Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe (17 page)

As I hurried across the quad, my feet slowed for the first time in an hour. I’d reached Our Tree. Brie stood surrounded by clansmen. Over the past few weeks, more and more people gathered about Brie. She led them around with a royal flick of her wrist, and they obeyed. For a moment I wanted to rush off in the other direction.

Then I thought of the KDRS staff. They liked me, believed in me, made me promotional lollipops, and straightened my cupid wings. Brie was talking on her cell and didn’t seem to notice me. Out of habit I looked for Merce, listened for her seal-like laugh, but she wasn’t there. The other girls noticed me, and a hiss of whispers snaked through the air. I pulled my quiver close to my chest and quickened my step. As I reached the end of the grassy area, my wing jerked, and I heard a soft pop.

“Nice wings.”

I turned. Brie held one of my feathers in her hand. She looked Brie beautiful with hair in a golden knot near the top of her head, frosty pink lipstick, green eyes lined and powdered with carefully applied makeup, and her two-carat diamond studs glinting in her ears. She was obviously not wallowing in misery over our snapped BF thread.

“What do you want?” I asked.

She turned the feather over, as if fascinated with it. “To wish you luck with your new show, of course.
Heartbeats
, isn’t it? And you’re . . .” She waved the feather at me. “. . . Cupid. Hmmmm . . . a show
about love. And you know about love, don’t you, Chloe? Because everyone loves Chloe.” Her words should have been blistering. But they weren’t. They were oddly flat.

“Your listeners love you,” Brie went on, her voice singsongy but without emotion. “The entire student body loves you. Teachers love you. Your big,
happy
family loves you.”

This was getting creepy. “What do you want? I need to go.”

“Hmmmmm . . . what do
I
want?” She tapped the feather against her cheek. “I want an end to global warming. I want shoes for every barefoot child in Ethiopia. I want world peace. You hear that, Chloe?” Brie took a step toward me, her serene smile at odds with the feather that she jabbed at my chest like a dagger. “I want peace, and since you’re queen, maybe you can arrange it.” With a hollow laugh, she crushed the feather in her fist, snapping it in two, and dropped it on my Candies.

The hair at the back of my neck stood upright as I hurried away.

While I drove from school to Minnie’s Place early that evening, Brie’s words echoed through my head.
I want peace
.

Welcome to my world, Brie
.

Ever since winter break, I’d been seeking peace—with my BFs, with A. Lungren, with the KDRS staff, and with Mom and Grams. I got out of my car and headed up the front steps of Minnie’s Place. Thankfully, the Tuna Can was still drying out and the peace accord between those with whom I shared DNA was still holding.

Grams had promised to help me brainstorm topics for my
Heartbeats
show, and I’d promised her we’d do it over green chili burros at Dos Hermanas.

After signing in, I checked Grams’s room. Not there. Nor was she in the media room with the monster HDTV or dining room. I checked the butterfly garden—the one with the swing. No Grams, but I found the swing, or at least what was left of it. Both chains were snapped in two, and jagged splinters of wood that had once been a seat were scattered on the ground.

A blue-haired woman on a bench nearby aimed her three-legged cane at the broken swing. “The new girl broke it. Got swinging too high, and the whole thing came crashing down.”

Was Grams the new girl? “Did she get hurt? Did she have to go to the ER?”

“Heavens no. She said she’d have a sore heinie for a day or two, but she thought the whole thing was a hoot. Practically bust a gut, she got to laughing so hard.”

Definitely Grams. “Do you know where she is?”

The woman shook her head. “Check with the office. They keep a close eye on everyone coming and going.” Good. After highflying on the swing, Grams clearly needed someone to watch over her.

In the office, a clerk checked the logbook. “Looks like she checked out at three this afternoon. She went to Dos Hermanas with her granddaughter.”

I double-checked the entry. “I’m the granddaughter, and she’s obviously not with me.” I jammed a finger at Grams’s uneven handwriting. “Why didn’t someone stop her?”

“This isn’t a jail, dear.”

The clock on the wall read after six. She’d been gone more than three hours. “But she has Parkinson’s, and sometimes she gets lost.” I remembered the police bringing Grams home the night she spent on the near-freezing beach. She was missing a shoe, the wind had knotted her hair, and her bone-white limbs wouldn’t stop shaking. I stabbed a finger at the clerk. “Why aren’t you keeping better track of her?”

The clerk closed the book with a polite smile. “At this point, your grandmother is still in charge of keeping track of herself. She can check herself in and out anytime she likes. Our job is to make sure it’s documented. Now, I suggest you go to Dos Hermanas and join her.”

A sharp tapping beat at my temples as I rushed from Minnie’s Place. I’d been so focused on myself, on promo for
Heartbeats
, I wasn’t there for Grams.

Just like I wasn’t there for Brie and Merce the night of the Mistletoe Ball
.

No, I couldn’t forget that one, either, could I? I rubbed at the sides of my head.

Once at my car, I called Dos Hermanas, but Grams hadn’t stopped by. I checked with Noreen, but she hadn’t seen Grams either. I wiped my palms on my thighs. Maybe Grams had a doctor’s appointment or lab work. Maybe she went to the movies to see the new Brad Pitt flick but got lost.

Maybe she’s bleeding, hurt, dying.

I snagged a deep breath. Maybe I needed to chill on the drama
and get a grip. I drove the short route from Minnie’s Place to Dos Hermanas and didn’t see her along the way. I wound through the side streets. No Grams.

Finally, I called Mom.

“How long has she been gone?” Mom asked.

“She checked herself out at three.”

“What! That was three hours ago.”

“I know.”

“She had her physical therapy appointment today, which always puts her in a bad mood. Your grandmother needed you today.”

“I know.”

“You were supposed to go out to Dos Hermanas together.”

“I know.”

“And on Thursdays Dos Hermanas has that green chili burro special she loves so much.”

“I know!” The roar tore from my chest. “I screwed up. Care to pound me any harder?”

Mom said nothing, or if she did, I couldn’t hear her because someone was pounding on the big bass drum that was my skull. I rubbed at the center of my forehead. Grams was missing, and it was my fault.

“Chloe, now is not the time to argue,” Mom finally said. “We need to find your grandmother.” She spoke in her doctor voice, the one she used to calm relatives after quadruple bypass surgeries. “Where do you think she could have gone?”

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “No vehicles have been reported stolen from Minnie’s Place, so she can’t be far.”

Mom puffed out a half laugh, which we both needed. “Okay, Poppy, you know her better than anyone. Think. Where could she be?”

Think. Don’t feel. Just think. Head stuff. But it was hard with the steady pounding at my temples. “Tuna Can is the obvious, but Noreen hasn’t seen her,” I said. “Maybe the boardwalk off Calle del Mar. Maybe the movies.”

“Good. You check those places. I’ll check her church and dash home to see if she went there looking for you. If we don’t find her within an hour, I’m calling the police.”

The pounding rhythm in my head now had lyrics.
Find Grams. Find Grams. FINDGRAMS
.

Grams wasn’t at the movie theater. She wasn’t at the Tuna Can or on the boardwalk. Dark crept in, and the breeze off the ocean blew cool and damp. Had Grams remembered to put on her coat? Was she cold? Shivering? As I continued to drive through the neighborhood, the charcoal sky gave way to black, but I wouldn’t stop looking. I knew this neighborhood well. So did Grams. She’d been such a huge part of my early years. She took me everywhere. To the beach. To playdates. To school.

I slowed my car. I pictured the splintered pieces of wood in the butterfly garden and whipped my car in a U-turn. Within three minutes I was at my old elementary school, more specifically at the playground next to it. The big bass drum silenced.

Grams swayed on the tire swing.

My legs were boneless, like Twizzlers left in the sun too long.

When Grams saw me walking toward her, she waved. “There you are, Poppy. I was getting worried about you.”

“You were worried about me?” I studied her body for bumps, bruises, and blood. None. Thank gawwwwwd.

“You didn’t call,” Grams said.

Yeah. Another less-than-brilliant move on my part.

Grams’s hand settled on my arm. Did she know she was touching my heart? “It’s okay, Poppy. You’re here now. Let’s go get a green chili burro. I’m starving, and we still need to go over those topics for
Heartbeats
. Valentine’s Day is around the corner and I have this great idea for a . . .”

Grams talked, but I didn’t hear her. I was too busy hammering myself over the head.

SECOND-CHANCE THRIFT STORE

Because everything deserves a second chance

HOURS:

Monday—Thursday 10 a.m. to 9 p.m.
Friday—Sunday 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.

CLOSED

IT WAS AFTER NINE BY THE TIME I GOT TO THE THRIFT STORE,
and I found Duncan walking his bike out the back door. His new secondhand bike had duct tape on the seat and mismatched pedals. Tonight his broad shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped. I thought about not asking for his help, but I pictured that broken swing. The big bass drum in my head started booming again. Guilt made way too much noise. I pulled up next to him and lowered the passenger-side window. “Hey.”

His gray eyes brightened as he straddled his bike and placed his palms on the roof of my car. Tonight he smelled of an ocean breeze and just enough sweat to remind me he was a guy who knew how to work. “Hey.”

“Going to play Trash Man?” I asked.

That incredible half smile curved his lips. When I was with Duncan, the entire universe was in order. “Someone’s gotta keep the evil garbage of this world in its place. So what’s up?”

Even though he looked exhausted, I reached across my car and opened the passenger door. “I need a hammer.”

When we reached the Tuna Can, I pointed to the porch. “There it is. Do you think it will fit in the trunk?”

Duncan grabbed his toolbox from the backseat. “We’ll make it fit.”

As Duncan’s broad back bent over Grams’s porch swing, the pounding in my head disappeared. A part of Grams’s world was broken, and Duncan would fix it. More than a month ago, he posted the flyer to get promo help to fix the station, and last week he’d been the one to convince Clementine that with the seven-second delay, VSPs wouldn’t be a problem for
Heartbeats
. He fixed clocks and toasters and me.

He must have sensed me smiling at him. He looked up. Nice eyes. Nice face. I took in a wonderful cool breath of ocean air. Duncan was a genuinely nice guy.

After we got to Minnie’s Place and I explained to Grams and the manager on duty what I wanted to do, Grams whooped, wrapped Duncan in a wobbly hug, then motioned to his toolbox, “You don’t have Brad Pitt in there, do you?” Duncan looked at me with half-terrified eyes but smiled. At least he knew where I got my dramatic flair.

Duncan was quieter than normal as we took the swing parts to the butterfly garden and started assembly. Maybe because my mom, who’d learned about the broken swing when I called her and told her I’d be late, had arrived and wouldn’t shut up.

“Make sure the arms are securely attached to the chains,” Mom warned Duncan. “We don’t want her to fall again. Doesn’t the back look like it’s leaning too far? Are you sure the chains will hold? Have you had any experience in putting a swing together?”

I wanted to boot my mom from the butterfly garden. World War III was brewing again, and Duncan, who needed more fun in his life, didn’t need to be in the middle of missile volleys.

Grams folded her arms across her chest. “He’s doing fine, Deb. Leave him alone.”

“How do you know it will be fine?” Mom asked, her voice rising.

Grams rubbed at her forehead as if the bass drum player had set up shop in her skull.

“How do you know it won’t come apart like the other one? You could fall and suffer a concussion or a displaced hip or—”

“Holy hell, Deb, would you just shut up!”

The lines around Mom’s eyes narrowed as if she’d been pum-meled in the gut. That’s how I must have looked when Brie told me to shut up. But Mom didn’t offer Twizzlers and search for nice words to make everything peaceful. “I’m keeping you safe.”

Grams’s hands started to shake, then her arms, chest, and legs. Her whole body was a quivering, angry mass. “I’m not a child.”