Tonya Hurley_Ghostgirl_03 (4 page)

Scarlet understood that school was a priority for him, but she was still a little upset about being alone. Not that she would ever show him. She wouldn’t have minded going to see a midnight viewing of a V-Day slasher flick in 3-D, which happened to be their tradition. She felt just the slightest bit taken for granted. Would Petula, she thought, have ever stood for such treatment, or more the question, would he have even considered treating Petula this way in the first place?
She returned to the business at hand. Tossing all these things was like a little death for her. You might even call it murder, judging from the condition of her closets and the castoffs on the floor. But what was she trying to kill off, she wondered? Her past or her future?
As she stared down at the mounds of her once must-have apparel, she realized that in giving her stuff away, she was giving up her history, too—a history she’d shared, mentally, emotionally, and physically with Charlotte. Scarlet missed her terribly. Theirs was the most intimate relationship she’d ever had—at least so far. But even though she may have given herself over to Charlotte, she’d never given herself up, she thought, until now.

Chapter 4 Heart-Shaped Box
And I’m not gonna live my life
On one side of an ampersand
And even if I went with you
I’m not the girl you think I am
—Amanda Palmer

I against I.
We are often so distracted by the internal war between what we want to do and what we have to do that we overlook what we need to do. Not need in the sense of an obligation to others, but in the sense of a compulsion to preserve our own sanity. When doing what others think we should do comes into direct conflict with what our heads or hearts demand, it’s time to choose whether our top priority is to please others or to please ourselves.
Petula strained to see through the fogged-up windows of her brand-new BMW and down the darkened side street toward the glow emanating from the alley. As best she could determine, it was a garbage can spewing fire and smoke. The streetlamps were in disrepair and flickering, transforming the grimy scene from live-action into a stop-motion flip book.
After making sure the coast was clear, she hiked up the fur collar on her coal-black peacoat and stepped out of the car and onto the street, the loud clacking of her high heels against the cobblestones startling her for just a second.
“Shhhh,” she hissed before realizing she was the only one there.
She reached back inside the car and grabbed the green plastic trash bag, which she’d been keeping in the trunk, from the passenger seat. Petula pulled down her sunglasses and stepped lightly and quickly past the shuttered and steel-gated storefronts, padlocked loading bays, broken pay phone, and grungy Dumpsters and tucked down an alleyway with the bale.
“Lock and load,” Petula said, fixing her sights on the glowing target and the straggling crowd huddled around it.
Once she’d gotten close enough to catch a whiff of the unfortunates, she stopped and dug her heel tips into the crevice between cobblestones for stability. Petula then spun around a few times with the bag like a discus thrower, groaning out billows of cold breath into the night air, and let it fly. The sack landed and burst open like a watermelon dropped from a window ledge, spilling all kinds of high-end clothing, footwear, and accessories across the sidewalk. It looked like a fashion fireworks display gone awry.
Petula whirled back around on her heels and sprinted across the uneven surface for her car, her stealth mission accomplished. She pressed her automatic key to unlock the doors as she ran, and as the taillights blinked to acknowledge the command, they illuminated a car parked behind hers, sitting in total darkness. She couldn’t make out a thing about it through her sunglasses, which being her disguise for the evening would be unthinkable to remove, and she was certain it wasn’t there earlier.
It being the dead of night and all, Petula promptly freaked and sped toward the luxury sedan even faster. As she reached for the door handle, a loud, blaring voice called out, as if through a megaphone: “Stop right there.”
Petula acted like she didn’t hear—which was clearly impossible—and fumbled for the door handle, hoping whoever it was might take pity on her and just leave her alone.
“Don’t move,” the authoritative voice demanded, followed by a blaze of light that shot from a lantern on his car roof.
She could just make out the silhouette of a cop exiting his squad car through the glare of the floodlight.
“Thank God for oversize,” she mumbled to herself, adjusted her sunglasses again, and raised her arms limply in a gesture of surrender.
She was discovered. Doing what, even she wasn’t quite sure.
“Don’t you know who I am?” Petula shouted frantically, flashing her ID in hopes of intimidating him. “I want to call my representatives.”
“Turn around and place your hands on your vehicle, miss,” the young officer, unimpressed, ordered calmly but firmly.
Petula felt the blood rushing to her face in embarrassment. She was busted. Exposed. What would her mom say? And Scarlet? Petula didn’t even want to go there. Now The Wendys would find out all the details of her late-night excursions, which would confirm their worst suspicions, and possibly even give them an opening to overthrow her. Et tu, Wendy!
On the bright side, Petula pondered, she’d definitely take the best mug shot ever. She thought as fast as she could under the circumstances, hoping to distract the cop.
“Are they arresting people for wearing fur trim now?” Petula carped, turning her collar up and her head back around to look at him. “Or do you just want to frisk me?”
The patrolman remained silent and gave her a chance to settle down, which was definitely taking a while. He knew who she was. He’d graduated from Hawthorne a few years ahead of her. But even without this background info, he wouldn’t need to be a detective to see that a Hawthorne streetwalker couldn’t afford the outfit she was wearing. He followed procedure nevertheless, pulled out his cuffs for effect, and asked her a few questions.
“What are you doing out here all alone at this time of night?” he asked. “This is a dangerous place for a young lady.”
“I’m taking the Fifth,” Petula rebuffed him, both unwilling and unable to explain. “I know my rights.”
The officer just shook his head and stared at her. He’d only been on the force for a short while, but he was experienced enough to know he’d get nowhere with her.
“Take me to your leader,” Petula uttered, confusing sci-fi with CSI as she extended her arms straight out in front of her and put her wrists together, offering herself up for arrest.
“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 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.”