Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe (16 page)

I went on to dish about my wavy orange-red hair, then nicknames for famous people like Charlie “the Little Tramp” Chaplin, Michael “King of Pop” Jackson, and Eldrick “Tiger” Woods. “Now it’s time to open the lines. Grab your phones, minions, and let’s talk nicknames.”

Clementine cleared the first caller and patched the call through to the control room.

“I can’t believe I’m going to admit this in public, but my family calls me Pee-Bug,” the first caller said. “I wet the bed until I was, like, seven or eight.”

The next caller admitted to being called Scooter, because until
age two he refused to walk and scooted around on his butt. “Love your show, Chloe. Too bad you’re not on every night.”

Pretty soon the phone bank was solid. When Bubba hung up, Punkin Seed, Kater-Tater, and Fitter Cat took his place. Through it all Duncan sat next to me, cueing sound effects and loading news and PSAs. During one of my breaks Duncan admitted his mom called him “Dunkeroo.” Every once in a while our knees touched, and tingly sparks fired my leg.

We cruised toward the end of hour one as I took the final caller Clementine cleared.

“Welcome, caller, this is Poppy. At my side is Dunkeroo and Don’t-Call-Me-Jester-Clem. What nickname should we call you?”

A slight pause stretched over the airwaves. “Cheese Girl.”

My heart skipped. Brie? “That’s . . . uh . . . different. How did you get a name like that?”

“A former friend who thought she was funny but wasn’t started calling me that in seventh grade.” Definitely Brie.

Don’t panic
. This was my universe. Here I ruled, I was the queen, and I had the Great Silencer. If Brie Sonderby said anything stupid or inappropriate, Duncan had seven seconds to kill the comment before it got on air.

“At first I thought the nickname was kind of cute,” Brie went on. “But now I find it incredibly annoying.”

I licked my lips. “You make a good point,” I said. “People outgrow nicknames, just like they outgrow many things in life, such as shoes or a great pair of jeans.”

“And friends.”

Dead air crept onto the air waves. Was Brie about to hammer me?

Duncan placed his hand on my knee and squeezed. That touch snapped me away from the drama growing in my head. “Another good point,” I added. “People change and grow, and as they do, their interests and the people they hang out with are likely to change, too.”

“Yes.” Brie hung up.

I breathed. It must have been loud, because Clem gave me an odd look. “Uh, that’s a wrap for hour one, minions. Next up, we’ll address the million-dollar question. Literally. Exactly what would you do for a million dollars? It’s an hour you won’t want to miss. Thanks for tuning in to one station, one queen, one Chloe. KDRS 88.8 The Edge.”

Duncan cued my theme music and on the On Air sign darkened.

“That was that Brie chick, wasn’t it?” Clementine asked over the speaker.

“Yes.”

“She didn’t sound too cutting.”

“No.” Which made no sense, because these days Brie was a shark with razor-sharp teeth.

By the end of my third week on the air, I was a Radio Rock Star.

The school newspaper ran an article on my show with the rock star headline, and the local daily picked up the story and ran a
front-page feature on the plight of the beleaguered and underfunded student-run radio station. That got Clementine’s dragon nostrils flaring, but in a good way. After all, publicity on a grand scale was what my live call-in show was all about. More publicity meant more listeners. More listeners meant underwriter dollars. Clementine and I had been delivering the sales kits I’d made, and after almost fifty sales calls to local business and community groups, we had five maybes.

“If the money comes through, we have enough to cover basic expenses for the rest of the semester and to pay for the mobile storage units admin is so keen on getting rid of to save money,” Clementine admitted at Monday’s after-school staff meeting. “But we still don’t have enough for next year.”

Haley took the apple-caramel pop out of her mouth. “Chloe could always do another live show.”

“Ha-ha,” Clementine said.

“What’s wrong with another live show?” Frick asked. “We have that hole on Monday afternoon we’re trying to fill.”

“I think the universe has enough Chloe,” Clementine said.

“Do we?” Duncan asked. He stood near Haley’s desk, attaching a pair of shelves to the wall. The shelves were bench seats from a broken lunch table, and while they couldn’t hold butts anymore, they would work well for Haley’s DVD collection, which was expanding as fast as her stomach. Duncan, screwdriver in hand, looked over his shoulder at me with a half smile.

My heartbeat sped up.

“Of course we have enough Chloe.” Clementine snorted.

“The b-b-blog commenters think otherwise,” Frack said.

Clementine squirmed. Grams had helped me set up a blog, and for the past two weeks, visitors had been stopping by to discuss my talk show topics. One commenter suggested I expand my show, and at last count, more than 150 people had weighed in, all asking for more Chloe.

Taysom twined his earbuds around his finger. “Seriously, Clem, everyone loves her. Another Chloe show couldn’t hurt.”

It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep my mouth shut. How I wanted to chime in and say,
Yes! The world needs more Chloe
, but I was having too much fun watching the other staffers do it for me.

“She could do a sports talk show,” Frick suggested.

“Or something on p-p-politics,” Frack added.

“No, that’s not Chloe,” Haley said.

Everyone knew me because I wore my heart on my sleeve. They knew when I was sad, determined, and deliriously happy.

“Why not a love-and-relationship-type show?” Haley said.

Every staffer grew still except for Clementine, whose nose ring twitched.

“Seriously, she gets the whole people thing,” Duncan said.

“I could see Chloe doing a show where people can call in and share their love stories and broken-heart woes,” Haley added.

Frick nodded. “With Valentine’s Day a few weeks off, the timing is perfect.”

Clementine shook her crinkly black hair. “A love-relationship
show is way too dangerous. Too many VSPs could get too agitated and say too many stupid things.”

“Or n-n-not,” Frack said.

I could see the gears in everyone’s minds turning. Another live show would mean more listeners; more listeners would mean we’d be that much more attractive to underwriters with bulging wallets.

“We could have some killer ratings,” Taysom said.

We
. In three weeks I’d become a part of the station.

“Look at D-D-Dr. Phil,” Frack said.

“Chloe is no Dr. Phil,” Clementine argued.

“No, but she has a proven track record of handling callers in an effective and sensitive manner,” Haley said. All duly noted in my bright blue JISP progress report notebook. My primary goal was still to crank out a shiny JISP that would wow my counselor and not disgrace my brilliant family, but now I had a dedicated group of listeners to hang on to.

“No,” Clementine said.

Clementine was a control freak. Was she worried I’d take over
her
radio station? My toes twitched. “It’s because you don’t like me, isn’t it?”

Clementine looked at her knitted fingers. “This isn’t personal, Chloe.”

“Then what is it?” The entire staff wanted me to take on another show. They were behind me. I was tired of Clementine’s attitude, tired of her trying to close me out.

Tiny lines ringed Clementine’s mouth. “Honestly, everyone’s
right. This type of show could probably help our ratings. But we have a responsibility that has nothing to do with ratings. We may only be a rinky-dink high school radio station, but we have a journalistic responsibility to our listeners. My problem is you’re in no position to give advice. You’re not a psychologist or a counselor. What you say could hurt someone.”

Words hurt, whether whispered in hallways, written in frosty pink lipstick on your locker, or keyed in over pictures on Our-World pages. They knocked you over, pummeled you, and left you with a bleeding heart. Thanks to Brie, I knew all about hurt, and that would make me an even better host. “You’re right,” I told Clem, “words hurt, so I’ll be extra-mindful of what I say and where on-air discussions go. You’ve heard me handle callers. You know I can do this. “

“But you’re not a relationship expert.”

“So before taking calls, I’ll feature some tips from the experts,” I added with a huff. Clementine was being ridiculous. “My mom’s a heart surgeon, so she knows plenty of doctor types, and I’m sure my dad has some colleagues at the university who I could interview.”

Taysom nodded. Frick and Frack joined in.

Clem’s nose ring stilled. The idea of giving more airtime to a “skater” like me killed her. “We would need to talk with Mr. Martinez,” Clementine said. “He has to sign off on all programming changes.”

“Fine. I’ll crank out program notes and get adviser approval,” I said. “So if Mr. Martinez agrees, we’re on?”

Clem shook her head. “You still have to address the VSP element. Love is a powerful topic. Things could get messy. What if some wounded heart wants to crucify his ex over the airwaves? And it’s not just wounded people who do or say stupid things. Lonely people, too. I can see some desperate lonely heart using the show to fish for a date. Then he gets together with someone via the show, and the date turns out to be some psycho.”

“Not a problem,” Duncan said from where he hung the last of Haley’s shelves. “We have the Great Silencer.”

Clem threw her hands in the air in surrender. She couldn’t win, not when the entire KDRS staff was on my side. The newspaper had labeled me a radio rock star, but I was something more. I may no longer be welcome at lunch table fourteen or at the ficus tree in the quad, but that was okay. I had a wobbly chair and dented whiteboard desk in Portable Five, a place of honor with my KDRS clan.

Beeeeep
.

Okay, JISP Girl, Mr. Martinez gave us the green light for
Heartbeats
. He also said to tell you thank you for the chicken enchiladas. I can’t believe you freakin’ bribed him
(grrrrr)
. And I can’t believe it freakin’ worked
(grrrrr-grrrrr)
. Anyway, you’re on for next Monday. And . . . (looooong pause) and we got those five underwriters signed up. Admin was impressed. Bottom line. We’re on the air until the end of May, but I swear, if you screw up my station with your new program, I will personally throw you and every pair of shoes you own into the Pacific Ocean.

Beeeeep
.

End of messages.

AFTER THE FINAL BELL ON THURSDAY, I RAN TO PORTABLE FIVE
and put on a set of glittery gold wings, a perfect match for my strappy metallic Candies stilettos, circa 1980. All week I’d been donning my cupid outfit after school and handing out flyers for
Heartbeats
, my new love-and-relationship show, which would debut this Monday.

I reached for my quiver, and my ear-to-ear grin fell off. “What happened to my flyers?”

Haley reached under her desk, making a
DUNT-da-da-daaaa
sound. She handed me a crinkly bag. I pulled out a red heart-shaped sucker. On one side was a sticker that read:
Heartbeats
, 4-6 p.m. Mondays KDRS 88.8.

“Frack’s idea,” Haley said. “He made five hundred and forty-four.”

“L-l-let me know if you need more,” Frack added with a shy smile.

“And let me know what you think of this,” Taysom, who was in the production room, said over the speaker.

Before I could say anything, I heard a faint
thudda-thud
, followed by more
thuds
. The heartbeats gave way to soft music, a lone flute-y sound. A syrupy voice said,
“Heartbeats
with Chloe Camden . . . Mondays from four to six . . . KDRS Radio . . . where love is on the air.”

Taysom poked his head out of the production room. “Well?”

I tossed him a sucker. “Sa-weeeeet!” I loved the teaser. I loved Frack’s promo suckers. I loved everyone at KDRS 88.8 The Edge.

Clementine walked over and jerked my left wing.

Maybe not everyone. “Hey!”

“You were crooked.” Clementine eyed the other wing and whooshed me away with her fingers. “Now go away and don’t act too stupid.”

“I’m feeling the love, Clem, I’m feeling the love.” With the adoration of my dysfunctional but wonderful radio family, I hurried outside to the bus loop, which at this time of day had the highest density of students. All week I’d paid attention to student density and traffic patterns in my effort to improve my promotional efforts. My JISP notebook was full of dandy notes and numbers and graphs and grids. I was pouring my big heart into my new show. A. Lungren should have been purring.

After I handed out my suckers at the bus loop, I hit the bike compound and student parking lot, a winged promo wonder. When traffic let up, I checked my watch. Perfect timing. The track meet would start in five minutes. I could pass out suckers
to people in the bleachers, and maybe I could get the announcer to talk up my show.