Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe (12 page)

“Get your butt in the control room, JISP Girl!” Clementine’s fiery voice roared through Portable Five, and I jumped, dropping the paper airplane. Singed hair and flaring nostrils hovered over me as Clementine dragged me to the control room and pointed to the chair next to Duncan. “Sit.”

“You know, people would be much more apt to follow your direction if you were a little less . . . oh, I don’t know . . . fascist.” I sat and winked at Duncan. He hid a smile in his scarf. Tonight’s nubby neckwear was soft blue and green, like the ocean on a misty morning. The missed stitches and ragged tails of yarn looked like bits of seaweed. And of course it had the crooked red heart stitched on one end.

Having Duncan at my side for my first show felt good. Sparring with Clementine felt good. Knowing the entire staff was in the newsroom felt good.

“Breathe between units of thought, not randomly.” Clementine picked up my headset.

“Been working on it for sixteen years.”

She slipped the headset over my head and adjusted the band. “If you read, hold your copy in front of you so you don’t look down. Keeps the airway open.”

“Of course, closed airwaves would kill my show.”

To her credit, Clementine ignored my stupid chatter. “Elbows
on the table make for a more conversational style,” she continued in a steady, calming voice.

“Elbows positioned.”

She rested her hand on my knee, stopping the
clackity-clack
of my shoe. “And if you feel like you’re going to hurl, do not blow chunks on my equipment, got it?” She looked at the ceiling. “Seriously, if you get nervous, close your eyes and pretend you’re talking to a friend. Okay?”

“I’ll picture you.”

Dragon sigh.

Clementine knew her stuff. All of this was designed to create a more natural radio presence that would appeal to listeners.

I adjusted the cord on the mic. If we had any listeners tonight. Had my week-long promotional efforts drummed up any? Had Brie with her continued smear campaign, which now included a gallery full of less-than-complimentary drama-club photos, turned them away? My throat tightened. Or worse, would Brie try anything on air?

“Tell me again about the Great Silencer,” I asked Clementine. “The one I can use on VSPs.”

“We went over it five minutes ago.” Clementine yanked at my headset, repositioning it. “Weren’t you listening?”

Of course I was listening. And worrying. I looked at the clock. Two minutes. “Tell me again.”

Clementine wagged her crinkly hair and hissed. “Okay, we run live shows on a seven-second delay. It’s an intentional delay that allows us to deal with any technical problems, which occasionally
happen, given our ancient equipment, but we can also use it to cut off objectionable material, like profanity, before it goes out onto the airwaves.”

I wasn’t worried about profanity. I was worried about Brie Sonderby.

Clementine leaned toward me, the heat of her stare like red-hot coals. “You’re not going to wig out on us, are you?”

“No, of course not.” I was ready for this. Duncan was at my side. It would be
fun
. “Sound the trumpets. The queen has arrived.”

Clementine grumbled and hurried next door into the production studio. She slipped on her own headset, and her voice echoed through mine. “On the beam.”

I positioned myself in front of the microphone.

“Four, three, two, cue music . . .”

Duncan punched a button, and my rumbling theme music filled the air. Taysom had unearthed a 1940s retro piece, upbeat and classy, not too brassy. It was perfect. It was me.

I stared at the microphone and pictured invisible airwaves connecting me to hundreds, thousands of listeners. Maybe even Brie. Mean, mean Brie.

As the music tapered off, Duncan pointed to me, but when I opened my mouth, my throat constricted.

Words.

Where were the words?

Why couldn’t I talk?

I always talked.

Something warm and firm settled on my knee. Duncan’s
hand. I focused on that hand, the one that made a tricked-out Sparrow with the words
Stop worrying. It’ll be FUN
. The one that now created little fiery sparks on my knee. My knee? Why did Duncan have such an effect on my odd body parts? And why was I thinking about Duncan when there was dead air everywhere?

Across the glass, Clementine rolled her hand in a circle, as if she was motioning me across a school crosswalk. She looked so calm.

Why was dragon Clementine being so calm?

Because I was freaking out.

Panic bubbled in my chest. If I opened my mouth, I’d make frothy, dying sounds. Or puke. Or start babbling about tingly knees and earlobes and thumbs.

If you get overwhelmed
, Clem had said,
pretend you’re talking to a friend
.

What friends? I was no longer connected to Brie and Merce. The drama club despised me. The entire school was whispering about me again.

No, not everyone.

I stared at Duncan. Garbage Games. Paper airplanes. Even Clementine didn’t look so dragonish. I cleared my throat. “Uh, this is uh, 88.8 The Edge.” I licked my trembling lips. “Uh . . . welcome to the realm. Uh . . . this is Queen Chloe, and I’m glad you tuned in.”

Duncan nodded. Clementine nodded. Haley, Taysom, Frick and Frack, and even Mr. Martinez, who sat in the corner grading papers, nodded, nudging me on.

With the first words out, the rest came easier. “Uh . . . we’re starting something new here at The Edge, a call-in show starring me, Queen Chloe, and of course
you
in our first-ever live talk show. Tonight we’re going to kick off things and talk about pet peeves. You can learn a good deal about people if you know what pushes their buttons. As for your queen, something that makes me want to stomp my royal feet is TMI.

“That’s right, minions, too much information. These days people talk, talk, talk, which is a good thing for our show, and your queen, she loves to talk. But I want you to think about those times where you’re minding your own business and . . .”

I pointed to Duncan. He cued stinger number one.

Wham!
The banging-hammer sound effect poured out seamlessly.

“You get hammered with TMI,” I continued. “Over winter break I was at the grocery store minding my own business when a woman in the produce department started comparing the oranges to certain body parts she’d had implanted. At first I thought she was talking to me. Exactly how do you respond to this type of comment? But then I realized she was using a Bluetooth. I mean, really, did I want to hear this? Should I be hearing this?”

Duncan’s shoulders jiggled, a wonderful, silly movement that stole my breath. But I managed to keep chatting another ten minutes until Clementine gave me a break signal. “Okay, minions, after the break, I’m opening the phone lines and it’s your turn. Let me know about your TMI troubles or tell me a pet peeve of your own.” I gave our call letters and the station’s phone number.

Duncan dialed up a PSA and school announcements. The On Air light went dark. Over the speaker came a dragonlike growl. Across the glass in the production room Clementine gripped the sides of her head as if her hair were on fire.

“What?” I asked. I’d been shaky at first, but I’d pulled it together. Kind of.

“You called our listeners
minions,”
Clementine said with a hiss.

“I’m playing up the whole queen thing.”

Clementine’s head hit her desk.

“What’s wrong with ‘minions’?” I asked her crinkly hair.

“You’re insulting our audience.”

“No, I’m establishing a rapport with them. I’m using fresh, original, memorable language that our growing, faithful audience will associate with my show.” In the talk shows I’d studied I noticed most of the successful hosts had certain phrases and gimmicks unique to them.

Clementine dragged her body upright. “Calling someone a minion is not going to endear them to us. They aren’t going to listen to radio programming that insults them.”

“Wanna bet?” Duncan pointed to the phone bank. Three lines blinked red.

Clementine went off mic and picked up the phone. Her job was to screen callers and make sure they weren’t on crack. She’d patch them through to the phone in the control room, and Duncan would activate the call. The rest would be up to me.

After the break, Duncan cued the music, and the On Air light
came on again. “Welcome back, minions, glad you stuck around. Tonight we’re talking about pet peeves, and the queen hates too much information. Now it’s your turn to dish. Up first”—I looked at the slip of paper Clementine held and smiled—“Josie from Tierra del Rey. Welcome, caller, this is Chloe.”

“Hey, Your Majesty, love the show. I agree. People don’t know when to shut up. It’s like—how you say—irritating. I run restaurant, Dos Hermanas on Palo Brea and Seventh. Last week this woman buy takeout and talk about her sick kid and she say how green stuff come out his nose looks like the tomatillo salsa in the salsa bar.
Aye-yae-yae
. We no need to know that.”

Ana called in next, followed by Noreen, Grams’s neighbor, my dad, two of his students, and my brother Zach’s old girlfriend. Yes, I knew them personally, and, yes, I begged all of them to call in, but that didn’t mean they weren’t bona fide listeners.

In the next segment I introduced a new topic. Comfort foods. Thanks to Brie and Mercedes, not to mention Grams and Mom, I’d been inhaling plenty of Twizzlers lately.

“Hey, minions, your queen now wants to talk about the food you love and need when life gets rough. When you get a Rudolph-size zit on the end of your nose right before the big dance. When you get into a fender bender with Daddy’s new car. Visualize with me, minions, you’re down, you’re beaten, and you need munch-ies to make it better.

“In the queen’s castle, the royal comfort food is”—I reached into my bag and took out a Twizzler and crinkled the plastic in front of the mic—“Twizzlers. Soft, sweet, and oh so comforting.
The last time I had more than the recommended daily allowance was the day a certain guidance counselor, who shall remain nameless, disemboweled my Junior Independent Study Project, a story that could be a whole show of its own. But back to comfort foods. What food soothes your battered heart and calms your tattered soul?”

I stared at the phone bank. It stared back. Dark. Unblinking. I should have told the sisters they could call in twice, but no problem. I was ready for this. I was not going to sound like an idiot on the air. I was going to have
fun
.

“While you’re all running to your phones, we’ll chat about some traditional comfort foods. January is National Soup Month, and soup is undoubtedly one of the world’s greatest comfort foods. Who doesn’t like a steamy bowl of chicken soup when you’re sick? Or how about a hearty bowl of chili when it’s cold and rainy?” The phone bank remained frighteningly dark. “Hey, is chili even a soup? I’m not sure about that. We need some data, minions. Yep, we have serious data deprivation here.”

Across from me Clementine rolled her eyes.

“Hey, Clementine, can you do a quickie Wiki check and let me know if chili is considered a soup?” Clementine shook her head and glared. “You minions remember Clementine, right? She’s our news guru, and she’s in the castle with me tonight, not on a throne, mind you, but on a stool next door in our production studio. A
jester’s
stool. Hey, Jester Clem, pop on and greet the minions.”

Another crinkly head shake.

Dead. Air.

“Hi,” Clementine said.

“No, the queen wants you to say, ‘Greetings, minions.’”

In the newsroom all gazes snapped to Clementine. “Greetings, minions,” Clem said between clenched teeth.

“Jester Clem’s a bowl of laughs, isn’t she? But she’s a whiz with information. Dominates the data. And she’s fast, too. As we speak, she’s crunching data.” I pointed at Clementine’s computer and mouthed,
Wikipedia
. I bantered about soup and a minute later asked, “Okay, Jester Clem, what do you have for the minions? Is chili a soup?”

“Inconclusive,” Clementine said, her words clipped. “Some call chili a one-pot meal, others group it with soups and stews.”

“Inconclusive, huh? Okay, I’m making a royal decree. Chili is a soup. With that out of the way, we’re ready to take calls, so dial up.”

Still no flashing red lights. I pictured my friendless Our-World page and empty voice mailbox. My fingers circled the mic, my knuckles whitening. “Ooo-kay. How about you, Jester Clem, when life gets you down, what do you like to chow on?” She shook her head and ran her jutting hand across her throat in a slicing motion.

I shook my head and mouthed,
Talk!

“Beets.” Clementine looked like she wanted to beat me over the head with a hammer.

“I told you, minions, she’s a royal jokester. Seriously, what’s your fave comfort food?”

“I’m serious,” Clementine insisted. “I like beets.”

“As in purple, bulbous root vegetables?”

“What’s wrong with purple, bulbous root vegetables?”

“They’re weird.”

“They’re not weird.”

“They taste like dirt.”

“They taste sweet and crunchy.”

“And have you always had a love affair with beets?”

Dragon sigh. “I guess so. I first ate them years ago at my grandparents’ farm in Temecula, where I spent my summer vacations. Grandpa and I picked the beets, and Grandma and I canned them.”

“Hmmmmm. Summers at a nice family farm. Fun time with Pops and Grams. Have you ever thought beets are comforting because you associate them with people you love?”

Clementine tilted her wave of crinkly hair. “Could be.”

One of the phone lines blinked. Clementine held a sign with the caller’s name. “And good, calls are rolling in. Ernie’s on the line. Welcome, caller, this is Chloe. What’s your favorite comfort food?”

“Pizza. The mega-meat kind. Pepperoni, sausage, hamburger, and bacon. I also wanted to say I agree with you, Queen Chloe, beets are weird.”

“A brilliant minion. I think I’ll make you a knight of the realm.” I pointed to Duncan, who played a blare of trumpets.

Two other lines blinked red. Another caller found comfort in mashed potatoes with butter. “Beets are not weird,” she said.