The Nine Lives of Chloe King (5 page)

Chloe couldn’t help being impressed. Besides Amy, almost no one she knew—not counting her mother’s trend-happy friends—knitted, and those who did never really finished anything. Except for some of the stitching, it looked pretty professional.

“I found the pattern on the Web,” he continued. “If you knit, I’ll give you the URL.”

“No thanks, I can’t. My friend Amy can, but I’m a complete spaz with my hands.”

“Oh, you should totally take it up. It’s kind of fun,” he said, only a little embarrassed.

Chloe steeled herself for the usual touchy-feely sensitive guy discourse that was sure to follow, about how the movements were soothing, about how he felt in touch with people from long ago, about how some native culture or other did something spiritual with knitting needles, how he might want to open a shop someday, how it was good for teaching underprivileged kids self-esteem. …

But he had already turned to go.

“Well, see you,” he said with a cute little half smile as he reached for the door. His eyes crinkled the upper part of his cheek, the skin pulled taut by a sexy scar that ran from the outside of his eye to just below his cheekbone.

Chloe waved and watched him go. Part of her was a little insulted; was she not a hot young girl who had attracted the notice of two hot guys in the last twenty-four hours? And Mr. Kitty Cat Man didn’t even care. It was her
birthday,
for Christ’s sake. Before her imminent grounding, didn’t fate owe her something?

Then her butt vibrated.

She had to carefully dig her phone out of the back pocket of her own vintage jeans, which were men’s and had a pre-worn white rectangle in the back where someone had once carried his wallet. Once in, her phone fit fine. Getting it out when she was any position but vertical was almost impossible.

Text message:
carluccis
@ 7—
a.

Carlucci’s was the place she and Amy had first met when the Scotkins had moved into the neighborhood. Maybe she’d get some decent pizza today after all. The best part of her job was that Pateena paid her in cash under the counter at the end of every day. She’d have a whole twenty to blow on a Make Me One with Everything pie.

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, except when Chloe had to hide a pair of faded purple velvet pants she just knew Amy would love. Usually the owner didn’t have a problem with employees “saving” items for themselves. Marisol was the coolest boss she’d ever had. She even let Chloe use the shop’s machine to hem her own jeans and stuff. But if Lania saw the pants—or liked them herself—she was bound to make trouble. Chloe stashed them under a pile of polyester bowling shirts when she left.

As she approached the restaurant in the damp fog, the windows of Carlucci’s glowed like they were lit with gas carriage lanterns, a restaurant out of time. Really, it was just a little Italian pasta place with candles set in old Chianti bottles like every other little Italian pasta place in the world, but it was hers and Amy’s, and it was cozy, and sometimes the insane old owner even remembered them.

When she opened the door, there seemed to be even more candles than usual.

“Happy birthday to you
…,” Amy sang, wisely giving up after one cracked phrase. Her eager face was lit manically by the glow of seventeen candles around the crust of a Make Me One with Everything pie. “Blow quickly,” she added. “Carlucci thinks I’m going to burn the place down.”

Chloe laughed with delight, something she couldn’t remember doing for days. She took a deep breath.

I wish …

I wish …

It used to come to her easily: world peace, an end to all of the environmental disasters in the world, the ability to fly, a dog. Wishes seemed to get more complicated as she grew older: for her father to come back. To know who her biological parents were. For a brother or sister. Come to think of it, maybe her recent jonesing was some sort of replacement-male-love sort of thing.
Ewww
…

“Chloe?”

She broke out of her reverie.

I wish for a new mountain bike.

No, wait,
world peace.

She blew, trying not to get spit on their pizza. Chloe saw with amusement that Amy had also pre-ordered the requisite three cans of Nehi grape each.

“You’re the best, Amy.”

“Hey, no problem.” They didn’t hug; Amy hated things like that. Instead they sat down and began the serious business of shoveling sausage-onion-pepper-tomato-pepperoni-caper-black-olive slices into their mouths as fast as humanly possible. Chloe groaned with pleasure.

“This pizza is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. Well, except for last night.” She swallowed and looked at Amy, but her friend wasn’t biting.

“Yeah? You mean the fall? That
was
some freaky stuff.”

“No, afterward. Last night.
After
my mom pulled a major freakage.” But Amy really wasn’t listening. Chloe sighed, finally giving in to the desperate-to-share, distracted look on her friend’s face. “Okay, what’s more important than my life on my birthday?”

“Paul and I made out last night!” Amy blurted, suddenly covering her mouth as if she hadn’t meant for the words to escape.

Chloe found herself choking. It took half a Nehi to restore normal breathing and swallowing. Of all the things Amy could have said, that was definitely the one she’d least expected. Sure, Amy and Paul had been gazing a bit at each other yesterday—but holy crap, they had all known each other since third grade. It would be like dating a brother. A
really geeky
brother.

“You did
what?”

“After we took you home, we hung out at his place.” Easily pictured: Amy and Paul in his tiny room, surrounded by bookshelves packed with records and his turntable equipment. Lounging on the floor. “I mean, it really freaked us out, you know?” Amy looked her in the eyes. “You really could have died. I mean, the fact that you lived is just—amazing. Like you were given a second chance or something.” Chloe silently pleaded that Amy not get into her angel crap; suddenly it was
not
the time. “It sort of, it sounds dumb, a total cliché, but it was just sort of like we realized how death almost touched us. Say things while you can, you know? In case you never get a chance to.” She took a deep breath. “So then we were talking about, you know, deep things and life, and uh, then … Well, and then …”

“You sucked face?”

“Basically, yeah.” Was Amy blushing? “But that’s not all. I mean, I really care about him, you know? We grew up together, he’s like family, so there’s like that kind of love, but I never found him sexy before. …”

“Oh my God,” Chloe said. “Are you telling me you find him sexy
now?
Still? Twenty-four hours later?”

“I don’t know. I mean, maybe.”

They chewed in silence for a while. Suddenly Chloe’s obsession with sexy club guy and flirting with Alyec faded. With Xavier it had been just a kiss, albeit a long and deep one, and if she never saw him again, that was all it would ever be. And Alyec was just a flirt.
This
was serious. This affected the Trio.

If they weren’t serious, or if they were and it failed, or if it was just a weirdness from last night and one of them didn’t feel as strongly as the other, the once-solid friendship of the three of them was doomed. Chloe didn’t relish the thought of being the friend in between after the “divorce.” Terribly awkward. Chloe was sure this was going to be a total disaster.

After dinner Amy grabbed for the check when Carlucci left it on the table.

“Will miracles never cease? First I survive the fall and now this …,” Chloe said, preemptively ducking. But Amy just frowned a little and walked her home, chattering about Paul the entire time. Only as they neared the Kings’ residence did she seem to remember Chloe.

“Was there something you wanted to say before?” she asked.

“Oh, uh, no biggie. I mean, not like
this
biggie.” Chloe unlocked the door and pushed it open. “You want to come up? We can—”

There was a crowd of people, well dressed, talking and hanging around the Kings’ dining and living room. Hors d’oeuvres were being passed; champagne was being poured into glasses. Paul was there with his parents, and Mr. and Mrs. Scotkin, and other people who were neighbors or familiar faces.

“Oh, crap,” her mom said, turning around and seeing her. “Surprise!”

Five

Two glasses of
champagne later, Chloe began to enjoy herself. Even though she suspected that the party was some sort of psychological ploy on her mother’s behalf to make her daughter feel loved, wanted, and appreciated, she had done an excellent job, and Chloe felt all three. She wondered when her punishment for skipping school and leaving the hospital was going to kick in or if that, too, had been canceled in some sort of amnesty.

Mrs. King could not, however, give up the traditional elements of a birthday party, i.e., an old-fashioned frosted cake and sharing embarrassing photos and pictures of a much younger, and often naked, Chloe.

And of course, a toast.

As soon as her mom began to tap on a glass, Chloe looked around for the quickest way out of being the center of attention. No one was budging; she was trapped.

“As many of you here already know,” Mrs. King began with a sniff, “we aren’t exactly sure when Chloe’s birthday really is.”

Chloe closed her eyes. She was going to do it. She was going to tell the whole story.

The crowd waited expectantly.

“She was born somewhere in the countryside of the old USSR. By the time
we
found her, the only thing the Soviet officials could give us was a document with some scribbles and a sickle-and-star stamp.”

Mrs. King pointed to the tattered paper, matted and framed above the dining room table.

“David and I wanted a baby so badly … and we were
so
lucky. Chloe was the most beautiful little girl we had ever seen. And she has grown in grace and beauty and intelligence in every way since.” Chloe almost groaned aloud. Amy gave her a look, sympathizing with her horror. “And even though we have our little … fights, I couldn’t be more proud. And if your dad”—
had stuck around
—“were here, he would feel the same way. Chloe, I love you. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Happy sixteenth birthday!”

Everyone clinked their glasses and hugged her. Chloe mumbled thanks, just glad that the worst part was over so quickly. As soon as the knot of people around her loosened, she dove for the table of hors d’oeuvres, filled up a plate, and stood in the corner behind a tall plant so she could enjoy the caterer’s specialties in peace.

A pair of people walked by, dangerously close. Chloe froze—they didn’t seem to have noticed her.

“Remember how badly they were fighting toward the end?” Mrs. Lowe whispered.

“Yes, Anne’s toast was so diplomatic,” Paul’s dad responded. “Considering how he just took off like that.”

“Did she ever wind up getting a divorce?”

“No … it was like he dropped off the face of the planet. He’s never sent a penny for Chloe. Of course,” he considered, reflecting, “I don’t think Anne or Chloe is suffering.”

They were both silent.

“More champagne?” Mrs. Lowe finally suggested.

Chloe chewed contemplatively on a celery stick. Back when her father was still around, when she was young, they also used to celebrate her adoption day, which was just a few weeks later. They hadn’t done it since her father left, though.

She left the safety of her plant to try and mingle; the revelers were here for
her,
after all.

“So where’s the hired magician?” Paul whispered, approaching her and looking around surreptitiously. “I thought there would be clowns and pony rides and stuff.”

“She’s not
that
bad,” Chloe said, surprising herself with her defense of her mother. It was an amazingly nice little party; one of her mom’s friends was playing a cello in the comer, which was kind of weird but lent a sophisticated air to the whole thing. Like they were rich and she was a debutante or something. There was even a little American sturgeon—not endangered, her mother said proudly—caviar. And most importantly, a beautiful white-and-chrome Merida mountain bike with electric pedal assist for the more tiresome hills in San Francisco.

What do you know. I got my wish.
She felt a little guilty about the whole world peace thing, though.
Maybe next year.

Paul was tapping the bottom of his champagne glass nervously.

“Um, Amy told me,” Chloe said quietly.

He instantly looked relieved, letting out a deep sigh.

“So you’re okay with that?”

“With what?”

“With us … having … you know …”

“Well, no,” Chloe said, licking caviar off her fingers. “I mean, seeing as I’ve had this crush on you since we were nine and—”

“O-
kay
.” Paul held up his hand. “That’s enough. Message received.”

Amy wandered over.

“Hey, guys,” she said a little nervously. She and Paul exchanged shy—
shy!
—smiles. Chloe watched their two hands “accidentally” brush each other. Amy smiled, glowing a little. Chloe shuddered a little.
Oh God. Fine. I will be the cool best friend.

*   *   *

I will be the cool best friend.

Chloe repeated her little mantra through English the next day as she watched Amy and Paul try very hard not to watch each other. Who cared? Why were they trying to keep it a secret? It wasn’t as if anyone in the school actually gave a rat’s ass about this particular trio of friends or what went on between them. Mr. Mingrone turned to sketch a giant scarlet
A
on the blackboard. When Amy used the opportunity to toss Paul a note, Chloe put her head down. The plastic desktop reeked of old glue, the sharp tang of pencil lead, and other, less identifiable but equally unpleasant odors, but anything was preferable than watching Paul and Amy.