Nine Lives of Chloe King

  “Chloe?”

  She broke out of her reverie.

  I wish for a new mountain bike.

  No, wait, world peace.

  She blew, trying not to get spit on their pizza. Chloe saw with amusement that Amy had also pre-ordered the requisite three cans of Nehi grape each.

  “You’re the best, Amy.”

  “Hey, no problem.” They didn’t hug; Amy hated things like that. Instead they sat down and began the serious business of shoveling sausage-onion-pepper-tomato-pepperoni-caper-black-olive slices into their mouths as fast as humanly possible. Chloe groaned with pleasure.

  “This pizza is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. Well, except for last night.” She swallowed and looked at Amy, but her friend wasn’t biting.

  “Yeah? You mean the fall? That was some freaky stuff.”

  “No, afterward. Last night. After my mom pulled a major freakage.” But Amy really wasn’t listening. Chloe sighed, finally giving in to the desperate-to-share, distracted look on her friend’s face. “Okay, what’s more important than my life on my birthday?”

  “Paul and I made out last night!” Amy blurted, suddenly covering her mouth as if she hadn’t meant for the words to escape.

  Chloe found herself choking. It took half a Nehi to restore normal breathing and swallowing. Of all the things Amy could have said, that was definitely the one she’d least expected. Sure, Amy and Paul had been gazing a bit at each other yesterday—but holy crap, they had all known each other since third grade. It would be like dating a brother. A really geeky brother.

  “You did what?”

  “After we took you home, we hung out at his place.” Easily pictured: Amy and Paul in his tiny room, surrounded by bookshelves packed with records and his turntable equipment. Lounging on the floor. “I mean, it really freaked us out, you know?” Amy looked her in the eyes. “You really could have died. I mean, the fact that you lived is just—amazing. Like you were given a second chance or something.” Chloe silently pleaded that Amy not get into her angel crap; suddenly it was not the time. “It sort of, it sounds dumb, a total cliché, but it was just sort of like we realized how death almost touched us. Say things while you can, you know? In case you never get a chance to.” She took a deep breath. “So then we were talking about, you know, deep things and life, and uh, then … Well, and then …”

  “You sucked face?”

  “Basically, yeah.” Was Amy blushing? “But that’s not all. I mean, I really care about him, you know? We grew up together, he’s like family, so there’s like that kind of love, but I never found him sexy before. …”

  “Oh my God,” Chloe said. “Are you telling me you find him sexy now? Still? Twenty-four hours later?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, maybe.”

  They chewed in silence for a while. Suddenly Chloe’s obsession with sexy club guy and flirting with Alyec faded. With Xavier it had been just a kiss, albeit a long and deep one, and if she never saw him again, that was all it would ever be. And Alyec was just a flirt. This was serious. This affected the Trio.

  If they weren’t serious, or if they were and it failed, or if it was just a weirdness from last night and one of them didn’t feel as strongly as the other, the once-solid friendship of the three of them was doomed. Chloe didn’t relish the thought of being the friend in between after the “divorce.” Terribly awkward. Chloe was sure this was going to be a total disaster.

  After dinner Amy grabbed for the check when Carlucci left it on the table.

  “Will miracles never cease? First I survive the fall and now this …,” Chloe said, preemptively ducking. But Amy just frowned a little and walked her home, chattering about Paul the entire time. Only as they neared the Kings’ residence did she seem to remember Chloe.

  “Was there something you wanted to say before?” she asked.

  “Oh, uh, no biggie. I mean, not like this biggie.” Chloe unlocked the door and pushed it open. “You want to come up? We can—”

  There was a crowd of people, well dressed, talking and hanging around the Kings’ dining and living room. Hors d’oeuvres were being passed; champagne was being poured into glasses. Paul was there with his parents, and Mr. and Mrs. Scotkin, and other people who were neighbors or familiar faces.

  “Oh, crap,” her mom said, turning around and seeing her. “Surprise!”

  Five

  Two glasses of champagne later, Chloe began to enjoy herself. Even though she suspected that the party was some sort of psychological ploy on her mother’s behalf to make her daughter feel loved, wanted, and appreciated, she had done an excellent job, and Chloe felt all three. She wondered when her punishment for skipping school and leaving the hospital was going to kick in or if that, too, had been canceled in some sort of amnesty.

  Mrs. King could not, however, give up the traditional elements of a birthday party, i.e., an old-fashioned frosted cake and sharing embarrassing photos and pictures of a much younger, and often naked, Chloe.

  And of course, a toast.

  As soon as her mom began to tap on a glass, Chloe looked around for the quickest way out of being the center of attention. No one was budging; she was trapped.

  “As many of you here already know,” Mrs. King began with a sniff, “we aren’t exactly sure when Chloe’s birthday really is.”

  Chloe closed her eyes. She was going to do it. She was going to tell the whole story.

  The crowd waited expectantly.

  “She was born somewhere in the countryside of the old USSR. By the time we found her, the only thing the Soviet officials could give us was a document with some scribbles and a sickle-and-star stamp.”

  Mrs. King pointed to the tattered paper, matted and framed above the dining room table.

  “David and I wanted a baby so badly … and we were so lucky. Chloe was the most beautiful little girl we had ever seen. And she has grown in grace and beauty and intelligence in every way since.” Chloe almost groaned aloud. Amy gave her a look, sympathizing with her horror. “And even though we have our little … fights, I couldn’t be more proud. And if your dad”—had stuck around—“were here, he would feel the same way. Chloe, I love you. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Happy sixteenth birthday!”

  Everyone clinked their glasses and hugged her. Chloe mumbled thanks, just glad that the worst part was over so quickly. As soon as the knot of people around her loosened, she dove for the table of hors d’oeuvres, filled up a plate, and stood in the corner behind a tall plant so she could enjoy the caterer’s specialties in peace.

  A pair of people walked by, dangerously close. Chloe froze—they didn’t seem to have noticed her.

  “Remember how badly they were fighting toward the end?” Mrs. Lowe whispered.

  “Yes, Anne’s toast was so diplomatic,” Paul’s dad responded. “Considering how he just took off like that.”

  “Did she ever wind up getting a divorce?”

  “No … it was like he dropped off the face of the planet. He’s never sent a penny for Chloe. Of course,” he considered, reflecting, “I don’t think Anne or Chloe is suffering.”

  They were both silent.

  “More champagne?” Mrs. Lowe finally suggested.

  Chloe chewed contemplatively on a celery stick. Back when her father was still around, when she was young, they also used to celebrate her adoption day, which was just a few weeks later. They hadn’t done it since her father left, though.

  She left the safety of her plant to try and mingle; the revelers were here for her, after all.

  “So where’s the hired magician?” Paul whispered, approaching her and looking around surreptitiously. “I thought there would be clowns and pony rides and stuff.”

  “She’s not that bad,” Chloe said, surprising herself with her defense of her mother. It was an amazingly nice little party; one of her mom’s friends was playing a cello in the comer, which was kind of weird but lent a sophisticated air to the whole thing. Like they were rich a
nd she was a debutante or something. There was even a little American sturgeon—not endangered, her mother said proudly—caviar. And most importantly, a beautiful white-and-chrome Merida mountain bike with electric pedal assist for the more tiresome hills in San Francisco.

  What do you know. I got my wish. She felt a little guilty about the whole world peace thing, though. Maybe next year.

  Paul was tapping the bottom of his champagne glass nervously.

  “Um, Amy told me,” Chloe said quietly.

  He instantly looked relieved, letting out a deep sigh.

  “So you’re okay with that?”

  “With what?”

  “With us … having … you know …”

  “Well, no,” Chloe said, licking caviar off her fingers. “I mean, seeing as I’ve had this crush on you since we were nine and—”

  “O-kay.” Paul held up his hand. “That’s enough. Message received.”

  Amy wandered over.

  “Hey, guys,” she said a little nervously. She and Paul exchanged shy—shy!—smiles. Chloe watched their two hands “accidentally” brush each other. Amy smiled, glowing a little. Chloe shuddered a little. Oh God. Fine. I will be the cool best friend.

  * * *

  I will be the cool best friend.

  Chloe repeated her little mantra through English the next day as she watched Amy and Paul try very hard not to watch each other. Who cared? Why were they trying to keep it a secret? It wasn’t as if anyone in the school actually gave a rat’s ass about this particular trio of friends or what went on between them. Mr. Mingrone turned to sketch a giant scarlet A on the blackboard. When Amy used the opportunity to toss Paul a note, Chloe put her head down. The plastic desktop reeked of old glue, the sharp tang of pencil lead, and other, less identifiable but equally unpleasant odors, but anything was preferable than watching Paul and Amy.

  I will be cool.

  Paul was nominally on the school newspaper, which allowed him (and Amy and Chloe) access to the club’s better computers and equipment, as well as the old ratty couch and semiprivate room. Almost no one used it until after school, which allowed the three of them to hang there during the day if Paul was around. Chloe decided to use sixth period to catch up on some much-missed sleep.

  Chloe knocked tentatively on the ancient, solid-oak door, praying that she wouldn’t catch her two best friends making out.

  “Come,” Paul called, using his Captain Picard voice. Amy was definitely not around.

  In fact, when Chloe went in, Paul actually appeared to be working on the paper, sitting on the edge of his desk and looking over an article.

  “Crunchy cheese-baked scrod every Wednesday for the next month.” He sighed, throwing down the lunch schedule. It was Paul, Amy, and Chloe’s private opinion that the only reason anyone read The Lantern was for the cafeteria menu and Sabrina Anne’s often-banned column.

  “Why don’t you get your mom to pack a lunch? PB and kimchi. Breakfast of champions.” Chloe threw her book bag, and then herself, onto the couch.

  “Yeah, right.” Paul kicked his legs under the desk.

  It was strange having him look down on her like that. Or maybe it was just an overall change in his demeanor since the whole hooking-up-with-Amy thing. He seemed calm and confident, like he was relaxing on a throne instead of perched on a desk. Actually, he looked pretty good today. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt and baggy jeans that complemented his square, compact body better than any of the bowling shirts or DJ wear he often sported.

  Uh, what? Chloe suddenly realized she was admiring Paul’s looks. Good ol’ Paul, with the harelip scar that tugged his mouth when he smiled. Kind of endearing, really …

  Chloe shook herself.

  “So what’s been going on?” she asked quickly.

  “Between you almost dying and Amy? Not a whole lot.” He looked at her with faint amusement in his dark brown eyes. Chloe felt her palms sweat. It was a small room, secluded from the rest of the high school; their aloneness was a very palpable third presence in the room with them.

  It’s just because Amy likes him, she told herself. A competition thing. In the still air of the room she could just smell the deodorant and soap he used and underneath, a saltiness that she realized was probably his skin. The way he was sitting there, it would be so easy just to walk over and push herself against him; they would be the same height. She could wrap her arms around his neck like she had with Xavier and pull him in—

  “Robble robble, blah blah blah—hey, King, you listening?”

  “Yes!” She leapt up, trying to shake off the desire. “No. I mean, I gotta go. I, uh, forgot to hand in my essay to Mingrone—shit, I hope he hasn’t left yet.”

  She grabbed her bag and made for the door.

  “I think he said we have until tomorrow,” Paul called after her. The door slammed between them.

  I will be cool.

  Yeah, right.

  At work Chloe forced herself to seriously look over every guy who came in. Including a few who were gay. Things were very bad indeed when she found herself almost kissing her best friend. Who seemed to be her other best friend’s boyfriend.

  Marisol didn’t help anything by putting the Eurythmics’ “I Need a Man” on the shop speakers. Chloe jumped guiltily when she heard the chorus.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Honey, you’re dripping hormones all over my nice clean floor.” The older woman smiled at her. Chloe wished her mom was more like her manager. She always seemed to understand Chloe’s moods immediately and unless there was a sale coming up, was often ready to talk and listen.

  “Who put on this old shit?” Lania screamed from the shoe section, hands over her ears in horror.

  Chloe and Marisol exchanged “what can you do” looks. “Go get yourself a boy, girl. You’re not concentrating; it’s obvious your attention is elsewhere,” Marisol said in a lighthearted voice.

  As Chloe patiently ripped through the hem seams of more jeans, she reflected on what her boss had said. Maybe she could get it “out of her system.” Maybe she was due for a nice boyfriend.

  Or a visit to Xavier.

  Once Chloe had found the right street, she pulled the crumpled card out of her back pocket. I’m going to have to get better at this. She imagined herself in a business suit, somewhere in a steel-and-glass future, shaking someone’s hand and pulling out her own card, all rumpled and greasy. She checked the address against the building. Xavier must have had a little money or have been crashing with a friend who did: it was a nice old house, three floors, dark wood and bay windows on a street with soft green trees and no traffic. Of course, both sides of the street were stuffed with parked cars—rich neighborhood or not, this was still San Francisco.

  The front door was propped open and there was a hand-scrawled note to FedEx posted over the buzzer. The lobby smelled of lemon wood cleaner. There was only one apartment per floor; Xavier had the attic. With gables. Chloe had always dreamed of living in a real old house like this instead of her bug-ugly vinyl-sided ranch. She climbed the stairs, letting her hand trail along the smoothly polished rail.

  But in the half-light of the stairwell Chloe began to question what she was doing: going to some foreign older guy’s apartment by herself at twilight without anyone knowing where she was. He could turn out to be anything: a rapist or murderer. A vampire, even.

  She paused briefly, but an image of herself kissing Paul pushed her forward. I won’t go in. I’ll stand in the hallway and ask him if he wants to go out. Maybe grab a coffee.

  His door was dark wood with molding and a little brass-and-glass peephole at eye height. She raised her hand to knock …

  And realized the door was pushed open just the slightest bit.

  “Uh, hello?” she called out, stepping back.

  “Help …,” a choked, wheezy voice called from inside. “Help me!”

  Chloe hesitated on the doorstep. It could be a trap. He could kidnap girls and rape them and sell them into slave
ry and …

  “Please … someone …”

  Chloe pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The apartment smelled of sickness and decay, which was strange against the clean, antique furniture and expensive, modern lighting. In each gable was a carefully designed nook for reading and sitting—just like I would have done. Chloe made herself follow the sound of wheezing.

  Lying under the lintel to the bathroom was a very different Xavier.

  He was wearing the same clothes from the club two nights ago, but they were torn and pulled like he had tried to rip them off his body. His face had bubbled up like the rind of a diseased grapefruit. His cheeks and forehead were swollen and red, with white liquid, lymph or pus, oozing out of giant sores.

  “Help—“He was trying to scream, but his throat was swollen so badly, he could barely breathe. He groaned and twisted, trying to crawl out of his skin. He flopped onto his stomach and Chloe got a look at his back. Long, oozing cankers and welts, like claw marks. Exactly where she had scratched and kneaded him outside the club.

  Chloe backed up slowly.

  Must call.

  Without thought, like she was walking through syrup, Chloe found the handset of a cordless phone in the living room, resting on top of one of those expensive giant HEPA filters from Sharper Image, like the one her mom had. She dialed 911.

  She recited the address when a brusque, disinterested voice came on. “There’s someone here. Covered in sores. Can barely breathe. It looks like he’s dying.”

  It looks like he’s dying.

  “We’ll be right there, ma’am. What’s your telephone number?”

  “I don’t—“She looked at the card and gave them his cell. After hanging up she went back to Xavier. He was hissing and coughing and his eyes were crusty and half shut. She wondered if he could see her, if he would recognize her.

  Exactly where she had scratched him.

  Chloe waited until she heard sirens approaching, and then she ran.