Charlotte gulped so loudly she feared they might hear her.
"No way!" Damen yelled, jumping to his feet.
Charlotte had never seen him in such a state. It was as if Scarlet was standing right there beside him and had been insulted personally.
Mr. Stylus quickly realized he shouldn't have been so cavalier. He waved the cue sheet for the song up and over the console, close enough for him to read to Damen, but not so close that he might get punched out.
"I was just reviewing the credits for all the submissions, and I see you did the music on the track."
"Yeah, so?" Damen was pacing behind his chair and trying desperately to calm himself. "It's my girlfriend's song."
"It's against the rules," Stylus informed him. "No station employee can participate in any on-air contest."
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"So, you mean if I hadn't taken this job..." Damen's voice trailed off.
Charlotte knew what he really meant to say. If he hadn't come home, if he hadn't changed everything to be near her, none of this would have happened. It was a series of unintended consequences that he'd set in motion. He only meant to be with her and to show his love and support by recording her song and submitting it. And now it had all gone wrong.
"It's standard conflict-of-interest stuff," Jerry concluded as he folded up the cue sheet and handed it tentatively to Damen. "Sorry, kid."
"Sorry?" Damen said sarcastically, dropping down in his seat and hanging his head. "You're not the only one."
This was going to be a problem. Scarlet never wanted to be entered to begin with, but now that she was, Damen knew she was excited about it, even though she'd never admit it to him. She was going to be shattered by the disqualification, and so would their relationship.
"If you don't mind," Stylus requested, adding insult to injury, "just delete the track from the playlist before the end of your shift."
Damen nodded silently.
"Niagara...," Charlotte mouthed somberly, "falls."
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Chapter 16 Close to the Edge
The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.
--Hunter S. Thompson
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Love is a drug.
Falling in love is transformational but not always in the ways that we hope. You go from being a whole person to being half a relationship, sometimes losing a large part of yourself in the process. Unfortunately, it is almost always the secure, self-assured part of you that turns up missing. But the real trouble begins when you need another person to help you find it.
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Hey," Charlotte said as she approached Eric, who was hanging out on the front steps of IdentiTea, fiddling with his guitar. He looked a little like a puppy waiting for its master, a far cry from the street-tough punk she knew and, although she hadn't said it yet, loved.
"Hey," Eric replied, looking up at her with some excitement, but then immediately putting his head back down to continue playing.
"I'm here," Charlotte responded.
"So I see," Eric said.
It was oddly strained and awkward between them, leaving Charlotte more suspicious than ever about his feelings for Scarlet.
"So, what have you been up to?" Charlotte asked.
"Just hanging out," he said. "You?"
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"Nothing much, just trying to help smooth things over," she said, watching his face for any reaction. "Damen loves her so much. You're never going to believe how he signs his letters to her."
"She isn't happy," Eric snapped.
"Why do you care so much if she's happy?" Charlotte asked pointedly.
What she wanted to say was, why don't you care about my being happy, but she fought the urge.
"Because that's why I'm here," Eric said defensively.
"Are you sure about that?" Charlotte asked.
"What are you trying to get at, Charlotte?"
"I think you'd better check your motives," she said, her jealousy no longer remotely veiled.
"I think you'd better check yourself," Eric said as Damen passed them and went into the café. "Frankly, I don't really care what he writes to her in letters."
"Oh, I forgot," Charlotte snapped, "it's not cool to express your feelings like that, is it?"
Eric put his guitar down and looked Charlotte in the eyes.
"Why are you always so quick to point out how inadequate I am?"
"I didn't mean it that way," Charlotte said, extending her neck a bit to see what was happening inside.
"What way did you mean it, then?" Eric asked, annoyed that she was suddenly distracted by Damen's arrival.
"We're here to do a job, for them, not for us," Charlotte said, refocusing on Eric.
"That's my point, exactly," he said. "I am thinking about her, but it seems you might be thinking of yourself first."
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"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"Are you trying to say that I'm pushing Damen to get back with Scarlet because I'm jealous of her being with you?"
"You're the one who said it."
"Can you get over yourself for just a second?" Charlotte asked as she watched him strum away.
She put her hand on the neck of the guitar and held the strings so he couldn't play.
"Look at me!" Charlotte ordered, becoming increasingly upset.
Their first-ever fight was officially on before they'd even had their first kiss.
"You're going to make a scene."
"Are you hushing me?"
"No, just cool it a little."
Charlotte began to tremble.
"Make a scene?" she said. "No one could possibly see us except Scarlet."
Charlotte knew from the look on his face that that's exactly what he was worried about. His follow-up was even more telling.
"Did it ever occur to you," Eric suggested, "that we might be here to keep them apart?"
Damen arrived at IdentiTea looking for Scarlet but found The Wendys and Darcy instead.
"Hey, Damen, what's up?" Wendy Anderson greeted him cordially.
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"Here to see your girlfriend?" Wendy Thomas added before Damen could answer. "You just missed her."
Damen wasn't surprised. He and Scarlet had been missing each other in every way for a while. The Wendys sensed Damen's urgency and physically blocked him from getting through to guarantee a little face time.
"She is still your girlfriend, isn't she?" Wendy Thomas gibed.
"Why wouldn't she be?" Damen asked snidely, not wanting to throw even the tiniest piece of red meat to Hawthorne's voracious gossips.
"Oh, we just heard some stuff," Wendy Anderson said.
"From who?" Damen asked. "Scarlet?"
"Oh, no, no," Darcy interjected. "Not from her."
"Who are you?" Damen asked. "And what the hell are you doing in my business?"
"This is Darcy," Wendy Thomas said. "She's new."
"I've heard a lot about you," Darcy cooed, snuggling up to Damen as if they were the only two in the room.
As this was unfolding, Eric walked over to Scarlet.
"Hey, Scarlet, I'm gonna catch you later," he said.
"So soon?" Scarlet asked.
"I love this place, but it gets boring here sometimes."
"You won't be bored. You've got company," she said, grabbing her bag.
As they walked away, Charlotte saw Eric pointing Scarlet in Damen's and Darcy's direction. It was as if he wanted Damen to get caught talking to another girl. Like he was working against her. Or more like, against Damen.
Or maybe he was just working for Scarlet.
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Damen wasn't quite sure how to approach Scarlet about the disqualification. Long story short, she was going to be mad. If he was too morose, she might assume he was feeling guilty and looking for sympathy from her when she was the one who actually needed the support. Maybe,
he thought, the best way to deal with it was offhandedly. Scarlet might even be relieved to be out of the running for a competition she'd never intended to enter.
He braced himself as he walked up to her front door, hoping he'd picked the right approach.
"Hey," Damen said, "I've got some great news."
"What's that," Scarlet mumbled, barely acknowledging him. He followed her up to her room.
"Your song," Damen began.
"What now?" Scarlet cut him off. "Did you get an offer from a record label?"
"Not exactly." Damen paused, swallowing hard. "It was disqualified."
Scarlet looked up at him from her bed and remained silent for a few seconds, not quite sure if she'd heard him right.
"What?" she screamed.
From her tone, he guessed relief was not exactly the emotion she was feeling.
"Employees of the station can't enter contests," Damen explained calmly as she stared him down scornfully. "I'm sorry."
"So it's all your fault?" Scarlet exploded, his apology clearly not enough for her.
This was the Scarlet he'd known when he was dating Petula
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and hadn't seen since then. Tough, outspoken, brutal. Any worries she had about losing her true self were definitely misplaced, he thought.
"That's not fair," Damen countered, trying hard not to lose his temper. "I had no idea."
"Not fair to whom?" She went on, "I didn't ask to be entered but I'm the big loser anyway."
"We lost," Damen attempted to remind her.
"I lost," Scarlet barked spitefully. "It was my name on the song, not yours."
"Right," Damen shot back reflexively. "It wasn't my name, just my guitar."
Damen instantly realized that he might have picked at a scab that was a little too fresh. Scarlet knew she was no guitar god; that was part of the reason she hadn't submitted the song herself. She didn't have enough confidence in her ability, Eric's compliments notwithstanding.
The fact that Damen, however unwittingly, just called her out on it really hurt. He knew her weaknesses and he should have known better than to expose them, no matter how angry she made him. Maybe, she thought, he did know better and was finally being honest.
"I guess I'm just not good enough," Scarlet exhaled. "For you."
Her comment spoke volumes. It wasn't about the song at all. It was about everything else. The way she looked, the way she dressed, the things she liked or didn't. None of it was good enough for him. At least that's how she'd been feeling, and now she'd said it.
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He moved in to hug her, but she tightened up and turned away.
Frustrated with her and with himself, he decided he'd had enough.
"I don't think this is working," Damen said. "Maybe we shouldn't be together after all."
Scarlet was surprised at how much hearing him say that hurt. She'd been pretty much pushing him in that direction, but now that he was the one to say it, to make it real, it broke her heart.
"Why don't you go back where you belong," Scarlet said. "And I'll stay where I belong."
Where exactly she meant, Damen didn't have a clue. Back to work, back to college, or back to his life before her? Maybe all of the above.
"Yeah, maybe you're right," he said, stunning her even further. "Maybe I just don't belong with you."
She thought they might not be good for each other, but deep down she just wanted him to convince her that they were, like he always had before.
"Here, here's a note that I wrote to you explaining things," he said, handing her the piece of paper he had slaved over. "You can read it or not. It's up to you," he mumbled as he walked away.
Scarlet took the note out of his hand, stared at it, and then set it on the nightstand, next to her belongings. And there it stayed--unread.
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Chapter 17 Pretty Girls Make Graves
I always fall in love with someone who looks the way I wish that I could be
--John Cale
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Final exam.
We tend to measure lives and love the same way--by how long they last. For most of us, the longer the better. But a short life can make a big impact just as a short-lived romance can leave a lasting impression. In the end, it's not the time we spend but how we spend the time that truly tells our story.
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Petula thought that maybe once she got really into it, her excitement, her rush would kick in, but as of this moment, she wasn't really feeling it. CoCo had done her best to rummage through the piles, assembling beautifully color-coordinated combinations for Petula to stumble upon. Any top fashion editor would spontaneously combust at the sight of these outfits, but they didn't even rug-shock Petula.
For the first time, she didn't notice colors or cuts. She felt as if nothing mattered anymore. Her life was over. So maybe The Wendys were right; maybe she was crazy. The only compulsion she was feeling now was to pull up a cardboard box and catnap on the curb.
Just like the destitute she had inexplicably committed to serve, Petula was an outcast. Shunned. All that she had strived to be was now undone, and despite all the blatant paranoia exhibited by The Wendys and the plotting by Darcy, it was her own fault. This was particularly distressing for Petula since up until now, the only purpose for a good, hard look in the mirror had been to check for flyaways. After all, it was much easier, she was learning, to assign blame than to assume it.
In the end, she reckoned, popularity was a temporary condition--a virus that bounces like the flu bug, predominantly
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to those made susceptible by their winning gene pools. The strength of each strain is determined by the insecurity, desperation, and sheer number of those hoping to acquire it.
Petula figured that was why high school lasted only four years, maybe five, in her case. Popularity fatigue, even immunity, was bound to set in among the masses after that. All this philosophizing and self-recrimination was making her head hurt, and Petula wanted to call it a day. She wanted to get back in her car, go home, and beg for her old life back. But, something, or someone, wasn't letting her.
CoCo didn't really care much about helping the needy, or Petula for that matter. But she did care a lot about clothes, and she was the first to realize that overthrowing Petula was just a smoke screen for Darcy. Her real goal, CoCo surmised, was to demoralize Petula into giving up her fashion moonlighting altogether, leaving the destitute to their understyled and hopeless existence. CoCo was literally providing moral support to keep that from happening. On a scale of global problems, it was a very minor affair, but any increase in the misery index, CoCo felt, must be fought. This, after all, was Markov's point.
In almost a stupor, Petula grabbed some men's outfits and hit the streets once again, with CoCo trailing close behind. As she drove them down to the dreary destination, she continued to berate herself out loud, beating herself up emotionally. Petula was fine with change, as long as it was of the cosmetic variety. Tampering with whatever was on the inside had been strictly forbidden. Until recently.
Petula double-parked, picked up her sack of clothing, and headed for the nearest corrugated shanty. She wasn't being
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lazy. CoCo had seen something, actually someone, at that location who'd caught her attention on her last few visits, and she was determined to guide Petula there. As they drew nearer, Petula noticed a rustling under the garbage-festooned box and heard a few loud grunts. She had yet to see any definite proof that the source of the movement was human, but she was strangely unafraid. She felt protected.
"Hello?" Petula said.
No one answered her.
"Hey!" Petula screeched, kicking at the box and demanding to be charitable.
"What do you want?" the heap said in a grouchy voice.
It was definitely a male voice.
"Now, that's a good question, one that I've been asking myself over and over again for the past few months," she said. "What about you? What do you want?
"
The homeless person started breaking out of his handout-clothing cocoon.
"I want to be left alone," he muttered while freeing himself from the poly-blend cloaking his head. "Not dragged into your internal monologue."
As the clothes fell away from his face, his eyes met with Petula's. They were crystal blue and Petula couldn't help but swim in them.
"You're...," she began, "young."
"There's no age requirement for being homeless, as far as I know," he said.
He looked more movie-set dirty than filthy, Petula observed, as if some makeup assistant, rather than a hard-knock life, had
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dusted him down. CoCo stood and stared proudly as a look of accomplishment washed over her face.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "You don't really look like you belong."
"I should ask you the same," he replied.
She didn't really have an answer for him, and so she never got one from him.
"We must be around the same age," she said.
"Yeah, we've got that in common," he said.
"I'm sure we have more than just that in common," Petula said.
"Yeah, like what?"
"We both worry about clothes," she said, thinking fast. "I worry that I have the latest and the hottest pieces, and you, well, you worry that you have... any."
"I guess that's something," he said, smiling slightly.
"Hey, your teeth are really white," she said, taken aback by his shiny grin. "Like, professional white."
The guy looked more than embarrassed by the compliment.
One thing about homeless people that was hard for Petula to take was their lack of dental hygiene, and there was nothing Petula hated more than butterteeth. She even kept a Baggie of whitening strips and travel-size toothbrushes in her purse to help them combat their fuzzy tooth sweaters.