The Charlotte Chronicles (12 page)

“No thanks. Did you just get here?”

“Yeah, my cancer was in remission all of a year. Isn’t that grand? But now it’s back, and I’m here. I thought I’d be bored but maybe not.” The examination he gives me is rather insulting, but in spite of that I can see how we’re going to end up spending time together. There isn’t anyone else around. We’re on our own desert island.

“You looked great in the ad campaign,” I say lamely. “And you still look great. Really healthy.” That is no lie. His face is full, and his hair is shiny. He looks ruddy and built—not the slender gauntness that marks so many of us.

“Have to bulk up between bouts. Plus steroids and human growth hormones are considered appropriate treatment.” He flexes, and I see the outline of biceps. He’s not as muscular as Nathan or Nick, but I give him a smile of approval. I don’t want him to feel bad. Looking good is probably very important where he lives. “What’s your story? You got anyone back home?”

“Yes,” I nod emphatically. “His name is Nathan. You?”

“Nah, I’ll probably hook up with one of the nurses. Did my tutor the last time I was here. But maybe I’ll have other options this time.”  This time his perusal makes me frown because I know what he’s suggesting and I’m not interested. “What’s your Nathan like?”

“Strong, smart. Very kind.” 
Wonderful but maybe not being entirely truthful with me.
 I don’t say the last part out loud. That’s between me and Nathan, and not to be shared with this rude stranger.

“No, I mean, does he have the hero syndrome, or is he a narcissist?”

“Neither,” I scowl at him.

He waves off my answer. “Don’t be naive. He’s either the hero because he gets off on this idea that he’s saving you—like a firefighter who starts fires so he can save people—or he’s a narcissist who gets off looking like a good guy by being with you.”

“You have a really dismal outlook about people. Nathan isn’t like that. We were friends a long time before we became a couple.” I don’t even know why I’m explaining myself.

“So you guys dated before you got sick?”

“No. We were friends. His father and my mother are in business together. His dad and my dad have been best friends since junior high school.”

He chews on his thumb. “Did you sleep together before you were sick?”

“No.” I pinken. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Then narcissist. He’s boning you because it makes him appear like he’s making a huge sacrifice. ‘See Nathan willing to have sex with the gimp. What a hero!’”

“I’m not gimpy,” I protest.

“Hey, it’s your funeral. I had a girl I dated before I got sick. She even shaved her hair in solidarity when I got the diagnosis. Everyone told her how brave she was. I was the one fucking losing my hair, but she’s the brave one. I punted her. Screwed her two best friends.” He stretches out his arm and cracks his knuckles. “Then I took her back and licked her tears of sadness. Best boner ever. Screwed her and kicked her out like the pathetic narcissist she was.”

“You’re really kind of horrible, aren’t you?” I say, feeling a bit shocked by his commentary. Then I remember seeing Internet articles about him during his first round with cancer. Many of the comments
were
that the girlfriend was so awesome for sticking by this guy as if she was doing
him
a favor. The memory chills me a bit.

“I’m a realist, sugar. And you will be too by the time you’re done with treatment.”

“So it’s a bitter party for one now?” I ask. I shift in my seat wondering if I should leave or face him down. We’re going to be thrown together because of language and age and 
illness.
 If I turn tail and run, he’ll needle me forever, but I’m not well equipped for this kind of fighting.

“It’s common sense, not bitterness. Who’s your tutor?”

“Sandrine Kielholz,” I say stiffly, feeling uptight and hating it as if I am horribly uncool. This famous boy has a way of making me feel awkward.

“Ah, she’s got a tight—”

I turn away abruptly. I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I’m positive it will be crude and demeaning. At that moment I don’t care if he torments me until I go back to Chicago. I’m not staying another minute.

“Wait, just wait, dammit.” He shoots up from his chair, his tin of contraband spilling onto the floor as he reaches for me. He doesn’t want me to leave, and I reluctantly turn back.

“Sit down. I won’t say another word about her. Let’s start over. Colin Matthews.” His outstretched hand hangs between us.

“Or any other girl?” I press.

“Shit, why not.”

“Charlotte Randolph.” I take his hand, but just the fingertips so he knows I don’t trust him very much. He gestures for me to sit, and I settle gingerly into the club chair opposite his. Colin’s hair is long and unruly. I wonder if he’s had it cut since it grew back. There’s a long swoop that he pushes back to reveal his mother’s famous blue eyes. “Does everyone call you Colin, or do you have a nickname you go by?”

“No, it’s Colin. Why, do you have a nickname?”

“Everyone calls me Charlotte, but my mom’s friends all call her AM.”

“Like the time?”

“No, radio. Like AM/FM radio.”

“That’s weird.” He pulls out a pack of spearmint gum from his pocket and offers me one. It’s a peace offering I guess.

“Mom says it’s a life marker. High school people know her as AnnMarie, but her best friend starting calling her AM for short and it stuck in college, so you know how long people have known her by what they call her.” I’ve always thought was neat. Daddy calls her Sunshine sometimes, but I don’t share that with Colin.

“I’m going to make up a nickname for you.”

“I don’t think so.” Nicknames are for friends. I don’t see Colin as my friend.

“You’ll like the nickname I give you.” He smirks. I can’t even imagine what horrible thing he’d come up with. Colin is a weird mix of arrogance and uncertainty. I’m intrigued against my better judgment. Nate would probably despise him though.

“Is this your second time here?”

He holds up three fingers.

“Three times?

“I want to get better. I guess I’d take anything at this point.”  I’m way underweight, which is part of the reason I’m here. His glowing health makes me envious.

“I figure I’ll die before I’m eighteen. I want to live as much as possible until then.”

I don’t know his situation, so I don’t give out the reassuring platitudes that adults reflexively offer. Maybe he will die before the age of eighteen. Sometimes I think you know. That there’s a place inside you that holds the truth of your future, but only the brave or stupid or hopeless look. I’m none of those things . . . yet. “You’d think with all these advancements they could make some elixir that would make us completely healthy in an instant.”

Colin leans back and stares at the ceiling. “There’s always a catch. Like if you took the elixir, you wouldn’t be able to ever have sex again or it you’d take 25 years off your life at the end of it. No one lives without paying a price for it.”

G
reta has taken
to texting me repeatedly, telling me she’s so sorry about last night and how she was drunk and it was all an accident. At first, I agreed it was an accident, but the more that she keeps assuring me that it was—the more that she fucking will not leave me alone—makes me wonder about her motivations. Nick told me to watch out, and maybe I need to pay closer attention.

I haven’t said a word to Charlotte about the picture, and I regret it. I should have brought it up first thing and that I haven’t makes me look like I’m lying to her—at least by omission. But what am I going to say?

Hey, your weird friend fell on top of me, and someone else took a picture. It’s nothing?

That sounds like I am trying to concoct a cover up as well.

The photo’s already being passed around. It has been sent to me by about four different people.

“What’d Charlotte say about the picture?” Nick asks. I told him I wasn’t interested in another party, so we’re playing a video game.

“I didn’t tell her,” I admit.

He glares at me and then closes his eyes. “You’re determined to fuck this up, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” I snap back. The whole thing is giving me a headache the size of Lake Michigan. “It’s no big deal. I’ll talk to her in the morning.” If I stay up late enough, I can catch her when she wakes up, and I’ll explain everything. Greta’s weirdness. The photo setup. Everything.

“Just remember that it’s not just your relationship that will get screwed. It’s my friendship. It’s our families’ connections.”

“Yeah, I got it.” The steel in my voice sinks in, and Nick stops hassling me. But he’s not wrong. If I hurt Charlotte, I hurt all of us.

I
stay
up until two in the morning so I can catch Charlotte right after she wakes. Nick has fallen asleep behind me, the game controller still clutched in his hand. He’s dead to the world. I switched over to a movie, but I’m not really seeing the super soldiers fighting the aliens. I’m thinking about everything. My future. Charlotte’s health. Where we are all going in a year or two years. I’m having uncharacteristic second thoughts. I never have doubts. Doubts are for people still trying to figure it all out.

I’m not saying that I know it all, but I know myself. I want to join the military, do something worthwhile. I want to be with Charlotte. I want to have a family. I want us all to be healthy and safe forever. Kind of in that order. Otherwise, I’m just a dudebro getting drunk, hanging out, and leeching off my old man. Thanks but no. Of course part of not being 
that 
guy is making sure you aren’t crushing your girl’s self-esteem by ignoring that there are somewhat questionable pics being sent to everyone the two of you know.

Said old man would be all over my ass about talking to Charlotte about this issue right away, just like Nick was.  I get up and head to my room, abandoning Nick to the company of the infomercials flickering silently on the television screen.

“Hey baby,” I say when she picks up on my first ring.

“Nathan.” My name surfs out on a tide of relief and gratitude which makes me feel doubly the asshole. I’m responsible for making her feel insecure by not addressing the weird things that Greta has been doing.

“I completely screwed up,” I start. “I want—”

“You’ll never guess who’s here,” she interrupts. Without waiting for a response, she hurries on, “Colin Matthews.”

“Huh?” I don’t know any Colin Matthews.

“You know. The son of the actress and the baseball player? He had cancer and then was in remission, but I guess not anymore because he’s here. It’s his third time. They’re doing some kind of experimental drug therapy on him that’s not allowed in the U.S. yet.”

I rub my forehead as I digest this information. “Okay, that’s interesting.” Not really, other than the fact that some Hollywood asshole is far closer to my Charlotte than I am. That’s actually not okay at all. I bite back a few choice words that would likely place me in the dickhole category. Words like “Don’t fucking talk to him again” and “Does he know you belong to me?”

She blithely ignores my lack of enthusiasm. “When I saw him in the common room last night, I was so surprised. But he wasn’t very nice to me.”

My emotions swing wildly the other direction. This douche was being mean to my Charlotte? “Sounds like I’m going to have to come over and teach him a lesson in manners.”

She snorts. “He’s got cancer. You can’t beat up anyone who has cancer.”

“Oh yeah?” I challenge. “Is there some book that says that? Is that in your medical handbook?”

That draws out a full-fledged laugh, one that comes from her belly not her throat. She likes when I joke about her illness because it’s more normal for both of us, according to her. “Yes, it’s number five, right after ‘All your hair falls out.’ But his hair looks great. I was really impressed. I guess because guy hair grows back so fast, and it doesn’t need to be long. Nick’s hair grew out right away.”

My eyelid is twitching. She likes his hair? Thinks it’s great? I can’t even remember what I was supposed to say when I first called because the whole time we’ve been talking it’s been about this asshole from California. And she’s bringing up the fact that Nick shaved his head when she was diagnosed but not me?

“I thought you didn’t want me to shave my head,” I say, hardly concealing my disgruntlement.

“What? Of course I didn’t,” she says. “I was just complaining. My hair makes me look five. Do I look five to you?”

She cares what she looks like? “I wouldn’t have slept with you if you looked five.” I know that was a mistake before the last words leave my mouth.

She sucks in her breath and then to my utter relief, laughs again.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“No, it just sounded funny. Like, I hope you wouldn’t sleep with five-year-olds.” She giggles again and then sighs. “I miss you.”

God, how weak am I that I need her to say those words to me? 
I miss you. 
And with that, equilibrium is reestablished. I settle into bed. “How much?”

“So so so much. Like I wish I was there right now and we were holding hands.”

“That’s all?” I ask softly. There would be a lot more than just hand holding I’d do if Charlotte were here.

“Um, and other stuff.”

I can almost hear her blushing. Hating to ruin the moment, the reason why I called resurfaces. “About Greta . . .” I begin.

“She’s being weird, isn’t she?” Charlotte interrupts. “I think she has a crush on you or Nick or both.”

“Weird isn’t the right word. Stalkerish maybe? I don’t really know, but I can’t say I like it.”

“It’s okay. Or rather, while I don’t like it, I know it’s not your fault. It just made me feel . . . embarrassed and even a little insecure.”

Her voice has gotten soft and small. Is it distance that feeds those feelings? I feel it too, but I’m worried about how she’s going to take the news that I’m leaving after school to go right into Basic. That particular piece of information isn’t ready for consumption I decide. “You don’t ever have to be insecure about us, baby. I love you.”

Her initial response is a huff of laughter. “I love you, too.”

“We okay then?”

“Yes. Totally okay.”

I feel good after our phone call. We Skype a few times later that week, and while Colin’s name is mentioned quite a bit, it’s generally referencing how he’s managed to piss her off again. We have a good laugh about how he struck out with her tutor, Sandrine, and how I’ve managed to avoid Greta. She stopped texting me after I didn’t respond.

By Friday, everything is back to normal between us, which is why I don’t hesitate to say yes when Nick asks me if we should hit Juliette Waite’s party at her parent’s house in the North Shore. Juliette Waite is a North Prep graduate. She attends Northwestern and is well known for initiating the young men in our crowd into the pleasures of the female body. A lot of us have learned how to make a girl scream based on lessons taught by Juliette.

She’s an icon in North Prep history. I had my own time with Juliette when I was fourteen and she was sixteen. Good times. Of course, what goes on in Juliette Waite’s bedroom stays there. That’s the code, and weirdly we’ve all kept it. But her parties are legendary.

Not going never occurs to me. Charlotte is grumpy when she hears it’s that time of year during a Skype session.

“I can’t believe I’m missing Juliette’s party.” She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Instead I’ll end up eating popcorn watching episodes of Space Patrol 2050.”

“I thought you hated science fiction,” I say absently. My phone is blowing up with people asking where Nick and I are.

“My T. Rex arms aren’t long enough to grab the remote from Colin’s hands and that’s all
he
 likes. But maybe Mom and I will do something. At least I won’t spend the whole night with you glaring at me.”

“I didn’t glare at you,” I protest. “I was making sure none of the assholes made a play for you. What was Bo thinking, letting you out of the house with that bikini on? I spent the whole night reminding everyone you had just turned fifteen.”

She smirks. “Got your attention, did it?”

“So you did wear it to piss me off,” I exclaim. I knew it. Last year Charlotte had stripped off her demure bell-shaped knit dress to reveal a white bikini with gold rings holding the various tiny triangular pieces of cloth together. When she spun around on her wedge heels and announced she was thirsty, nearly every male there surged toward her. “You could have started a riot.”

“I bought it for you,” she says with a naughty smile. “I’d overheard you telling Nick during one of our boating trips that you loved white bikinis.”

This makes me raise my eyebrows. “Really? I don’t remember having a preference.” But I do now. In fact, I think I still have a picture of Charlotte in said bikini. I scroll through my phone and find it. Mmmhmm. I know what I’ll be looking at later tonight.

“Stay away from the white bikinis tonight,” she says, but I’m not paying much attention because a photo of one of the lacrosse players losing control of a beer bong and getting a facial from the excess beer was just shared on the school forum. I show it to Charlotte.

“You’re obviously very occupied,” she sighs.

“No, sorry.” Hurriedly I put the phone face-down, but she’s waving her hand at me.

“Go on. I’m super tired anyway. Mom would kill me if she knew I stayed up this late to Skype with you.”

We exchange I love yous, and then it takes an impatient Nick and I about forty-five minutes to head out of the city. We have to park about a half mile away because a crap-ton of cars have arrived before us. Thankfully Nick doesn’t say a word about our late start, only asks how Charlotte is.

“Good. Spending a lot of time with the douchebag Colin.”

“I looked him up.”

“And?”

“You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Why would I worry about him?”

Nick throws his hands up. “No reason.”

Since we’re nearly at the door of Waite’s house, I don’t pursue this any further. Charlotte doesn’t like Colin. She’s forced to spend time with him. There’s no reason at all that I have to worry about the two of them.

Inside the house there are wall-to-wall people. Thankfully Nick and I can muscle our way past the crowd. It only takes a couple of people to drop away before a path is cleared for us.

Juliette is sitting on the patio in a lounger with several sycophants around her. She languidly raises her hand in greeting. “The Jackson boys are here. I suppose we can now start the party.”

A few of the guys look older—college aged—and they glare at us, but Nick and I are solidly built. We could take them. In fact, it might be kind of fun. I haven’t had a brawl for a long time. It’s not like I’m beating on someone weaker than me. I step back and allow my arms to hang loosely at my side. Nick steps to the side to provide spacing and adopts a similar stance.

Three of Juliette’s subjects get to their feet, their Greek letters straining across their drug-assisted chests.

“‘Boys’ is right,” says the one in the middle. He must be the leader. The music continues to play, but the energy on the patio has changed. There’s a charge in the air, and everyone out here senses it.

“I’ve got the guy in the middle,” I say softly to Nick. “You take the guy on the right. The one on the left looks like he’ll flail around searching for a partner.”

“Got it.” He nods.

The leader charges me, and I spare a glance to Juliette. Her eyes are sparkling with excitement. Yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing inviting these meatheads here. She probably talked up the fact that we were high schoolers, and these frat guys showed up to teach us a thing or two. Good luck.

I meet their leader in the middle, about five feet from Juliette’s lounger, and he swings at me. It’s an obvious that is meant to lay me out with one punch, but I can tell by the wide sweep of his right arm as it moves toward me that he’s never fought before. Or if he has, it’s been with people as inept as he is. His primary move seems to be the right jaw punch, only it doesn’t land. I step sideways, and he stumbles between Nick and me.

Nick grins at me but has to turn back to his smaller, but more experienced, opponent. I watch as Nick swerves to avoid a combination and then counters with an open-palm slap to the face. It’s a complete insult, and his opponent draws back to blink in surprise while everyone around them giggles. I shake my head. One of these days Nick’s arrogance will be the end of him, but not today. The slap spurs his opponent to charge, and Nick allows himself to be pushed back into a table.

I’m prevented from watching more when my guy comes roaring back. He’s watched too many mixed martial arts fights on television because this time he tries an elbow to the forehead. It’s not a bad move as an elbow can have a greater impact on a target than a fist. But it has to land to do any damage. I duck, hook his elbow and draw him close until we’re flush together. Then I press my other hand on the low of his back and pretend for a moment we’re dancing.  This draws a roar from the crowd and a fevered look of rage from my opponent.