A Girl Named Claire (2011)

A Girl Named Claire

Hee Ku Kang (2011)

- 1 -

Claire the average high school student shut the door and locked it and checked the lock. As always.

“I’m home, ma!”

“Yes, honey. You didn’t have to shout. Quiet. Ralph’s sleeping. You might wake him.”

“Sorry, mom. Didn’t mean to. Love you.”

“Love you too, Claire. Now inside, will you? You’ll really wake the dog.”

Claire went into her room and shut the door behind her. She checked the lock, out of habit.

It’s another typical day, she thought as she fell onto her bed.

- 2 -

“Another typical day,” said Mr. Paulson as the chalk broke again in his hand, “Sorry about that.”

Claire yawned. She didn’t like school very much. The droning lectures had never been her thing. It was a relief, therefore, that she had something to look forward to. Her itinerant mind had long since drifted away to the cozy, ramshackle little hideout of them five. Oh . . . she longed for the bell.

Ariel, Claire’s best friend, who above all regarded Claire’s boyishness as charming and even almost angelic, winked at her from the desk next door. Claire smiled weakly, and yawned provocatively again.

“Claire! Ariel! You troublemakers!”

The fresh chalk Mr. Paulson had just picked up shattered on the edge of Claire’s desk. She yawned again. The classroom was immediately drenched with disapproving jeers and headshakes. Mr. Paulson had had enough.

“Out! Both of you!”

Suddenly putting true, blazing smiles on their faces, both girls sprang from their chairs and exited the classroom with no hesitance whatsoever. Mr. Paulson stared after them, pulling another chalk out.

- 3 -

“Ariel? Claire? You’re early!” said Greg when the two girls entered the small place in the basement of his house.

“Paulson again.” Claire spat as she sank into the sagging chair, “We might arrive early every Friday, with Paulson in charge of the day’s finale.”

Greg nodded, holding an empty soda can in his left hand and a hamburger wrapper in his right.

Greg was this typical large guy who was into Sci-Fi stuff. He liked the series Battlestar Galactica best, and back in his house had a room full of figurines of famous movie characters such as Han Solo. Claire couldn’t really make herself enjoy Science Fiction, but at least she liked Greg because he never bothered her or lied to her. She hated people who lied.

“Anything new?” Ariel asked lightly, crouching down beside Greg. Greg dropped his soda can. The can bounced away with great clangs that echoed in the hollow basement. Well, the only things in them five’s little hideout were the only chair, a feeble lamp, a few dressers, and a small handgun. This last appliance was there heavily due to Oliver’s taste.

“Uh, no.” Greg mumbled, his voice becoming noticeably smaller. He still had trouble with girls. “A typical day.” he said finally.

“That’s what Paulson said.” Claire spat, and Ariel nodded. “No offense, Greg.” she said quickly.

“No, it’s alright. Alright.” said Greg, in a noticeably stabilized voice. Claire had noticed that Greg seemed to find her much more comfortable than Ariel. Well, that was how it was, especially among teenagers. Prettier girls were often harder to deal with for boys.

Ariel had been crowned queen in all of last year’s parties and festivals. She, with her impossible scarlet hair, 5 feet 6 inch height, perfect body, and dazzlingly beautiful face, possessed the irresistible charm for boys. The only reason she had joined this “gang of five” was that she was so tired of sex and so sick of boys tailing her everywhere she went. She had had to become a weirdo.

Claire, on the other hand, was a bit the boyish type. She had short black hair with slight curls at the ends. She was of average height and had a bright yet slightly dark voice with a timbre of beauty, a round yet not too round face with balanced eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and eyebrows. She was slim, just to that extent that most boys would think “Well, okay.” when they saw her for the first time. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but certainly wasn’t ugly. That was a relief for her, for she wasn’t someone who sought a great deal of social attention. She did wear light makeup every day, but that was only due to the pressure her mother gave her. Claire definitely wasn’t that silly type of girl who spent hours every morning ornamenting her face and body.

This great contrast between the two girls had easily made them best friends.

“Three here already!” exclaimed a familiar excited voice from the doorsteps.

Ariel and Greg instantly broke their awkward conversation up, and Claire pulled herself out of the reverie she had been about to sink into. Tina, the third girl, was here.

“Ooh, Claire! I love your hair!” she shouted enthusiastically.

“Yeah, and you just said that for about the thousandth time.” said Claire sourly. She wasn’t that fond of Tina, to be frank. Tina was too normal to gain Claire’s interest. As a matter of fact, being too normal and being not good at anything were the major reasons Tina had joined this club.

“And there’s the pan flute.” said Ariel, “Here comes our leader.”

Next moment the door was thrown dramatically open, and Oliver their so-called “leader” walked down the steps in his usual proud strides. It was summer, but Oliver was trench-coated, masked, and hooded. Everything he was wearing was black except for the exquisitely white pan flute he was holding with all ten fingers. The wind that blew from outside through his long coat made him quite an impressive figure.

“Greetings, comrades.” he said. That was the way he talked—pompous, authoritative, and cold.

Oliver was rich. He didn’t have friends, but he hated nerdy stuff. Nobody had an idea about exactly why he had joined this gang of five so-called eccentrics.

“And so begins today.” he said, and banged the door shut with a slap of his long fingers.

Yes: actually the one and only thing the five had in common was that they all went to Olstone High, an average institution of education located in an average suburb. Well, at least for now.

- 4 -

School again.

“Claire, Ariel, come up here at once!”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Paulson, sir!”

They raced each other up the aisles between the desks and faced Mr. Paulson. Claire yawned again. Mr. Paulson looked so pissed off that it wouldn’t have been peculiar at all if he had exploded right in front of them.

“You know what your problem is, don’t you?”

“Don’t you, sir?” sang Claire with an evil grin.

Mr. Paulson did explode, at least in the figurative sense: he thrust his arm out with surprising agility. Claire flinched. Ariel screamed. The class gasped. Mr. Paulson’s hand, with chalk-stuffed fingernails, closed around Claire’s forearm. Claire resisted, but Mr. Paulson clenched his grip further as though he aimed to break her arm. She started to scream, and met Mr. Paulson’s cold brown eyes.

It happened.

The classroom seemed to slowly shatter away from all around her, as at the same time a vivid scene wormed itself into her vision. A middle-aged, heavily coated man turned left on the poorly lit street and hurried into a small liquor shop in a corner. He talked to the owner, probably about which branch of wine he should buy. Claire was dumbfounded. What was this? Then, a stout teenager approached the man in large strides and, without warning, stabbed his back with a knife. Blood everywhere. The owner dived for the phone as the middle-aged man slumped onto the floor of the shop.

Fresh chalks rolled out of his inner jacket pocket. The scene shattered away.

Claire took a step away from Mr. Paulson, shuddering all over and waving her arms weirdly. She mouthed wordlessly for ten full seconds. Then, she shouted out in a squeaky voice:

“You! You’re going to be murdered in a liquor shop!”

Sticky silence followed these ominous, strangely hilarious, words. Then, Mr. Paulson spoke.

“Follow me, Claire.” he said.

- 5 -

Claire was expelled straight after.

Normal kids at Olstone would have cared; they would have cried their hearts out at night. Yet, Claire didn’t give a damn. She knew her mother was going to scold her, harshest in history perhaps, so she headed for the five’s secret hideout.

She hesitated in front of the basement door. Will they accept her, after what she’d done? She pondered for a bit, and concluded with a definite yes. She unlocked the door with her private key. Click. She entered.

Click.

“Out,” said a voice that was cruelly familiar, “Now.”

Oliver, Claire thought. Then she looked up. Oliver was dressed as usual—black trench coat, black mask, black hood. But there was the handgun in his grip instead of the usual white pan flute. His right index finger was placed, slightly quivering, on the trigger. The gun was loaded for the first time in the five’s history.

“I said out,” said Oliver, coldly still.

Greg and Tina were simply cringing behind Oliver. When Claire didn’t move, Oliver started towards her, fingering the trigger menacingly. Claire stood her ground.

“You are no more a student at Olstone. That means out.”

Then a hand quietly squeezed Claire’s shoulder, and another hand pulled her out through the door. Claire gave herself powerlessly to the lure.

“Ignore him,” said Ariel’s voice in her ear.

Roughly pushing Ariel aside, Claire dashed up the stairs. The basement door slammed shut behind her. She came out into the light of the afternoon sun. She swayed and fell into a neighboring lawn.

She was crying her heart out.

- 6 -

Claire was fingering her engagement ring.

She was rich. Her attitude in life had changed. Her mom had passed away years ago, but Claire had shed no tears. She had foreseen it years in advance. From the day she had been expelled from Olstone, the day she had accurately predicted her old teacher Mr. Paulson’s horrible death in a liquor shop, she had known. She had a rationally inconceivable “ability.” She could see futures of objects she touched. She had so far figured that her power was “activated” only when she was in an emotionally unstable state.

For years she had literally lived with this ability, predicting stock market ups and downs, lottery lucky numbers, and even fates of people. Naturally, she had worked as a fortune-teller, an exceptional one no doubt. She was never wrong in predicting anything. She had even gotten her lover after seeing herself with him in future.

“Hello?”

Claire looked up. A heavily-built man of average height had entered her little place.

“How may I help you?” she asked kindly, batting her eyelashes. He was handsome.

“I heard you’re good. Best,” said the man.

Silently, Claire reached out and took the man’s hand in hers. As usual, her place shattered away as a new scene wormed itself in.

A cavernous wedding hall—the man, bridegroom of the day, smiling at his guests—the bride shying away—the man kissing the bride on her cheek—the bride’s veil falling away—her having short black hair and her face—

Claire lurched from the scene. She had stood up. Her chair had been overturned.

“Well?” said the man eagerly.

“Um . . .”

“Claire,” said the man suddenly.

Flabbergasted, Claire looked up. The man was holding out his hand, and was beckoning. Surprised yet knowing this was something she had to obey, Claire went out into the night with the man.

- 7 -

The man led her to a fancy villa on the edge of the suburb Claire was living in. Claire did not utter a word. For the first time in her life, she was feeling “destiny’s pull,” a fortune-tellers’ jargon.

“Here,” the man said in a suddenly low voice, “Inside. You’ll see.” He opened the door.

Claire had a fleeting glimpse of a cave-like hall, with door-less rooms lining the circular wall. Then, there was a Click.

“Long time no see, Claire.”

The man who had brought Claire there stepped between her and the muzzle of the handgun now pointed at her. He turned to face her. And as Claire registered the beautiful scarlet-haired woman slumped on a white sofa, the white pan flute on the table next to it, and the dark-haired, spectacled woman sitting behind a small wooden desk and put the man into context, she knew.

Greg. A thinner Greg. The gang of five.

“Oliver?” Claire croaked.

“Get out from between us,” said Oliver’s voice, much more mature now, “Good work, though, Greg. You brought the five together. You completed the number.”

Greg stepped away at once. He seemed to cower. Oliver beckoned at Ariel. Ariel, still beautiful, rose from the sofa and wobbled over to him, clearly drunk. Tina stiffened, as though afraid of Oliver.

“So you got what you always dreamt of,” said Claire scathingly, “Power. Money. Women.”

Oliver simply smiled. It was an awful, greedy smile. Claire shrank. She turned to leave, but—

—Click.

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Oliver in his cold, arrogant voice, “I’m getting somewhat tired of Ariel in bed. Fresh meat is always welcome.”

Claire screamed. Oliver bore down on her, and roughly grasped her elbow. He then pulled her into his arms, stroking her short black hair with his long fingers. Claire shuddered.

“Tina, get her to our drawing room and shape her up.”

The spectacled secretary—or maid—rose, and silently pointed to the only room with a door. Claire followed. Claire entered first. Tina followed in, closing the door behind her. She turned the light on with a click, and a small but fancy chandelier flared into light. Tina turned to face Claire.

“I’m undressing you,” she said, “Turn around.”

Claire nodded obediently, and turned around. Tina reached her hand out to the zipper on the back of Claire’s pretty dress. Claire closed her eyes obediently. She was ready. Then, Tina suddenly pushed her roughly onto the wall. Claire didn’t resist.

Tina spoke in an extremely fast, husky voice:         

“I need money. I need your ability. I need to know how exactly you knew of Mr. Paulson’s death. I need to know how you became rich. I need to know how you became popular.”

“Stop, Tina, stop!”

“I was always ordinary. You guys never liked me because I was. Oliver did some great acting back there, didn’t he? The fake handgun and all?”

“You mean you’re the one in charge?”

Tina laughed, and it was a cold one. “Yes,” she said, “Completely fooled, weren’t you?”

“Actually,” said Claire. She turned around, shoving Tina’s hands away. Tina pulled out Oliver’s real handgun, but Claire already had her hand in the exact place where Tina would hold the handgun. She snatched it. “Actually, you shouldn’t have let Oliver act so realistically,” she said, kicking away the knife Tina had placed on the floor earlier, the one she had just been trying to pick up, “You shouldn’t have let him grasp my arm. And,” Claire placed the muzzle on Tina’s forehead, “you shouldn’t have touched me just now when you were forcing me onto the wall.”

Tina was staring at her with oddly blank eyes.

“My ability works only when I make direct physical contact. I saw the liberation of the other three coming, and I also saw this scene when you touched me.”

“Okay. I surrender. Go.”

“Leaving you to torture my three best friends till death? I don’t think so.”

Claire pulled the trigger. The bullet went straight through Tina’s skull. It killed her straight off.

Claire didn’t give another glance at her old mate. She exited the room.

Greg had been standing right in front of it, pacing. When Claire appeared with the handgun, he ran towards her and hugged her tightly. Claire threw the gun at Oliver. He caught it, muttering a low word of thanks. Ariel was again slumped on the sofa.

“Out of here,” said Claire. And they went.

It had been a very atypical day.

- 8 -

Days passed. Ariel was in a hospital, recovering. Oliver had disappeared mysteriously, but Claire was sure he would be all right. He always was. Neither he nor Ariel would talk about how they had been lured by Tina. Claire didn’t pursue the subject.

Memories of the “gang of five” had been floating somewhere between Claire’s consciousness and unconsciousness, never surfacing. Yet, she now realized that they were the very foundations of who she had been. Who she was.

And who she was going to be.

Greg loved Claire. Claire loved Greg. She had broken her engagement with her fiancée. She could recall what he had told her the day before:

“Your mysterious boyish aura is enough to magnetize many covetous men. Those large azure eyes of yours, that rare olive hue in it . . . That’s your problem.”

And there was just another thing that she could recall very clearly, for very different reasons:

“One question, Claire. You want to marry me because you saw it when you touched me. You killed Tina because you were sure she was doing bad things. But what if you were wrong?”

“Yes.” That voice had sounded from behind the bench she and Greg had been sitting on.

Click.

And there were two gunshots.

She saw Greg slumping off the bench with a hole through his shirt. She was already dead.

“Same as poor Paulson I killed,” said the voice.

Clear notes from a pan flute drifted lazily through the evening breeze.