Petula usually wore a scarf on her head, oversized glasses, and, on occasion, a wig to disguise herself whenever she had to drive it. More than anything, the car reminded Petula of Scarlet, providing plenty of reason for her to hate it.
She pulled up to the school and rolled down the passenger window just as Scarlet emerged. Scarlet was mortified to hear the new Fergie CD blasting over her mint soundsystem and prepared for battle.
“Get in, Little Miss Misery,” Petula ordered as she saw Scarlet emerge from school.
The first thing Scarlet noticed was Petula’s paper flip-flops.
“I see you’ve had a productive day,” Scarlet said sarcastically. “You can’t drive with those things on. They don’t constitute as shoes.”
“Aw, does somebody have a case of ‘the sads’?” Petula asked, dripping with phony sympathy. “You are making me late for a very important date.”
Scarlet ran through a million comebacks in her mind, like how Petula was an irritating polyp on the butt of society, but uncharacteristically let it slide instead. She bit her lip and kept silent. The ride home felt like ages to Scarlet, but Petula actually made it home in record time. The car had barely stopped when Scarlet threw open the door like a kidnapping victim and literally jumped out. It wasn’t a “tuck and roll” situation, but nearly.
“I’ve gotta get ready for work,” she yelled as she raced for the front door and up the stairs to her room.
Petula walked in behind her and realized she was almost out of time. She pulled the separators from between her toes and jammed her foot into a pair of the hottest pointy-toed cougar heels she could find in her closet, then sat down on the carved bench in her foyer to wait for Josh.
Before long, a car pulled up and Petula, feeling tired from rushing and verbally abusing nail technicians, kept Josh waiting just long enough to be irritating, as was her trademark. Scarlet emerged from her room wearing her trademark red lipstick, a fitted Slits tee with some black skinny jeans accessorized with a thick, vintage aborigine belt and leopard print flats.
“Oh, look, your hookup is here,” Scarlet said as she grabbed her keys and headed out.
Petula waited a few seconds and then strutted catlike down the sidewalk and got in Josh’s car. She gave him a long, intimate kiss, said hello, and they sped off. They ended up at a Gorey High house party, a place where Petula was either unknown or loathed. The only person she knew there was Josh, and he was too busy basking in the glow of his super popularity, air-guitaring riffs, and downing Purple Monsters to spend much time with her.
Petula’s sourpuss was making it totally clear to Josh that she was unhappy being put in a corner with the other “dates.” She wasn’t even trying to socialize with any Gorey girls. Josh walked over to give her some face time.
“Hey, so sorry, Petunia,” Josh slurred with oily insincerity.
Even as he was chatting to her, Josh was shoulder surfing, his eyes wandering around the crowd to see if he was making any of the other girls jealous or if there was anyone better out there to hook up with. That kind of shopping around really rankled Petula, even more than getting her name wrong.
“Done getting your, ah, ego stroked by your Bromeos?” Petula cracked.
“I’d rather you stroke it,” Josh said, putting his hands around her waist.
Petula saw his lips moving but could barely hear him through the crowd noise. She really wasn’t feeling well all of a sudden. All that self-absorbed small talk from Josh was starting to make her nauseated.
Before Josh could get another uncaring word out, Petula lost her balance and leaned into him. She was looking sick, but Josh misunderstood and thought he was about to score with Hawthorne’s most in-demand babe.
“That’s more like it,” he said cheesily.
“I don’t feel good,” Petula moaned weakly, leaning harder into Josh for support.
“Oh, yes, you do.” Josh whispered as he reached down and squeezed her ass. “You feel great. Wanna get out of here?”
Petula was barely able to shake her head “yes” let alone break his grip on her backside. They split immediately, Josh flashing a thumbs-up to his drooling teammates and dragging Petula along after him. He was planning to take her to The Hut, which was really just his Dad’s ice fishing cabin about five miles away. There were actually beds lined up to accommodate as many couples as possible, like a Third World clinic without the mosquito netting. Unfortunately for Josh, they never made it.
About halfway there, Petula, who had been slumped in the passenger seat practically unconscious, sat upright and puked all over the dashboard, Josh, and herself.
“Holy shit,” Josh ranted unsympathetically, dripping vomit. “No wonder Damen left you for your sister.”
Petula couldn’t hear him. She was nearly passed out completely. Josh swerved into a U-turn and raced back to Petula’s house. He screeched to a halt in front, ran around the passenger side, opened the door, and pulled Petula out. He dragged her a few feet and dumped her like a smelly pile of trash on her driveway, then sped off. Petula felt the cold blacktop and little pebbles and gravel pushing into the side of her perfect profile.
Meanwhile, Scarlet, tired from a busy night at the coffeehouse and still a little depressed, drove home immediately after work, anxious to see if Damen had e-mailed. She parked her car on the street and walked over the lawn to the front door. By chance, she looked over at the driveway and thought she saw a sack of garbage.
“Damn raccoons,” she muttered, feeling obliged to stomp over and pick it up.
At closer inspection, she saw it was Petula lying there passed out, her arms and legs splayed. On any other night, she would have just stepped over her, letting her sleep it off in the driveway to teach her a lesson. This time was different for some reason. Even at her worst, Scarlet thought, Petula would never let anyone see her in this condition.
“Party too hard again?” Scarlet asked, nudging her sister gently.
There was no response.
“Petula, wake up,” she said, this time louder but not as angrily.
Just then Petula’s phone began to ring, only she didn’t answer it. Knowing that Petula was a complete nomophobic — in constant fear of being out of mobile phone contact —Scarlet knew then that something was wrong.
She flicked her Bic and knelt down to get a closer look. Scarlet was shocked. Petula’s eyes were slightly open and dilated, her breathing shallow. She was drenched in sweat and smelled of vomit. When Scarlet reached to touch her face, it felt like a furnace. She grabbed her sister by the shoulders and turned her over so that they were face to face.
“Petula!” she screamed, over and over, now officially in panic mode. Still no response.
Scarlet rested Petula’s back on her lap as she cradled her head, then reached in the pocket of her vintage black, mink-collared coat and called 911.
Chapter 4
Epitaph for the Heart
We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.
—Anaïs Nin
You can only get outside yourself by looking inside.
Some people are in constant fear that their heart might cease between beats, feeling each pulse as a countdown to the end rather than a vital sign of life. Others are barely aware that they even have a heart beating inside them, moving through the day unencumbered by the complexity of their inner workings. Worry may not change the outcome, but it definitely affects your outlook. Better to care too much than too little?
Petula was still lying on the gurney that the EMTs had brought her in on, naked underneath one of those backless white one-size-fits-all surgical gowns. Scarlet rode in the ambulance with her, warding off the PMS — potential murder suspect — looks she was getting and nervously watching as the techs checked her vitals and tried to stabilize her. She’d been wheeled through the Emergency entrance of the hospital and into an isolated triage room, away from the rest of the patients being treated in the urgent care rooms.
“What’s wrong with her, doctor?” Scarlet pleaded, leaning over Petula’s helpless body.
“Right now, I have no idea,” Dr. Patrick answered. “All we know for sure is that she is fevered and unresponsive. Comatose, clinically.”
Scarlet turned away, petrified at that word, and was relieved to see her mom rush into the room. She was less pleased to see the Wendys burst in close behind. The look on the Wendys’ two faces at the sight of Petula might have been perceived as shock or grief or even sympathy by someone who didn’t know them so well, but Scarlet knew better. She knew it was the look of pure jealousy. Though she prided herself on her inability to guess what they were thinking at any given moment, Scarlet rightly assumed the source of their envy was Petula’s perfect immobility. They had been auditioning to be body sushi models at the new Japanese restaurant in town, and stillness was a required skill they had yet to master.
“Is she on any medications?” the doctor continued as she proceeded to examine Petula.
“Um, not on a regular basis, no,” Wendy Thomas answered, jumping in unwarrantedly.
“No, she’s not,” Scarlet snapped as she stood next to her mother like a protective tigress. “Isn’t this room reserved for family members?”
“We’re more like sisters to her than you are, Harlot,” Wendy Anderson added. This stung because Scarlet suspected — for better or worse — they were probably right.
Kiki Kensington, Petula and Scarlet’s mom, waved them all to shut up. This was serious business and it was instantly clear whom both Petula and Scarlet had inherited their nononsense demeanor from.
“Is there a possibility she could be pregnant?” Dr. Patrick asked.
“No. She is NOT pregnant,” Mrs. Kensington snipped authoritatively.
“She does look bloated around the middle,” Wendy Anderson said to Wendy Thomas out of the side of her mouth while tapping her own six-pack for signs of flab.
“Yeah, knocked out and knocked up,” Wendy Thomas jabbered.
“Well, the truth is, doctor, we really can’t be sure if she’s pregnant or not. I mean, she did have a hot date with Josh last night,” Wendy Thomas said, evaluating evidence with all the skill of an online college C.S.I. grad. “So I don’t think any of us have the authority to officially deem her barren.”
Scarlet rolled her eyes and silenced the Wendys with a look that would have melted the polar ice caps faster than global warming. She was so not into these catty dimwits spreading a pregnancy mystery of Princess Diana proportions around Hawthorne with Petula laid up and totally defenseless.
“I’m sorry, but we need to ask this of all females of child-bearing age before we can administer any treatment or medications,” Dr. Patrick added kindly for Mrs. Kensington’s sake. “It’s protocol. We’ll confirm it with a blood test anyway. Why don’t all of you go out and take a little break? It may be a while before her labs come back. We will call you if there’s any change.”
Mrs. Kensington walked outside to call her ex-husband, with Scarlet close behind. Scarlet watched her dial and was a little shocked. She didn’t even know her mom still had his number. Tragedy and sickness had a strange way of bringing people together, she thought. Even bitter exes.
For some reason, overhearing that call made her think of Charlotte and her memorial photo in the school paper. No one from Charlotte’s family was there, she remembered. Didn’t she have anyone who missed her, she recalled thinking as she typed up the obituary? Anyone who cared?
Scarlet hugged her mom and headed toward the elevator as she tried to reach Damen on his cell. His phone kept responding “out of the area” so she couldn’t even leave a message. She didn’t feel comfortable texting him the details of what was happening. She needed him so much right now and he was unavailable.
While Mrs. Kensington and Scarlet headed out, the Wendys lingered behind.
“Ah, doctor, one more thing,” Wendy Anderson interjected just as the doctor was leaving. “You can’t catch a coma, can you?”
The doctor ignored the question and thrust the sterile blue curtain shut on the threesome.
The Wendys looked at each other and immediately pulled out their iPhones. They started an impromptu Facebook photo shoot, posing alongside Petula’s unconscious body. Wendy Anderson tilted Petula’s head up close to hers while Wendy Thomas stood on a chair, trying to get the highest overhead angle possible, and snapped the pictures.
“We are gonna get so many hits. Send out a new photo alert!” Wendy Thomas exclaimed as they insensitively swung their PDAs around like flashlights in a dark cave, searching for a wi-fi signal that would allow them to upload their new content.
The Wendys got the hits they were looking for, and word got out that Petula was in the hospital almost instantly as a result. Guys from her class began making the pilgrimage to the hospital once the Wendys’ Web site crashed from too many visitors. Not to give support or show respect, but to get a first-hand look at Petula Kensington, unconscious, in bed, and practically nude. It was their collective lifelong dream.
“Name?” the older receptionist at the nurses’ station asked.
“Burns, Richard,” a guy replied as Scarlet passed by.
The receptionist typed his name on an ID sticker.
“Nice try, Dick Burns… . Like no one has ever heard that one before,” Scarlet snapped as she ripped the identity tag off his American Eagle jacket.
The receptionist looked confused.
“They are trying to eye-hump her,” Scarlet raged, angry at both the slobbering guys and the clueless receptionist. “My sister isn’t taking visitors, just close friends and family on the list we provided. It’s in the computer.”
A long line of guys sighed in unison and turned away as Scarlet continued out the glass doors.
She quickly turned her back and speed-dialed Damen again. She was desperate for support and, most of all, guidance. Her call was interrupted by her call waiting beep. She took the phone away from her ear and looked at the face. It was a text message. She eagerly clicked to open it. It wasn’t from Damen, after all, but rather a message from her mom. It said that the doctor was back and that she needed Scarlet to get back to the room.