Tonya Hurley_Ghostgirl_02 (6 page)

Maddy hung up the phone.

“Who was it?” Charlotte asked anxiously. “What’d they want?”

“If you’d been here, you’d know,” Maddy chastised. “I’m just glad I was here to cover for you.”

“Thank you?” Charlotte said sheepishly, now more chagrined than ever.

“You should know better, Usher,” Mr. Markov chimed in. “These calls can be a matter of life and death to someone.”

Charlotte frowned and looked up at the video camera above her. Maddy smiled and looked up at the one installed above her. Pam, Prue, and Suzy shook their heads in disbelief and signaled each other to meet in the break room. Charlotte watched them sneak off, but didn’t join them.

“That was weird,” Pam said, totally immersed in the intern girl talk, sans Charlotte. “Why would Maddy take Charlotte’s call?”

“Yeah, she knew how desperate she was to get one,” Prue concurred.

“Maybe Maddy was just trying to be helpful,” Violet chimed in as Prue’s eyes rolled over in disbelief.

“I liked you better when you were mute,” Prue snapped.

“You guys are just jealous Charlotte’s getting close to Maddy,” CoCo added, trying to stir things up as usual.

“Aren’t we all supposed to be ‘next-leveled,’ people?” Suzy Scratcher butted in. “This is all so … last life.”

“Everyone needs to feel needed, appreciated … wanted,” Simone purred as Simon shook his black mop in agreement. “Charlotte’s feeling lonely.”

“This from a pair of twins who tried to out-emo each other!” Prue snapped.

“Look, can’t we just get her a call?” Pam chimed in, agreeing with the tragic twins.

“You can’t fake a call,” Prue barked back, feeling frustrated. “You can’t go out and solicit troubled teens!”

“I think we have to trust that this is the way it’s supposed to be,” Abigail interjected. For Abigail speaking up was rare. She’d lost her confidence when she “dry-drowned” on her own tears after getting dumped by her boyfriend following a swim meet, killing herself and her self-esteem right along with it.

“Easier said than done,” Silent Violet said, giving Abigail an encouraging wink as all the girls nodded, broke their huddle, and went back to their cubicles.

“Why don’t we go home and just hang out?” Maddy said. “You know, have a girls’ night.”

Charlotte smiled; she was more eager to get out of the sea of phones than ever after another long, uneventful, ringless day.

“I don’t know, we’re not really supposed to quit early,” Charlotte noted, pointing to the video cameras above each of their desks. “And considering how often we’ve been late …”

“Don’t worry,” Maddy nudged. “It’s not like you’re missing anything, right?”

“It would be more fun than sitting around here, I guess,” Charlotte concluded.

Charlotte called out to let everyone know she was leaving. Pam and Prue looked up from their calls and stared at each other, but that was all the reaction Charlotte got. Mike was too busy nearly browbeating some poor caller and rocking air microphone windmills: “You do not hope you die before you get old,” Mike pushed back. “Trust me, dude.” Jerry too was deep in conversation and picking his nails. He flashed them a little peace sign as she and Maddy walked by. Charlotte thought it was sweet of him to acknowledge her exit.

“Peace?” Maddy asked snidely. “How lame.”

“Oh, Jerry’s sweet,” Charlotte said. “He’s really nonjudgmental.”

“Good thing for him,” Maddy said, watching him spit out the last fragment of nail he had been chewing, as she nudged Charlotte out ahead of her.

They walked across the cement courtyard to their apartment building, nodded to the doorman, and headed for the elevators. Just in front of them were a bunch of kids around their age who didn’t seem very happy or friendly. Not boisterous like the younger kids were. In fact, they barely looked at Charlotte and Maddy.

The down arrow lit up and the doors opened. Everyone but Charlotte and Maddy got on. The kids turned and stared blankly back at the two girls.

Charlotte looked back at them. Their expressions were sad and forlorn, and Charlotte felt badly for them.

“I guess there isn’t room for everyone upstairs,” she whispered to Maddy, deciding their problems had to do with room availability.

“Guess not,” Maddy said.

As the doors closed, Charlotte watched the passengers drop their heads.

The “up” car arrived just a few seconds later, and Maddy and Charlotte got on and rode it to the seventeenth floor. They both kicked off their shoes and got comfortable.

“So you never really told me how you got here,” Maddy asked, quite abruptly, taking a sudden interest in Charlotte’s past.

At last, Charlotte thought happily. Someone curious about her, willing to listen to her story.

“Well, I was in love with this guy, or at least I thought so,” Charlotte said. “He was so beautiful. So strong and smart and funny. Gorgeous, but if he knew it, he didn’t flaunt it.”

“What was his name?” Maddy prodded.

“Damen,” Charlotte said, releasing his name as if it had been stored away in an old trunk for safekeeping.

“Right,” Maddy replied, paying extra-careful attention.

“I died because I was too busy focusing on him and his perfect girlfriend … ,” Charlotte began.

“Petula,” Maddy said, interrupting her.

“How did you know her name?” Charlotte asked quizzically.

“Oh, everyone knows her.”

“Everyone?” Charlotte pressed, but quickly let it go, figuring it was not really so unusual that Petula would be as well known in the Afterlife as she was in plain old Life.

“… Anyway I ended up choking to death … ,” Charlotte said, stopping herself mostly out of embarrassment at having to repeat the whole thing.

“… On a gummy bear,” Maddy said, helping finish her sentence, to Charlotte’s surprise. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“It does?” Charlotte exclaimed with pleasant surprise, as she experienced a flashback of wanting to be talked about, to be noticed. “Anyway, I struck up a friendship with Petula’s sister …”

“What was her name?” Maddy asked, wanting to move the conversation along, without Charlotte going off on any tangents.

“Scarlet,” Charlotte said, the affection in her voice obvious.

“Tell me more about her,” Maddy pleaded. “What was she like?”

“Scarlet is the best friend anyone could ever ask for.” Charlotte beamed.

“Oh, you mean like the other interns in the office,” Maddy said a bit snidely.

“No,” Charlotte said, her eyes wandering and thinking out loud, “Scarlet is different. I would do anything for her, and I know she would do anything for me.”

“Anything?” Maddy asked.

“Anything,” Charlotte said firmly, looking her roommate straight in the eyes for maybe the first time ever.

When times got tough, Wendy Anderson and Wendy Thomas did what they usually did to keep their spirits up — they went shopping and got their hair done. Their nails too. In fact, they went back to the scene of the crime, the same place that Petula went — where tragedy struck. They admired and secretly envied the makeshift memorial of flowers, cards, notes, and balloons that were piled up outside of the salon, not to mention the large number of girls who were turning up in droves to get their nails done in a goodwill gesture of solidarity because, in their minds, if they didn’t, the staph would win.

The Wendys needed to prepare for the worst, and if the worst came for Petula, they had to look their best. After getting their nails done and faking fragile emotional states, they headed over to Curl Up & Dye, the most expensive hair salon in town, where they directed the stylists to use two of the greatest fashion funerals of the twentieth century as inspiration.

“I think I’m gonna go vintage mourning,” Wendy Anderson decided, experimenting with an Aqua-Netted flip curl and pill box hat. “Assassination-era Jackie O.”

“Yeah, grieving first lady is definitely a classic, tasteful vibe, but I’m thinking more natural, less fuss. More Elvis-dying-on-the-toilet period Priscilla Presley,” Wendy Thomas chirped. “I was thinking of stained baby doll dress-fishnets-suicide-era Courtney, but I don’t know. Maybe the wrong tone?”

“What was good enough for the King … ,” Wendy Anderson began.

“… Will be good enough for the Queen,” Wendy Thomas agreed, and went back to admiring her reflection.

Everyone in town was curious about Petula’s condition, but this was the first chance anybody actually had to ask one of her confidantes about her. She didn’t want to pry, but this was too good an opportunity for the stylist to pass up.

“Are her feet modeling?” one of the Wendy’s hair technicians asked indelicately.

“Her feet were never her best asset,” Wendy Anderson replied, misunderstanding the question. “Especially now, with the horrible swelling and deadly infection from her big toe raging through her bloodstream.”

“No, I mean modeling … ,” the stylist said, making a cupped curl in Wendy’s hair, “… the way your feet become curled up like this when someone is dying.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so,” Wendy Thomas responded. “But, then again, her feet are always naturally pointed because of that damn second toe.”

“She was thinking of having it fixed before this calamity, but now … ,” Wendy Anderson, teary-eyed, reported.

Whether the teardrops were welling for Petula or her Morton’s toe or were just practice for the big event was hard to tell.

“What better time than now for a reduction,” Wendy Thomas said matter-of-factly. “She’s completely out of it, and her heels would fit soooo much better if she’s having an open casket.”

“Good point, Wendy,” Wendy Anderson said. “I’ll bring it up. Who do you think has power of attorney?”

The hairdressers were stunned into silence. They couldn’t even open their mouths to crack the flavorless gum they’d been chewing. Both resumed their work, reaching for the tweezers, and began plucking the Wendys’ eyebrows.

“Hey, can I take a pair of those tweezers?” Wendy Thomas asked. “It’s just that the three of us made a pact that if one of us ever became a veggie, we would pluck the random unwanted hair from her face.”

The technician was touched and handed Wendy a spare tweezer. It was a generic stainless steel one, not the hot pink, enameled kind that she was using on the Wendys.

As the Wendys had their brows furrowed into the proper shape, they could see the memorial across the street beginning to grow. It was getting impossible to ignore. Petula would have loved it, which guaranteed that The Wendys, of course, resented it. As the hair tech looked over distractedly for just a second to check it out, she lost her place.

“Ow!” Wendy Anderson screamed, pushing the tech’s hand away. “You bruised a follicle!”

Wendy Thomas felt a coma coming on and panicked.

“Don’t you know these things always happen in threes?” she shouted.

With that, Jackie-redux and Priscilla-lite hurriedly picked up their things and bolted for the door as if the Angel of Death himself were chasing them.

Chapter 6

Girlfriend in a Coma

I can now see everything falling to pieces before my eyes.

—Ian Curtis

Nobody can have it all.

Thus, jealousy, which is not necessarily such a terrible thing. Jealousy is kind of like an emotional dipstick that tells you how hot you, your wants, your needs, or your relationships are running. A barometer of personal satisfaction. The real issue is whether the jealousy you feel is motivating or crippling. For some people, it’s both.

I can’t just sit back and watch her like this,” Scarlet said, finally getting to her breaking point.

“I know,” Damen said, trying to comfort her.

“No, I mean, I’m not going to sit back and watch,” Scarlet said, rejecting his pity.

“Maybe you should go home and get some rest,” Damen said gently, sensing she was on her last nerve. “I’ll stay with her.”

“I bet you will,” Scarlet said under her breath.

“What’s gotten into you?” Damen asked.

“These doctors aren’t doing jack squat,” Scarlet said, her frustration matching her jealousy. “But I’ve been thinking …”

“Uh-oh,” Damen said, reacting to the serious look on Scarlet’s face.

“There might be a way I can help Petula,” she said. “In fact, I might be the only one who can.”

“How do you propose you’re going do that?” Damen was nervous to consider what Scarlet might be contemplating. “She’s got the best doctors, specialists, nurses, all doing the best they can.”

Scarlet laid it out for Damen.

“If Petula isn’t here, where is she?” Scarlet asked.

“But she is here.” Damen pointed to the bed, treating Scarlet as if she were a child — or a lunatic.

“Not her body, that’s just a shell,” Scarlet chided him. “Her mind. Her soul. Petula.”

Damen shrugged his shoulders, not quite sure what she was getting at.

“Look, I know ‘soul’ is a word none of us have ever used in the same sentence as ‘Petula,’ ” Scarlet acknowledged, “but even she has one.”

“Okay,” Damen answered deliberately, for the sake of argument at least.

“Well, then it has gotta be somewhere, right?” Scarlet asked.

“That’s a pretty big question,” Damen answered, still unsure of where she was going with all of this. “And I just happened to leave my Philosophy 101 textbook at school, so …”

“Don’t be so narrow-minded,” Scarlet said curtly. “You were there at the Fall Ball.”

“Yeah, and … ,” Damen replied incredulously.

“There is a whole other reality we know nothing about,” Scarlet reminded him. “Well, obviously, some of us don’t, anyway.”

With that, she turned her back on Damen and crossed her arms, sulking.

Damen reached for her shoulders and spun her back around with more force than she’d ever felt from him before. He held her tightly and proceeded to get rational.