Tonya Hurley_Ghostgirl_03 (6 page)

Chuckles rolled through the room, but not from Pam and Prue, who found the back talk irresponsible and really out of character for Charlotte. Eric was always a bit of a class clown, but for Charlotte, this was virgin territory.
“Trying to impress the boyfriend?” Pam chided Charlotte dryly.
“That’s original,” Prue concurred. “What a rebel.”
Given the divisive mood in the room, it was clear that Markov was not the best person to deliver this message, but he was not easily deterred. He not only commanded their attention, he demanded it. Markov took all this very seriously, and after a false start, the interns began to as well.
“I have a question,” Call Me Kim announced, thrusting her arm up, before Markov could utter another word. “Are we being promoted or fired?”
Kim had been an A student in life, a team player in Dead Ed, and an exemplary employee at the phone bank. As a firm advocate of the merit system, she could not imagine being replaced on a whim. So maybe it was neither. Maybe this was what the end was: obsolescence. The new kids had arrived to man the phones, and they were no longer needed.
“I know you are all a little confused,” Markov offered.
“That’s like saying Silent Violet is a little quiet,” Charlotte huffed.
“Don’t drag me into this,” Violet demurred, seeking to remain neutral.
“Change is a part of life,” Markov said. “Of learning, of growth.”
“And death?” Charlotte queried, frustrated. “You don’t grow after you’re dead?”
“Not true,” CoCo interjected, peeking out from her Hermes scarf. “Your hair and nails do.”
“Coooooool,” Metal Mike droned, imagining his hairy, jagged-toed corpse busy transforming into a human can opener in its casket.
“But what if you’re all changed already?” Charlotte pressed. “What do we get then? Just to… rest in peace?”
“Don’t you know the answer to that question by now, Charlotte?” Markov continued. “Resting in peace is a fantasy created to placate the living.” He paused. “Not the dead.”
“It’s just that there was finally time,” Charlotte mumbled, glancing at Eric. “Time to do the last things we wanted to do.”
“Don’t worry, Charlotte,” Markov chided. “You’ll live.”
Charlotte didn’t find his little joke funny in the least, and he realized that immediately.
“You completed your internship and now, now it’s time for a little on-the-job training,” he added.
“Think of it as a working vacation,” CoCo soothed, offering a unique take on things. “Sort of an executive perk, like walking the Dior showroom after hours.”
“Or the plumbing supplies aisle at Home Depot,” Bud added, keeping it real.
“Or crashing an after-hours house party,” DJ beamed. “Uninvited.”
“We get to go back, knowing what we know now…,” Violet said, unusually chatty.
“There’s nothing to stop us,” twins Simon and Simone said in unison.
Charlotte was all alone now in her convictions. Even Pam, her B.D.F.—Best Dead Friend—had flipped on her.
Markov was determined to get things back on track.
“Well, sorry to disappoint you all, but it’s not going to be a dead-kids-gone-wild kind of thing,” Markov instructed. “You’re each going to have an assignment.”
“What now?” Charlotte relented, asking on behalf of the assembly.
“As I already told you,” Markov informed, “you are going back.”
“Back where?” DJ asked.
“To where you came from,” Markov said. “Hawthorne.”
Charlotte suddenly perked up. Back to Hawthorne meant back to Scarlet.
“Why there?” Eric asked, disappointed. “Couldn’t we go someplace, you know, cooler?”
He was hoping for a bigger pond to swim in. One where he might be able to showcase his mad guitar skills at last and just maybe get a taste of the fame that escaped him.
“Start small and work your way up,” Markov advised, talking as much about Hawthorne as about Eric’s “career.”
“I don’t need a dress rehearsal,” Eric gruffed.
“This isn’t a debate society or a democracy,” Markov snapped, his expression darkening. “You are being sent where you are needed.”
“I don’t get it,” Kim persisted. “To do what, exactly?”
“Whatever is necessary,” Markov said simply, perusing the list he had been holding. “You’ll just have to figure it out.”
Charlotte was alarmed immediately. If they were going back, something must be wrong. All reservations about returning melted away. She put on her game face.
“You were right,” Eric mouthed to Charlotte, no longer so anxious to get back. “This is bogus.”
Charlotte didn’t react at all. She seemed focused, motivated. He had never seen her like this. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about her eagerness to return all of sudden, given the gossip from Mike and DJ about her ex.
“Listen up, people,” Markov barked. “Here are your assignments.”
“Is this some kind of test?” Suzy asked, nervously picking away at her phantom forearm scars for the first time that she could remember.
“That’s one way to think of it,” Markov said brusquely. “I prefer to call it a mission.”
“Mission?” Charlotte asked. “What kind of mission?”
“Your mission is to help the living deal with their problems,” Markov detailed, ignoring the interruption. “Not to solve big issues like war and peace, but rather the petty problems that plague their lives and consciences—the little things that paralyze them and sometimes stop them from living.”
“Little things?” Charlotte asked, hoping for some clarification.
“There is nothing bigger,” Markov answered.
“Wait, so we’re the ones who are dead,” Eric said, “and we’re supposed to help these living losers see how good they have it?”
“Right,” Markov said. “It’s what you’ve been preparing for here.”
“But we’re not experts,” Charlotte complained. “Who will help us help them?”
“The new class will be here as your lifeline,” Markov assured them. “So will I.”
It was a surprisingly supportive statement from Markov, and they knew he was a man of his word.
“So, we’re sponsors?” Prue asked. “Like in some kind of supernatural intervention?”
“Sounds more like spiritual guides to me,” Pam added.
“Like angels,” Charlotte said succinctly.
“Technically, yes,” Markov said. “But not in the white toga, wings, and halo sense.”
“Thank God,” CoCo added. “Halos are a hair-don’t.”
The interns stared ahead wide-eyed as Markov scanned down his list, pairing each with what seemed to be a random counterpart at Hawthorne. Mike, DJ, Suzy, Abigail, Jerry, Bud, Simon, Simone, Violet, and Kim each left to say their farewells to family as their names were called and assignment given.
“CoCo,” Markov continued. “Your pairing is with… Petula Kensington.”
Wow, Charlotte thought to herself. Not so long ago she would have been so jealous for anyone but her to get Petula.
“Ciao!” CoCo gave a quick wave, grabbed her purse, and split.
“Pam,” Markov went on, “Wendy Anderson is all yours.”
“Lucky you,” Prue laughed.
“Prue,” Markov announced. “You’ve got Wendy Thomas.”
Prue almost choked on her own tongue as Pam had the last laugh. They both made devil horns on their heads and departed.
“With all the problems in the world?” Charlotte pleaded skeptically. “There’s got to be something more important for us to do than go back to help some spoiled rotten high school kids with their relationship issues.”
“No,” Markov answered definitively. “There really isn’t.”
Charlotte and Eric were the only two left in the room. They felt like the final two contestants on some hidden-camera game show. Charlotte sort of felt like the fix was in, however, because she knew what was coming next. She’d get Scarlet and Eric would get Damen. How weird, she thought, but at least she’d finally get to introduce Eric to two of the most important people in her past.
“Charlotte,” Markov read. “Your partner will be…”
“Yes,” she chirped expectantly, clapping her hands in excitement.
“Damen Dylan.”
Charlotte was stunned. Once upon a time, she would have fainted at such news. But now? What could possibly be the point of all this? Eric misread the look of amazement on her face and felt an unfamiliar emotion take hold of him: jealousy.
“Isn’t he the reason you’re here?” Eric prodded. “The love of your life?”
Charlotte still couldn’t speak. There was still one person left to be assigned.
“Eric,” Markov concluded. “You’ve got…”
“Scarlet Kensington,” Charlotte mouthed along with Markov.
Chapter 7 Swing the Heartache
Envy slays itself by its own arrows.
—Author Unknown
Lovesick.
Rather than heal us, love can also harm, unleashing a pandemic of debilitating emotions that transform us into a person we barley recognize and cost us that which we so desperately desire. Sudden outbreaks of insecurity, jealousy, obsession, or just plain fear can be contributing factors in our heartache. And though the symptoms of lovesickness may be many, they all share a single cause and single cure: You.
Valentine’s Day started like any other day at the Kensington house, other than the foul moods it tended to generate. The only real difference was that the newspaper resting on the stoop outside was barely visible, covered by the flowers, candy, and balloons left on the bluestone steps by not-so-secret admirers. It was an annual ritual that Petula had come to expect as much as the Thanksgiving Day parade.
Actually, it was more a memorial. All Petula’s admirers knew that she would stab them in the heart without batting a Colossal lash and would normally just kick everything off on her way to school, but today, she was a little bit more touched.
“Hey, baby-killer, go see if there are any dark chocolate caramels out there,” Petula yelled from her room. “Nothing less than seventy-two percent cocoa, please.”
“I don’t have time to work out antioxidant content right now,” Scarlet yelled back. “I’d spell it out for you but I don’t have any crayons with me.”
“A little tense, are we?” Petula chided as she glided down the stairs. “Maybe you should chow down on a piece of that dark chocolate and get your blood pressure in check.”
“Thank you, Doctor Google,” Scarlet snarked. “You are a regular search engine scholar.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Petula said. “You don’t want to turn your pretty pale face red before Damen gets back.”
“He’s not coming home,” Scarlet said, trying to play it off.
“Ouch,” Petula consoled, barely masking her glee. “Absence makes the heart grow fungus, I guess.”
Petula picked up Scarlet’s baby and began talking to it in her trademark passive-aggressive way.
“I know she appears to be heartless,” she said to the baby. “But don’t worry: I’m sure she has four or five backup hearts in the freezer.”
Classic Petula, Scarlet thought, going right for the jugular like that. For every flicker of compassion she occasionally showed these days, she could still flame-broil you with cruelty. The frosty relationship between them had thawed somewhat since “the coma,” but lately Petula just seemed more distant than ever. Scarlet figured they were like strangers who clutched each other tightly during a rough flight but returned to business as usual once the pilot regained control and the plane landed safely.
“Hate you,” Scarlet called out sweetly as Petula made her way out the front door.
“Hate you too,” came the sugary reply.
Much like Scarlet’s wardrobe, her decor was evolving too. Long gone, courtesy of a wet sponge and sharp straightedge razor blade, were the band bumper stickers that had transformed her bathroom into a museum-quality reproduction of a stall at a punk club. They had been replaced by strings of exposed lightbulbs hanging from the vanity in bunched bouquets. It was her modern interpretation of a 1920s chandelier.
Her bedroom looked like an old Hollywood boudoir, kind of art nouveau with an eccentric twist. She even had a real vanity with all kinds of jewelry, compacts, perfume bottles, and powders. She still had all the rare indie movie posters hanging in her room, but now they were displayed in ornate gold frames. It was that way with her too. She was the same, just kind of framed differently.
Scarlet started picking up stuff off the floor and straightening up her bed. She wanted her room to look perfect for her V-Day cyber chat with Damen, and she hadn’t gotten around to bagging her things up and dropping them off yet. Petula had helped de-bulk the pile some, but for whatever reason, Scarlet just could not bring herself to part with the rest.
She soon found herself rummaging through the remainder of the heap. She could have opened a vintage shop with all the stuff she had, but those outfits were so personal to her, so much a part of her past, her identity. She would rather toss them than sell them.
She could still smell the memories in them, put them on and be there, back in the moment. She wasn’t the sentimental type, by any means, but she found herself missing the old Scarlet, even envying the self that existed before she fell in love. Love did change you, that much was true, she conceded, but not as much as you change yourself.
The whole idea of transforming into someone or something else was all starting to get to her, so she decided to go for a little walk to clear her head. She wandered around town, stopping at IdentiTea for a free drink—courtesy of her employee discount—then to some little vintage stores and record shops she and Damen used to hit on Saturday afternoons.
Around the corner, she poked her head into Split, the all-ages club where she’d see new bands. It had changed ownership and decor a few times in the past few years, but the kids were still coming to hear acts they couldn’t see anywhere else. In fact, there was one band loading in for sound check, so she stuck around to watch them set up.
After a couple of minutes, she noticed someone standing up against the wall checking out the stage and occasionally looking in her direction, as well. He seemed to hide in the shadows thrown by the light rig installed above the stage. He didn’t appear to be with the crew or the band, but he sure looked like he could have been. From what she could see, which wasn’t much, he definitely had the indie-boy look down cold.
Up close, things became much clearer. She was surprised to see that he was wearing a Dead Boys tee, just like one she had given away. In fact, everything he had on was totally authentic—no cheaply made reproductions that she could spot—and would definitely have cost a fortune at the local vintage boutiques, if you were lucky enough to even find this stuff. The most striking thing about it all was that he didn’t sport his kit pretentiously, like a rock-and-roll costume. He wore it naturally, comfortably, like, well, clothing.
She always thought she would end up with a guy who looked like he did: tall and built, but skinny; coal-black dyed hair and pale skin; and the attitude to go with it. He looked like the kind of guy who had groupies, but didn’t care because all that mattered to him was being onstage, performing. He was intimidating, even at first glance.