Ghostgirl: Lovesick

  “This is just a warning, Miss Kensington,” the officer said. “You’re not under arrest, but I don’t want to see you around here again.”

  “Really?” Petula said, her tough demeanor melting in relief. “Thank you, Officer, ahhh…”

  Petula strained through her shades to read the name from his badge. No need to be so formal any longer, she figured; besides, he was kind of cute.

  “Officer Beaumont,” he proffered with a little smile. “Charlie Beaumont.”

  “Thank you, Charlie,” Petula said gratefully, hanging her head ever so slightly.

  “Stick with your blondetourage next time,” Beaumont said, sarcastically referencing The Wendys, to indicate he knew more about her than she would have thought. “There’s strength in numbers.”

  “They’re not blond,” Petula corrected sheepishly, stroking her own locks. “They’re just brunette with highlights.”

  Officer Beaumont walked away silently and returned to his vehicle to answer another call that was just coming across his police radio.

  Petula got in her car and drove away slowly. Beaumont followed behind till she cleared downtown and then peeled off toward the next thruway exit. As she watched him turn away, she realized for the first time that night just how lucky she was that he was around.

  Petula was never one to go out at night unaccompanied. Strength in numbers, but not for the reason Officer Beaumont cited. She needed to have her every decision supported, witnessed, and celebrated. It was kind of a like that whole “if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it” thing. As a precautionary measure, Petula never set foot in a forest, thereby completely avoiding the possibility of falling alone.

  What exactly did she think she was doing down there alone anyway? Dumping a bag of her used clothing on the street for a bunch of degenerates to pick through? Did she have some kind of death wish? Now that was an interesting bit of self-analysis.

  Maybe she did. After all, this weird behavior pretty much dated back to her coma. She’d recovered physically, but she was not the same as before. She kept having all these thoughts—these feelings that were totally alien to her. She had become more observant of the world around her and far more aware of and compassionate toward others and their troubles. Frankly, it was irritating.

  Petula first started to notice her change of heart at Christmas. In the past, her time was spent window shopping and making notes about things she wanted, i.e., demanded, which she would then pass along to family and friends as a courtesy. She would even register on websites for their convenience, or to ensure that she got exactly what she requested in the right size. It was the season of giving, after all, and she liked to give her loved ones plenty of options.

  But last Christmas, each time she visited the mall, the bells of the Salvation Army volunteers stationed at every door seemed to ring louder, until it was almost deafening to her. She found herself dropping pennies at first, then dimes, quarters, and even dollars into red kettles all over Hawthorne in a fruitless effort to make it stop. She was brought into painful conflict with values she’d held her whole life, and it was tearing her apart. For Petula, whose favorite motto was “Charity begins at home,” preferably her home, giving to others was not an act of generosity; it was enabling.

  But giving was at the core of both her erratic behavior and a growing philosophical dilemma. She prided herself on being part of “the problem,” as others called it, rather than the solution, regarding those in need as losers who preferred to be victims rather than take control of their lives. Now, she was being compelled by an impulse she could neither understand nor control to help them.

  But what could she do? There had to be more than secretly shot-putting bags of hand-me-downs to beggars.

  She continued to grapple with this first-ever internal struggle of her life as she pulled into her driveway.

  Scarlet sat cozily on her bed drinking a double espresso and wearing two oversize tanks—one was a flesh color and the other was sort of a super-washed-out gray—layered on top of one another and knotted on one side of the neck. They were almost see-through and long enough to double as a minidress. She had a cool vintage rhinestone brooch holding up the back of her teased-out French twist, with only her ebony bangs slightly curled under. Her lips were painted pale, a nude color, and they were full and subtle. She looked like a modern Marie Antoinette with edge.

  Propped next to her was her guitar, which was covered in a film of dust and looked like it hadn’t been touched since she and Damen last played together. All of the emotion she’d once put into it lay silent. It just stood there, unwanted and abandoned, like some kind of relic of what she used to be.

  She heard a car pull into the driveway and jumped off her bed to peek out the window. Petula had a habit lately of walking through the side gate into the yard and coming in the house from the back door. Sure enough, same routine. After a minute, Scarlet heard the sliding glass door close, followed by Petula’s stomping footsteps.

  As usual, her sister barged in without knocking, and in turn received Scarlet’s usual response: “Get out.” Scarlet didn’t even bother to look up.

  “Look what I found floating facedown in the pool,” Petula scolded, dangling Scarlet’s dripping baby doll by its drenched Onesie.

  “She needed a bath,” Scarlet said, pushing the doll from her throw blanket so her bedding wouldn’t get wet.

  “Child abuser!” Petula barked. “This is negligence.”

  “How I raise Lil’ bit is none of your business,” Scarlet snapped dismissively. “Just because you color-coordinate with your little skinny-me doesn’t mean you’re going to pass.”

  “You are an unfit mother!”

  “It’s NOT a baby!” Scarlet yelled. “It’s a stupid and sexist assignment. The boys don’t have to do this crap.”

  Petula was a big believer in natural selection, but no longer applied the theory to kids and babies. Even fake ones. She had begun feeling an affinity for the downtrodden, especially orphans, ever since she’d noticed that most of the homeless people downtown were not much older than she and her sister were. Some were very much younger, abandoned and left to fend for themselves. Much like Scarlet’s baby. Petula needed to act.

  “I’d like to adopt your baby,” Petula said with all sincerity.

  “What?” Scarlet said, facing her in disbelief.

  “That’s right, I’ll take her in,” Petula continued. “Before you know it, you’ll be selling her off to the highest bidder.”

  “Then maybe you should get your wallet,” Scarlet said, trying to get rid of her. “And shut my door!”

  Scarlet knew Petula well enough to assume that all she wanted two kids for was to upstage The Wendys or create a tabloid-worthy, celebrity-size brood. The dolls were accessories, not so different from a must-have nail color or skirt.

  “I’ll set up my room as a Safe Place, so you can drop the kid off anytime, no questions asked,” Petula said.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Scarlet noticed Petula scoping the piles of band tees, jeans, and cords that were strewn around the room.

  “What were you doing out so late anyway?” Scarlet inquired.

  “Let me help you,” Petula offered, ignoring the question and instead scooping up an armload of her sister’s castoffs.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Scarlet responded insincerely.

  “It’s no trouble,” Petula explained hesitatingly, as she picked up as much as she could carry. “I can cut up these old tees and make little rocker rompers. For, you know, the babies.”

  The fact that Petula would ask to borrow some of her seconds, even for a crafts project, was a clear sign to Scarlet that something was seriously wrong with her sister. But she decided not to show any concern and just play along.

  “Suit yourself,” Scarlet shot back skeptically, wondering what on earth had gotten into Petula now.

  “Something like that,” Petula answered cryptically.

  Chapter

  5 r />
  Playing the Angel

  But the thoughts we try to deny

  Take a toll upon our lives

  We struggle on in depths of pride

  Tangled up in single minds

  —Portishead

  Missed Oppurtunity.

  We don’t miss what we never had, but we miss terribly things we almost had. And we miss things we used to have most of all. Though we hope and pray for our relationships, our looks, and our lives to improve, having more also means having more to lose.

  The walk home after Markov’s announcement—or sentencing, more appropriately—felt especially long today, which was fine with Charlotte. She was walking with Eric. They didn’t get a lot of private time, so these strolls meant a lot to her, and to him, she hoped. She decided to take the opportunity to get to know him a little better, for Pam’s and Prue’s sake, if not for her own.

  “So, where were you?” Charlotte asked.

  “You mean when I was late for work this morning?” Eric asked.

  “No, silly,” Charlotte laughed. “Before you came here.”

  Eric tightened up a little. It was clear he didn’t like talking about his past.

  “I was a dropout,” he volunteered slowly. “So even though I died onstage, I still had to go through Dead Ed to get my boneyard GED, I guess,” Eric said, the unpleasant memory of it obviously still with him.

  “You were from Hawthorne, right?” Charlotte asked. “That’s probably why they sent you here when you crossed.”

  “Could be,” Eric said, sort of indifferently. “To be honest, I never really felt at home at Hawthorne.”

  “Neither did I,” Charlotte added, noting something else they had in common.

  Charlotte loved being with him. Not in a showy, PDA, look-at-me-I-have-a-boyfriend kind of way, but rather in a way that made her feel completely herself. Not at ease entirely, but comfortable. She felt she could tell him anything and he would understand. But she hadn’t actually tried to until now.

  “Do you think this new assignment is their way of keeping us apart?” Charlotte asked, hoping his reaction would provide the status of his feelings for her. It was the early days and she was still feeling pretty insecure.

  “What’s with all the conspiracy theories, Juliet?” Eric asked flatly. “That’s not rock.”

  She still wasn’t sure what actually constituted “rock” and what didn’t, but she had come to understand that it was of the utmost importance to Eric. Not in a Metal Mike thickheaded way, she assured herself, but in the simple, cool, and charming Eric way.

  Charlotte gulped, “I just mean, why now?” She pivoted, still looking for support, but a bit less obviously. “Aren’t you suspicious at all?”

  “Man, I thought it was rock stars that were supposed to have big egos,” Eric responded, only half kidding.

  Charlotte was hurt, and even Eric, who was not that great at reading her moods, took her expression as a clear sign that he was being insensitive.

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” Eric said, brushing her arm with his, and almost, but not quite, grabbing for her hand. “But I don’t see any conspiracy in this. It’s just another thing we have to do to get where we need to go.”

  He was sounding a whole lot like her father, which was both comforting and irritating. Right about now, it was mostly irritating. Didn’t he realize a break like this could spell death to a new relationship? To their relationship?

  The Wendys were sharing a mini–rice cake outside the lunchroom and obsessing, as usual, about their waistlines and Petula.

  “Did you see that Asian fusion brownie throwdown on the Food Network last night?” Wendy Anderson began. “Yum, yum.”

  “No, I was switching between the National Geographic Channel and Animal Planet last night,” Wendy Thomas said. “I couldn’t believe how fat all those natives are. Their stomachs are absolutely huge.”

  “It’s all those carbs we send over!” Wendy Anderson concurred. “Somebody should airlift a few crates of Ab Rollers along with the rice and powdered milk.”

  “Simple substitutions like protein powder and brown rice,” Wendy Thomas offered, “would do wonders.”

  “A little lean protein wouldn’t hurt, and it’s easy to get,” Wendy Anderson said, “with all those animals running around.”

  They both needed a short break to savor and swallow the dried cracker.

  “You know,” Wendy Thomas mentioned, “it just occurred to me that, for most of the world, Animal Planet is the Food Network.”

  Just as Wendy Anderson was about to applaud her on that keen observation, Darcy sashayed up to them, interrupting their secret snackrifice to the Goal Weight Goddess. She was dressed expensively, but without a single logo blaring from her ass pocket or sleeve to blow her nouveau riche cover.

  Both Wendys recoiled, pulling their heads back like threatened turtles. Darcy, The Wendys observed, had done her homework.

  “You guys are The Wendys, right?” Darcy greeted. “Or is that just your circus name?”

  “We don’t have an act,” Wendy Thomas shot back, clueless to the intended freak-show dis.

  Darcy smirked, laughing to herself that the only thing these girls probably knew about Big Tops came from a plastic surgeon’s office.

  For their part, The Wendys were less offended than intrigued by the new girl’s audacity.

  “That’s us,” Wendy Anderson replied curiously, shushing Wendy Thomas. “And you are…?” Of course The Wendys knew but would never give Darcy the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

  “Darcy,” the girl answered, tilting her chin up slightly and sucking in her cheeks. “Your pleasure, I’m sure.”

  “What can we do for you?” Wendy Thomas asked regally.

  “Sorry to disturb your lunch,” Darcy quipped, noticing the rice cake, “but I had some information about Petula that I thought you might find interesting.”

  A total stranger gossiping about Petula? And using her name, no less? This was just not done. Much as the ancient Israelites were forbidden to speak the name of Yahweh, the students of Hawthorne refrained from talking about Petula in a familiar way.

  The Wendys sheathed their claws momentarily because Darcy seemed to know something about Petula that they didn’t know, a rare occurrence in WendyWorld.

  “Go on,” Wendy Thomas instructed tersely.

  “I know someone who knows someone,” Darcy said, speaking vaguely to protect her source, The Wendys assumed. “Who heard Petula got busted in an alley downtown last night.”

  “Doing?” Wendy Anderson asked, not wanting to seem out of the inner loop, but secretly dying to know.

  “He didn’t say,” Darcy answered, “but I thought I should tell you first before it… you know, gets around the school.”

  Darcy knew that if such information ever leaked, The Wendys would be more than a little humiliated by association. With the end of senior year approaching, their legacies were at stake.

  “How considerate of you,” Wendy Thomas said flatly, her eyes squinting Darcy into even tighter focus.

  “What do you want?” Wendy Anderson quizzed.

  “Nothing,” Darcy answered. “I just figured you guys have been embarrassed enough for two lifetimes.”

  “What do you mean?” Wendy Thomas asked.

  “The whole coma thing, getting left back a year, and getting dumped by her boyfriend for her little sister,” Darcy added snidely. “Now this.”

  She was making a blatant move against the Queen, a naked power play, and The Wendys were impressed. This was getting very political, and they were always up for a little intrigue. They still hadn’t quite made up their minds, however, about what to make of this news or the messenger who delivered it.

  “Let’s just keep this confidential for now,” Wendy Anderson urged, as she and Wendy Thomas flanked Darcy and walked her down the hall, out of the earshot of any curious bystanders.

  Darcy was unfazed by their attempt to intimidate her.

  “Consider
it a gift,” she said, strutting toward the exit and smiling as the third-period bell rang.

  The drama of the day continued when Charlotte arrived home, or rather she continued with the drama.

  “What do you mean, you’re going back?” Charlotte’s mom asked, fighting back tears that would never come. “Bill?”

  Her mom’s outburst only served to feed the flame already burning in Charlotte’s head. It felt good to be cared about so deeply. From her father’s earnest countenance, she braced herself for the other side of the equation. He was a listener, rash neither in his words nor in his actions.

  “It’s not right,” Charlotte complained out loud. “I have what I always wanted and now it’s being taken away from me.”

  Charlotte was upset but also kind of excited. This was the first chance she’d ever had to vent to her parents. To be a child.

  “Charlotte, we know how you’re feeling. All we ever wanted was to be with you again, and now to find that you’re leaving,” Bill Usher began sympathetically. “But, you just may be needed for bigger things.”

  Charlotte was hoping for more than a feel-good speech. She wanted to be rescued from this predicament. She wanted to stay and he was being a… dad.

  “Bill, this isn’t right and you know it,” Eileen said, the exasperation in her voice familiar to him.

  “Eileen, look, what if your mother stopped you from moving to Hawthorne?” Bill offered rationally. “You never would have met me.”

  “No, but I’d be alive,” Eileen said tersely.

  Charlotte couldn’t believe what had just slipped out of her mother’s mouth, and neither could Eileen, from the expression on her face. It occurred to Charlotte that she wasn’t the only one in her family who had carried unresolved issues over.

  “This is so unfair,” Charlotte said, echoing the sentiments of the zillions of whining teens before her, but more importantly, breaking the tension between her parents.