For just a second, The Wendys’ hard-heartedness seemed to soften, and they looked at each other with almost genuine concern for their leader. The moment was fleeting, however, as they quickly allowed all kinds of alternative theories to fill their small minds.
“Maybe she’s a serial killer,” Wendy Anderson offered.
“That would explain a lot,” Wendy Thomas concurred.
“It really would,” Prue grumbled, as Pam just shook her head dismissively.
The passengers, dead and alive, remained fixated on Petula, as a solitary figure in tattered clothing approached her from the dark end of the street. Petula stood nervously and then began chatting with the bag lady, or rather bag girl. They were all speechless until Wendy Thomas shrieked.
“Oh my God,” Wendy Thomas yelled. “The smoking gun.”
She tried documenting the whole sordid transaction with her phone camera, but the broken streetlamps seemed to cut out on cue and come to Petula’s defense. All she got was a black screen. So, she and Wendy Anderson were left to just observe as Petula handed over item after item of clothing.
“She’s, like, a missionary,” Wendy Anderson surmised.
“I think that toe thing really did go to her brain,” Wendy Thomas suggested, prompting nods of agreement from Pam and Prue. “She’s insane.”
“Darcy was right,” Wendy Thomas said, staring in disdain and disbelief at the scene unfolding in front of her. “Time for a friendectomy.”
Chapter
8
Pictures of You
Send me the pillow
The one that you dream on.
—The Smiths
I second that emulsion.
Sometimes it’s the things that are all around us that are hardest to see, especially love. Like dust particles suspended in a ray of sunshine, love remains invisible to us until it is illuminated. When our hearts can’t see clearly, love creates a Tyndall effect of its own, helping us to shine a light on what is always there, even in our darkest times.
Charlotte found herself on a sidewalk in front of an industrial-looking building. It could have been an office tower, an apartment building, or a prison, from the looks of it, and if she didn’t know better, she would have sworn she was still on the afterlife compound. There were huge differences here, however, like traffic, leafy trees, lawns, and people. Lots of young people. And a sign that said “State College.”
The building in front of her was where she belonged—where Damen belonged. She walked through the double glass doors and into the lobby, where she noticed a register of students and room assignments. Charlotte picked out Damen’s name right away, as if it was highlighted, and tried to ignore the crush of kids passing around and through her on their way to class, or on their way to skip class.
Charlotte waited at the elevator for someone to push the Up button and rode up to his floor, just to get the hang of it all again. It hadn’t been all that long since her trip back to rescue Petula, but she was rusty. It was definitely taking her a minute to get her “life legs” under her. When the doors opened, Charlotte walked down the gray indoor/outdoor carpeted hallway to Damen’s room and literally poked her head through his door, looking for signs of life. No one was around, which was just as well. She needed a minute to gather herself. Charlotte walked over to the window and looked down onto the square.
She looked around Damen’s room and headed for his desk. There were some textbooks piled up on the floor, a few trophies, a guitar and amp, two unmade twin-size beds, a ratty couch, stained coffee table, and of course, some state-of-the-art electronics—a black surround-sound speaker system that dangled from the beige walls, a DVD player, a silver-edged flat-screen TV, and the latest computer and all the peripheral toys to go with it.
This was a guy’s room all right, not really that different from Damen’s room back home, as she recalled from her single visit there. Apart from a poster or two the only color in the room was a few pictures she noticed above his desk, thumb-tacked to his cork bulletin board. She leaned in closer to get a better look.
“What’s he doing with pictures of another girl?” Charlotte thought as she studied the photo.
She gasped when she realized it wasn’t a stranger at all, but Scarlet. The girl in the picture was styled and groomed so perfectly, looked so grown-up.
As she turned from the desk, the next thing that caught her eye was Damen’s unmade bed and the unexpected writing on the wall above it. Charlotte walked over to it, studying every slant, tracing each stroke like an amateur graphologist. It was Scarlet’s—there was no mistaking it—and the sentiment was beautiful, but Charlotte could see trouble in it too. Something was wrong.
Charlotte returned to the picture and took an even closer look. It was definitely from a recent event, New Year’s Eve, maybe. Damen was smiling, Scarlet too, but the way he was holding her so tightly, and the way she was leaning away, ever so slightly, spoke volumes. Still, Charlotte checked herself; maybe she was looking for problems where there weren’t any. An unfortunate side effect of her reverse commute to reality.
“Welcome back,” Charlotte said to herself. “To the same old stuff.”
She sat down on the couch and waited for Damen to arrive.
Scarlet slept in stereo, having nodded off to Eric’s demo tape blaring from her new heart-shaped earbuds. It was late when she awoke, and she rushed to grab a shower and get dressed. Dressing, she found, was an unusually difficult chore for her today.
With nothing for her to wear coming to mind, the ever-shrinking pile of potential discards on her floor caught her eye. She picked up a black, oversize off-the-shoulder sweatshirt she used to love and turned it back to front a few times. She remembered just about everything she’d ever done in it. The more she looked at it, the more she realized that she still loved it. She threw it on over some dark, iridescent leggings, and wore it as a cool minidress.
The whole issue of what to wear should not have been such a big deal, because Scarlet didn’t have anything major planned, just some errands. But she would be passing by Split along the way, and she just never knew who she might run into there.
On her way out the door, she stopped in the kitchen and grabbed the set of keys to her old car, which had been sitting in the driveway with a “For Sale” sign in the rear window since Thanksgiving. At first, Petula put it there as a prank—she hated the car so much—but after a while Scarlet decided to sell it. It just wasn’t her anymore either, as Damen had so incisively or insensitively—she still wasn’t quite sure—noted about her wardrobe. She’d been driving around her mom’s Jetta ever since.
Scarlet pulled open the heavy driver’s side door, got into the black jalopy, and dug herself into the cracked and worn leather upholstery. She pumped the gas pedal a few times; turned the ignition, prompting a couple of coughs from the tailpipe; cranked up her stereo; and then hurried on her way.
After hitting the dry cleaner’s and a few vinyl shops, Scarlet found herself near the club. She drove up and parked right in front, making sure the car would be completely visible to anyone inside.
Another load-in was in progress for another band, and as Scarlet poked her head in, she had very low expectations that Eric would be hanging out. She looked around, and there he was, same as the day before, watching the stage like he’d never left.
“Hey,” she called out as she walked over. “I listened to your tape.”
She didn’t tell him what she thought of it right away; it wasn’t like Scarlet to give too much. She wasn’t sure what she was reading on his face, but it definitely wasn’t surprise. He almost seemed to be expecting her.
“You came all the way down here to tell me that?” he asked.
“That,” she said flatly, “and that your drummer could use a metronome.”
He laughed a little, knowing she was definitely right about that, but when it came to punk music, sloppy beats were a sign of cred, of rawness. The best music, she always felt, was about emotion and energy, n
ot so much about structure, precision, or even ability. She prided herself on making her own music in that way, and she definitely heard a lot of it in Eric’s.
“So, you’re into timing?” he said with a wink, but not the cheesy kind. It was kind of cool and flirty.
“Don’t you want to know what I thought about the tape?” she asked, playing it up a little.
“Well, seeing that you came all the way down here to tell me, I think I already know,” he said.
He came off as arrogant but was the kind of guy who was sweet, deep down. He didn’t rely on his looks; he was more attitude.
“It was a little bit… awesome,” she said.
The thing about Scarlet was that she was usually reserved and sarcastic, but once she got to talking about music, she became like a kid fresh off Space Mountain. She exaggerated details because that’s how she experienced them—with a heightened sensibility.
“Do you play?” he asked.
“I do, a little, but not very well. I like to write, so that’s really when I play,” she said, eager to let him know they had move in common than just fashion.
“You write?”
“Yeah, you know, just lyrics and stuff.”
“I have a feeling you’re being modest.”
“No, but I am being late,” she said looking at the clock on wall. “I’ve gotta get to work.”
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“IdentiTea, the café at old Hawthorne Manor,” Scarlet said. “The place for chai anxiety.”
“Hippie hangouts are cool,” Eric said politely, but she could tell by looking at him that coffehouses weren’t exactly his thing.
“Anyway, the real reason I came here was to ask if you’d be into playing a gig there,” Scarlet confessed. “Doesn’t pay much, but I manage the place and I’m starting to promote a music night.”
“Not a big deal,” Eric admitted, seeming a little more interested. “I’m not in it for the money.”
“Might be good exposure locally,” Scarlet continued, making her case. “We have a regular crowd on Thursday nights—all ages, of course, and if you have merch you can sell after the gig.”
“Cool,” Eric said offhandedly, confirming the booking. “Why don’t we head over to check the place out?”
“Okay, you can follow me; I’m parked right outside.”
“I don’t have a ride,” he said. “Do you mind if I bum one from you?”
“No problem,” Scarlet answered.
They walked outside to her car and continued to chat away. She could see the barest trace of a smile on Eric’s face when he got a look at her car.
“Nice wheels,” Eric acknowledged.
“I like it,” Scarlet giggled nervously. “It’s an oldie, but goodie, as they say.”
As they hopped into her car, flipped on the car radio, and drove off, she took the opportunity to gather information.
“Are you staying or sleeping in the band’s van or something?” Scarlet queried.
“Yeah, I’m staying around for a while,” Eric said. “I’ve got some work to do.”
“Work?” she asked. “Are you recording or something?”
“Not exactly,” he said, fumbling, still really unsure of how much he could or should say to her.
“Where are you from?” Scarlet asked.
“From around here, but I left a long time ago,” Eric said. “I bounced around New York and then moved to L.A. for a while.”
“Make it or die trying?” she said.
“Something like that,” he said.
There was a world-weary quality to Eric that Scarlet had detected from the start. He was young, but he didn’t really look it or act it. Not mature, exactly, but like a guy who had done a lot of living in a very short time.
“Those are two tough towns,” Scarlet said sympathetically, but really just regurgitating what she’d read in the music and fashion magazines.
“Yeah, New York is where dreams are born,” Eric offered. “L.A. is where they’re sold. If you’re lucky.”
They arrived at IdentiTea and parked, but before they got out of the car, Scarlet worked up her nerve.
“This might be a little forward of me,” Scarlet said, “but I’ve been trying to write some songs.”
“And?” Eric asked.
“I thought you might be able to help me,” Scarlet said.
It was a good thing, Charlotte thought, that she was good at waiting. It seemed to be taking Damen forever to return to his room, and she was getting bored. Without being too gross about it, she’d pretty much invaded every aspect of his privacy, from his closets and drawers to his notebooks and toiletry case.
Finally, she heard a key turn in the lock and the door swung open, slowly. Damen reached over to the wall for the light switch, turned it on, and closed the door behind him.
He seemed unusually tense as he dumped his backpack and a bunch of mail on his bed. He still looked great, Charlotte thought, but a bit more serious and polished than he used to. Only someone as obsessed with him as Charlotte once was would even notice, but since she’d been sent all this way back, very much in protest at that, she felt compelled, if not obliged, to notice.
Damen’s hair was trimmed a bit shorter, his jeans belted and more fitted, and his shirttail tucked in instead of hanging freely beneath his jacket and over his backside. He was always neatly dressed and appointed, but to Charlotte, he kind of looked like he was prepping for an interview. Or, heaven forbid, a date.
Suddenly, it all seemed to make sense to Charlotte. She was sent back to keep an eye on Damen, to prevent him from doing something foolish and hurtful and maybe even permanent to both himself and Scarlet. Of course! Only she knew him well enough, knew them both well enough, and cared enough to make sure that Cupid’s arrow stayed on target. This was serious business, after all.
Before Charlotte even had time to appreciate the importance of her mission, Damen interrupted her thoughts with a sigh, as he picked up an envelope that had been buried.
Whatever it was, Charlotte thought, Damen was glad it had arrived. A love letter from Scarlet, maybe? She could only hope. Or someone else?
He settled down and slowly pulled the flap open, the anticipation and tension returning to his face. What was this, the Grammys? But before he could open the envelope completely, his door opened.
“Hey, man,” Matt Rogers, Damen’s roommate, greeted him. “I was hoping not to see you.”
Matt was a blond, bespeckled frat boy. Good-looking, smart, outgoing, athletic, and loyal, he gave a straightlaced appearance but was clearly anything but. It was obvious instantly that Damen liked him a lot.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Damen shot back, “but I just might have gotten my ticket.”
“No way! Open it, open it, open it…,” Matt chanted, fists pumping, urging Damen on enthusiastically.
Damen took heart and bravely finished off the envelope. He reached in, grabbed the single sheet between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled it up to eye level. Even Charlotte was taken in as he read the letter silently, then looked over at his anxious roomie.
“I got it,” Damen said quietly, rushing at Matt with his hand skyward for a colossal high five. “I got the internship at Hawthorne Broadcasting Studios for spring semester!”
“HBS?” Charlotte wondered. “But that’s in…”
Before she could finish the thought, Matt did.
“You’re going home, bro!”
They embraced in an enthusiastic man-hug for a second and then separated uneasily and shook hands firmly, with Matt getting in a last good slap to Damen’s back.
“You’ve got an angel on your shoulder, dude,” Matt said sincerely.
“I must,” Damen said, already beginning to pack his stuff.
“Wonder if she’s hot,” Matt added.
This was the first time he ever commented about an angel being potentially hot. Usually it was either real girls in posters or comic book characters.
Da
men looked at him, dumbfounded, but Charlotte was totally flattered by the compliment.
“Scarlet is going to freak,” Matt said, as Damen beamed a mischievous grin back at him.
“In a good way,” Charlotte thought to herself, “I hope.”
Chapter
9
Sadly Beautiful
I know I’ll never really get inside of you,
To make your eyes catch fire the way they should.
—The Cure
He loves me, he loves me not.
If two past lovers remain friends, they are either still in love, or never were. We are attracted to people for all sorts of reasons; however, the human mind sometimes classifies feelings as romantic because it can’t make sense of them at the given time. The truth is, those people we feel drawn to most might not be intended as love interests, but rather as life-changing, life-altering presences that come into our lives for reasons we can’t yet understand.
Everyone took some time to recover from Valentine’s Day, the excitement and romance of it for some, the disappointment of it for others. For the lonely hearts, the cards, flowers, and candy boxes on display everywhere were like a target rash from a tick bite—an external reminder that something was very wrong on the inside. The light at the end of the tunnel, however, was prom. Just as Valentine’s Day seamlessly supplanted Christmas in the stores, prom instantly uprooted Valentine’s Day at school. The two were separated only by an intermittent period that unattached senior girls dubbed “hunting season” but the rest of the school knew as spring. It was official: preparation for the big day had begun. And the first step in the process for The Wendys was ditching their “kids.”
“There is no way that we can get dates to the prom,” Wendy Anderson sneered, “as single mothers.”