfriends before—but this was beyond beyond. His and Amy’s relationship was the worst thing that had happened to the three of them.

  And it’s kind of your fault: they got together ’cause of the fall.

  Chloe sighed, some of the steam going out of her. She unclenched her hands and realized she had been clutching a crumpled-up piece of paper in her pocket. She pulled it out and read it under a streetlight, assuming it was a permission slip or note or something. Her eyes widened when she realized what it actually said.

  Chloe:

  Your life is in danger. Be wary of the company you keep. Be prepared —and ready to run. The Order of the Tenth Blade knows who you are. …

  A friend

  Ten

  Normal people called the police. That was what normal people did in situations like this with weird notes and death threats and things like that.

  Too bad I’m not normal.

  It was probably just a joke. Right? Chloe had been terrified in fourth grade when she found a note in her cubby telling her that she’d better “watch out.” And that had turned out to be Laura Midlen’s idea of funny. But somehow this seemed less amusing than that incident.

  My life is in danger? Did that mean someone found out about Xavier? Maybe he was after her? That didn’t make sense, though: she hadn’t meant to hurt him, and it wasn’t worth killing her over. What was the company she kept? Paul? Amy? Nothing strange about them or dangerous … Whoever wrote the note probably meant her new friends: either Alyec or Brian. More likely Brian since Alyec was a known factor, a normal high school kid with roots in the community. She didn’t really know anything about Brian besides what he had told her. …

  Then again, he could also be the “friend” who was warning her. But he hadn’t been in the café—in fact, Chloe didn’t really know anyone at the Black Rooster except by sight. When was the note slipped into her pocket? Maybe it wasn’t even meant for her.

  She checked the locks on the doors several times before going to sleep—or trying to go to sleep. She felt pretty sure she could handle a daytime attack by a street thug, but a nighttime ambush would be another story.

  The next Monday at school Chloe was even grumpier and sleepier than usual. She kept looking up suddenly, jumping at noises, and seeing things out of the corners of her eyes. All for what was probably just a prank. As soon as she got a free period, she went to the newspaper office.

  “Hey, Paul,” she said, making straight for the couch.

  “Chloe,” he answered uneasily. He was sitting at the computer, playing some bright-colored and contraband video game.

  “I’m wiped. Do you mind?” She threw herself into the couch.

  “No. Go ahead.” He stood up and played with a pencil for a minute. “I … might have overreacted Friday night. … Are we cool?” he finally asked.

  Even through her sleep-thick haze, Chloe smiled. Paul actually cared if she was angry at him! Then again, she had a complete right to be.

  She raised her arm to give him a thumbs-up.

  “Cool.” He threw his bag over his shoulder. “Just close the door on your way out, okay? It’s already locked.”

  But Chloe was already asleep.

  She woke up perfectly, precisely forty-five minutes later, almost in time for phys ed. Which was really odd because usually once Chloe was out, she was flat out until someone woke her up. The second, warning bell rang and dozens of classroom doors slammed shut, students trapped inside, being forced to learn.

  She stretched and yawned and scratched herself, rolling her head and shaking the stiffness out of her shoulders—she hadn’t moved from the position she’d fallen down in, and it wasn’t really the most comfortable of couches.

  She slumped out of the room, pausing to pick up the obituary sections of the local newspapers lying around and remembering to make sure the door was closed like Paul had said. She started down the hall toward gym, possibly her most-hated class. Although, she considered, maybe I could surprise them with a thing or two. But probably not. The one thing every TV show, book, and comic book had ever suggested about people with special powers was to never reveal them to the outside world. At the worst she could be kidnapped and dissected by the government. At best Mr. Parmalee would insist she go for a drug test.

  “Chloe King!”

  Alyec was coming down the empty hall. She smiled.

  “What are you doing at this end of the school?”

  “I am going for my flute lesson,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. He held up a small black case. “I have always wanted to learn it, but there was no money or opportunity in Russia.”

  “Funny, I would have picked you for a boner,” she said.

  His eyes widened.

  “Tromboner? You know? That and trumpet are what all of the popular guys play.”

  “Well, I am not a normal popular guy. And anyway, if I am so popular, how come you haven’t asked to see me since the sea lions?” There was a sexy little smile that he was just hiding. Chloe felt a shiver run through her body. “How’s Brian?”

  “He’s great.” Except for that whole lack-of-kissing-and-phone-calls thing.

  “Oh yeah? You really like him, huh? I think you’re just playing hard to get.”

  “Awww, what’s the matter? Keira not enough for you?”

  “Nope,” he answered, grinning. Then he leaned over and kissed her. “She is just a stupid little girl,” he whispered into her ear, brushing it with his lips.

  Although such things had been placed far, far from her mind since—well, since her period began, Chloe felt the desire she had felt with Xavier rise up through her again. She turned her head so they were cheek to cheek, her lips against his jaw.

  “We should go somewhere,” he whispered, kissing the tops of her cheeks over and over again.

  “Janitor’s closet,” Chloe breathed, pointing.

  They both broke for it. Unlike on TV, this one was filled with actual janitorial stuff—mops and buckets and bottles of cleanser—and there was no real room to stand. They looked at it, then at each other.

  Chloe giggled. Unlike the time with Xavier, this was playful and fun. Alyec threw himself against the back of the closet so he would bear the brunt of their weight and pulled her in after him as she closed the door.

  Everything was very close and warm. She could smell all the disparate aspects of Alyec: his cologne, the fabric softener on his clothes, his toothpaste, the shampoo or gel in his hair, his skin and his breath.

  Also Lysol and Mr. Clean, but she tried not to think about that.

  He put his hands around her face and kissed her full on the lips, the way she had been aching for Brian to do the other night. He didn’t stop, not even to breathe, feeling every comer and surface of her mouth with his own.

  The way a girl should be kissed, was Chloe’s last coherent thought.

  When they stumbled out into the bright light of the hallway later, it was, fortunately, still empty. Alyec had to clap his hand over her mouth once or twice when they were in the closet because she was giggling and making him giggle, too. But no one had come by. She pulled and adjusted her shirt.

  “You are one sexy girl, Chloe King,” Alyec said, kissing her one last time on the cheek. “That was powerful stuff in there.”

  She felt pretty sexy. But …

  “Well, and now you can tell all your friends that. How you finally cornered Chloe King and you had the time of your life.” She smiled weakly.

  Alyec frowned. “Do you really think I’m like that? Chloe, I was serious about Keira. She means nothing to me. And I’m not a complete dick.”

  Chloe nodded. She hoped, of course. In nice-guy competitions Brian had him definitely beat. She reshouldered her bag and then realized Alyec was empty-handed.

  “Where’s your flute?” she asked.

  They looked back into the closet and saw the black case sticking out of a bucket.

  Getting out
of gym was easy—as soon as she and Alyec parted, she ran for the nurse’s office and made a big deal about how she was bleeding and this was her first period ever and she was cramping and had spent the whole time in the bathroom. The nurse was brusquely sympathetic and promised to speak to Mr. Parmalee before it was officially filed as a cut. She also recommended that Chloe get her gyn exam ASAP. Chloe agreed and left, limping a little as if she was still in pain.

  She had texted Amy earlier about meeting for lunch—in the corner of the cafeteria near the pay phones. It wasn’t a desirable area, but at least they would be left alone. She planned on showing her the note. Maybe even telling her the truth about … Well, about what? Running really fast? Kissing Alyec in the closet? Whatever. Anyway, Amy loved mysteries—she had gone through a whole Harriet the Spy/Nancy Drew/Agatha Christie stage that had lasted a lot longer than those of most little boys and girls who were interested in being detectives. Even if she had no idea what to make of the note, at least it would be entertaining. After all, maybe the note wasn’t even meant for her. Maybe it was a mistake.

  Chloe looked up and around the cafeteria, then at her watch. They only had twenty minutes for lunch today, and five of them were already gone. Amy hadn’t texted her back, but that didn’t mean anything. One of them always said “meet me here” and the other one just showed up. It had always been like that. Unless there was a problem—that was the only reason for a response, if one of them couldn’t make it.

  She checked her phone. No messages.

  At 12:35 she finally gave up, realizing Amy wasn’t going to show.

  • • •

  She had the whole evening to herself, sort of a nice change from recent events. And sort of not. Chloe did some desultory straightening of her room and read a little of The Scarlet Letter for class. She went to the computer and surfed for a while, downloading MP3s and seeing what her favorite celebrities were up to. Then on a whim she searched on AIM for Alyec Ilychovich … and there he was. Under Alyec Ilychovich. He sure does have a lot to learn about hiding your real identity and other American things. Chloe smiled and added him to her buddy list. His account was private—such a popular guy!—so she sent him an invite from oldclothesKing, one of her more common aliases. Then she went on surfing.