The Nine Lives of Chloe King (8 page)

The predictable appearance of crunchy cheese-baked scrod on Wednesday was a surprisingly reassuring thing. Though it made Chloe want to retch, lunch seemed to indicate that everything was normal. Sure, Amy and Paul tended to disappear from the scene every available moment—Chloe was convinced that someday one of the face-sucking couples she passed in the hall before class would turn out to be them. She’d taken to walking between classes faster, head down.

Amy
did
manage to find five minutes on the walk between school and work on Wednesday to talk, bringing a latte for her friend, the first of many what Chloe called “gilfts”: guilt gifts. They chatted about this and that, but it was always the same problem.

Chloe wanted to
talk
about things—like the fall. Like her fight with the bum. Like Xavier, for Christ’s sake. But she and Amy had been so apart recently that it took a few minutes of rapid reacquainting before Chloe felt comfortable enough to
really
talk, and by then one of them—usually Amy—always had to leave.

At Pateena’s, Marisol had turned on the old black-and-white television—one of four throughout the store that played trippy visuals to trance on the speakers. Some dumb sitcom was playing while she set up the tapes. Chloe absently watched it while taking her break, scanning the obituaries again, looking for Xavier. The TV show was something about a normal guy and his hippie wife and the comic mayhem that ensued as a result of their differences.

Chloe suddenly envisioned a different version of her mother: a slightly ditzier, San Francisco hippie version who dragged her daughter to horrible things like drumming circles and Goddess nights. Maybe she owned a bookstore. She would be kooky but easy to talk to and would have relevant things to say about boys when Chloe opened up to her over a mug of homemade chai. Nothing negative. Nothing like “don’t date them,” for instance.

From what little she remembered and had been told, her dad was more that type of person. A modern do-gooder, a legal defense aide who worked with immigrants by day and took his wife to benefits and galas for nonprofits by night. Chloe tried to picture him at Carlucci’s with her, the gray and hazy areas of his face pieced in with old scrapbook photos. He would tell her that boys were terrible things and that he should know, because he had been one. He would blush but try to remain supportive when she talked about Xavier. He would be interested that Alyec was Russian. He should be, considering it had been
his
idea to adopt the orphan of an ex-Soviet state. Right now Chloe felt like she had
no one
to talk to.

“Hey.”

A pair of black knit kitty cat ears appeared above the rack where she was working. The guy wearing them stood on his toes and waved at her.

“Hey,” she said, smiling.

“I think I’m going to buy a whole
suit
this time,” he said. “Or maybe just a jacket,” he added.

“Lania is our queer-eye-for-every-person girl. She can help you pick out something professional
and
stellar if you don’t mind the constant bitching.”

“Oh.” In the flash of sunlight his eyes were almost green and very deep, like an expensive glass paperweight.

Chloe desperately tried to think of some way of continuing the conversation.

“Hey, um, I think I want the pattern for your hat after all,” she said. “My friend Amy knits, and she owes me a birthday present.”

“Oh! Absolutely!” He gave up his tippy-toe routine, seeming to suddenly realize he could simply walk around the rack. He wore a dark green shirt with jeans and black square-tipped European-looking shoes. Very much the clove cigarette type: dark and mysterious. His shoulders were larger than they had seemed the other day, and he held a copy of James Joyce’s
Ulysses
under his arm. “I’ll bring it by.”

“Sure, that would be great.”

There was a silence between them for a moment.

“Or,” he added, “I could take you out for a coffee after work sometime and give it to you.”

Chloe smiled.
“That
would be great.”

“How ’bout tomorrow?”

“Absolutely!”

“I’m Brian, uh, by the way.”

“I’m Chloe. Pleased to meet you.” She made a serious look and held out her hand. He shook it.

“Chloe—like ’Daphnis and Chloe,’ the Greek myth?”

“One and the same,” Chloe said, surprised he knew of it.

“You know,” he said, glancing at the newspaper section she held, “not everyone who dies winds up in the obituaries.”

“What? Oh.” She blushed, thinking furiously. “I—I guess I’m just morbid. I, uh, like to see how old people are when they die and stuff.”

“Try the crossword instead,” he suggested, smiling. “It looks impressive and high-falutin’ when you do it with a pen.”

Chloe grinned. “Maybe I’ll just do that.”

She stayed late to help Marisol lock up, checking her watch nervously. Now that the new season of television had once again begun, Wednesdays were
Smallville
and takeout night, her mother’s attempt to connect to her daughter via cable’s younger generation. One of her more successful attempts, actually, since Chloe loved dumplings and Michael Rosenbaum. Plus since the unexpected birthday party she and her mom seemed to be getting along better, something Chloe didn’t want to screw up.

By the time she helped Marisol pull the chain gate down, it was seven forty-five. There was
no way
the bus was going to get her home in time. Three miles on the bus took forever.

“Here.” Marisol handed her a ten-dollar bill.

“I only stayed an extra hour,” Chloe protested.

“Shush!” The older woman pushed it into her hand and closed her fist around it. “Take a cab home. I got a ten-year-old, and someday she’s going to be your age. It freaks me out watching you and Lania. Be safe.”

“You have a daughter?” Chloe felt twice as embarrassed taking the money now, having just found out about an important part of her boss’s life that she knew nothing of before.

“Yeah. She’s at her dad’s this week. Lazy son of a bitch loves his little girl, at least. See you tomorrow.” Marisol tossed her long brown-black hair over her shoulder like a younger woman, like a girl, like someone who didn’t have a ten-year-old and an ex-husband and a business. When she crossed the street, she kind of bounced.

Chloe looked at the ten in her hand and thought about the differences between her mom and her boss, and the little ten-year-old she hadn’t known about until today, who split her life between her parents. Like Paul now. Chloe didn’t even have that option.

She looked around: the streets were devoid of regular cars, let alone cabs. The faintest curl of cold air hit her nose, sharp and electric. When it faded, Chloe noticed the city-made warmth, the biological smell of trees and dirt and humans, men and women running about and excited, glad the workday was over.

Chloe began to trot, methodically jogging like she did in gym to do as little work as possible and not get noticed. Her breasts bounced uncomfortably in her notdesigned-for-jogging bra.

Then, without thinking, she opened up her stride and
ran.

She ran like her body had been waiting its whole life to actually run, as if she had been held in check up until this moment. She didn’t even have to think about the movement of her arms or the placement of her feet and legs the way Mr. Parmalee was always shouting. She ran with wide steps, eating up the vanilla slabs of concrete below with hungry feet. And when her steps weren’t wide enough—she leapt.

Houses passed in a blur, parked cars looked like they were moving. She jumped over fire hydrants and small bushes, not like a normal long or high jumper, but springing with her arms held curled at her sides to break her fall if she mislanded.

She never did.

When she crossed the street, she did it in the middle of the block and leapt onto the hood of a car that blocked the pedestrian walkway. She was gratified to hear the alarm go off in whoops. From there she found herself using a
parking meter
as a step closer down to the sidewalk, her left foot delicately resting on it for a moment while her right foot reached for the ground.

The energy, strength, and speed she felt were just like in the fight with the homeless guy—but they lasted longer. Not just an adrenaline burst. And there was no rage, no flight or fight—just the pure joy of movement, of almost flying through the deserted night.

She cut through an empty lot, pretty sure it was a faster route home. Even though there was no moon that night and no streetlights in the area, she managed to leap over dead tires, puddles of broken glass, and unpleasant-looking plants without nicking herself on a single obstacle.

When she finally leapt up the steps to her house and let herself in, she wasn’t even winded.

“Just in time,” her mother said, smiling. She was laying out cartons of Chinese.

The clock on the TV said 7:57.

Eight

“Hey, alyec,” chloe
called, waving to him across the hallway the next morning.

“Hey, King.” He waved back, but he turned around to continue his conversation with Keira. Chloe could almost
feel
Keira’s smugness as he dismissed her. It was infuriating. Chloe slunk away as if she had never stopped. Yeah, she should probably be happy about Brian. But Alyec was
hot.
Sexy. Drop-dead gorgeous. Covetousness inspiring. She snuck one look back to watch his wheat blond hair (or was it rye? What did they grow in Russia?) fall over his brow in waves like the fringe on an expensive pillow.
Maybe I should tell him that I’m a Ruskie, too.

Or maybe, she thought, maybe she should choose one guy and stick with him. Either pursue Alyec or continue with Brian.

Nah … this is way more fun.

“Hey.” Paul waved at her from the river of teenage traffic that was going the opposite way, down the left side of the hall. He jumped into a free space next to her. “Take any long falls from tall buildings lately?”

“I base-dived the Transamerica—does that count?”

“We were thinking about going to the arcade at Sony later,” he continued.
And since when did he and Amy become a “we”?
Amy and
she
were a “we.” Amy,
Paul,
and she were a “we.” Should she just assume from now on that whenever either one of her best friends used that pronoun, they were only referring to themselves? “Wanna come?”

Oh, now I’m being
invited
places by them. Pity the third wheel.

“No thanks, I’ve got plans.” She didn’t know if hazel eyes could look cold, but she tried her best, making her face go flat with lack of emotion. She had practiced it in front of a mirror. The expression looked good with her high cheekbones.

“Plans?” Paul asked. His eyebrows raised almost to his spiked bangs.

“Yeah,
plans.
Maybe another time.”

And she walked away.

Of course, she knew it wouldn’t drop like that; she was
hoping
it wouldn’t. It came during math in the form of a single-character text message on her phone from Amy: ?

She responded:
thanks 4 the invite, tho.

Amy:
whats ur prob biyatch? @ least cometo my reading fri 7
@ b.
rooster Puhlleeeeeeeezzze :) ! ucan bring alyec.

Yeah, right, if she wanted to make sure that Alyec never wanted to hang out with her or her friends again. Amy’s poetry could have that effect on people.

Chloe put away her phone, not wanting to deal.

Brian showed up at Pateena’s precisely at six.

Chloe was leaning in the doorway, carefully searching through the obituaries. No mention of Xavier. “Where to?” Chloe asked, shoving the paper into her bag.

He seemed to have dressed up a little. His pants were something soft, black, and matte that almost looked like velvet. Wool? Velour? Chloe found herself resisting the urge to reach out and feel it.
I wonder if he likes dancing. …

“I was thinking … the zoo.” He looked at her expectantly, his brown eyes wide.

“The
zoo?”
Mugs of coffee and an intimate dinner melted away. “Isn’t it closed?”

“Nope. Not until eight. And I’m a member, so we get in free.”

The zoo … Come to think of it, she hadn’t been there in years, even though it was reasonably close by. And no one had ever offered to take her there before.

“All right, but you’re buying me a souvenir drink cup.”

“Hey,
you’re
the one with a job.”

“You’re
the one who asked me out.”

“Touché,” he admitted. He was so easy to talk to! This was, like, their third conversation and they were already bantering like old friends. “Okay, one souvenir drink cup for you. But if you felt like the evening went well, I wouldn’t object to you purchasing a stuffed monkey for
me.”

Chloe grinned. “It’s a deal.”

There were no crowds outside the zoo gates, only families leaving, and all Brian had to do was wave his card at the guard and point to Chloe and they waltzed in. So much better than the heat, lines, and crowds she remembered from experiences there as a kid. It was also kind of cool going there at dusk: the overhanging trees gathered shadows under them, making the place seem more wild.

“Are you in college?” she finally asked casually, looking at a map. He didn’t look
that
much older than her. …

“Not yet. I’m taking a couple of years off.”

“So, what did you need that suit for?”

“Twenty questions!” he said, laughing. “I’m looking to major in zoology. Hence, uh, the zoo. But that’s kind of a difficult program for an undergrad degree, and competition is fierce. I wasn’t exactly a …
scholar
in high school, so I thought I would get some experience by working at a zoo or animal rescue league or something like that. I’m in the interviewing process right now. You’d be surprised how many people want crappy, low-paying jobs that involve shoveling a lot of animal—well,
crap.”