Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (20 page)

“You like it?”

“Yeah.” She played a few more notes before he relieved her of the guitar. In one smooth motion he drew the strap over her head and leaned in to kiss her. Shane's image, and then Jessie's, popped into her head, the ghosts of her conscience. Before she could push him away though, his lips brushed hers. In the next instant the sound of the door below opening then slamming shut rescued her. Phoebe dropped to the floor in a squat and busied herself poking through her backpack. Footsteps bounded up the stairs.

A moment later, Sam and Nick burst into the room. They fist-bumped Dylan and gave Phoebe a hug, then sprawled long-legged on beanbags, grabbing chips and chugging sodas. As Phoebe took a few sips of a Pepsi Dylan's kiss lingered in her mind. Though she wouldn't let things go any further because of Jessie, she could imagine falling for him. He was adorable with that bleached surfer-boy hair.

Once more the hollow echo of footsteps sounded on the stairwell. Then girls' voices. Jessie and Emma popped their heads inside. “Hey, guys. Sorry we're late.” Jessie's eyes briefly rested on Phoebe, a questioning look skittering across her face.

If only Dylan had mentioned that not only Sam and Nick were coming, but also Jessie and Emma. Now Phoebe felt a little weird, wondering what Jessie might be thinking, especially since neither she nor Jessie had discussed it earlier. With the exception of Noah, who couldn't make it, this was the first time they'd all been together since that awful Friday in Adams Morgan. The irony of the gathering wasn't lost on her. The gang her mother didn't want her hanging out with was assembled here. If only she could send a photo to her mom's phone.

Determined to hang on to the good feeling she'd had much of the day, she joined in the banter as they kicked around names. The Argyles—“Oh yeah, one for preppy socks,” someone shouted, “NO f'n way!” Iron Majesty – a take off on Iron Butterfly – got a drum roll, and Simply George actually got a few claps, but Phoebe was surprised when the one she offered – Guys in Black Suits – got everybody's vote. Including Jessie's, if a bit grudgingly.

Already she imagined the band dressed in dark suits with narrow lapels, thin black ties, and white t-shirts. Maybe a couple could wear fedoras. She announced that she'd go on a quest for old suits and accessories – “ties, hats, that sort of thing” – maybe over the weekend.

When Dylan offered to go with her, Jessie jumped in with an edgy, “I thought you were grounded,” words aimed at Phoebe. A taut silence followed.

Phoebe was about to answer when Sam stepped in. “Chill out, Jess.” Everyone except maybe Dylan understood that she was jealous.

Jessie shot back, “So who asked you?”

The intensity of her narrowed gaze seemed to startle Sam. For once he was at a loss for words. Jessie burst out laughing. “Gotcha'!” The others joined in, nervous titters breaking the awkwardness of the moment.

Nick had risen to pick up one of the guitars and began strumming it. Sam swung his leg around the drummer's stool, and with his foot on the pedal tapped a steady beat on the bass drum, while he struck the cymbals lightly with the sticks. Noah was supposed to be the group's drummer, causing Phoebe to wonder what would happen now that he wasn't supposed to hang out with Nick and Sam.

Phoebe exchanged a glance with Emma, who mouthed the words “Dylan” and “later.” Making sure Jessie's gaze was fixed elsewhere, Phoebe mouthed back, “I know.” For the remainder of the time they spent together, Phoebe kept an eye on Jessie, hoping to resurrect their friendship, and hoping to disabuse her of any concern regarding Dylan. Now that the fall dance was behind them she also wanted to tell Jessie about Shane, and to say she'd moved on. Noah was a thing of the past. “I'm sooo over him,” she imagined saying, though she would still like him as a friend.

Talk turned to tryouts for a female singer. And once again, when Phoebe spoke, mentioning Skyla's claim to excellent vocal chords, Jessie appeared disgruntled. Phoebe was about to apologize with something like: “I didn't mean she should be the one, I was just…” but such defensive gestures were lame. Moreover, Phoebe knew the problem wasn't in what she was saying—friends didn't take to heart every little remark; no, it was everything else that had passed between them. And Dylan's ambivalence toward Jessie didn't help.

Phoebe left then, not wanting to be the source of Jessie's annoyance, and not wanting to subject herself to her reactions. That was something her mother had tried to instill in her last year, when she'd had so many problems with Skyla. “Why hang around where you're not wanted?” her mother would say. “You can make other friends.” And she had. She'd found Jessie.

On the way home, she kicked the leaves on the sidewalk, watching them scatter. She noticed too that where it had been sunny earlier, now a wall of grey-bellied clouds hung overhead. Her mood had changed accordingly.

She vowed to tell Dylan that she really liked Shane. Well, maybe, but she would definitely tell him that she was Jessie's friend and he shouldn't try to kiss her again.

By the time she arrived at her house, darkness had set in despite the early hour – it was only a little past six o'clock. She hated that about fall. She also hated coming home to a dark, empty home. It was creepy. She ran inside and began flipping on all the lights. Why was nobody home? She suddenly felt like collapsing in a heap and crying.

As Isabel stepped foot in the kitchen, she heard Phoebe bark, “Why do you have to work all the time?” Her daughter's opening gambit was followed by: “Why can't you just be a stay-at-home mom like all the other moms?”

Though startled, Isabel mustered an even-toned response. “Honey, we've been over this. First of all, you and Jackson have what you have because Daddy and I both work hard. And, second, you know, as well as I do, that plenty of moms work.”

Often enough Isabel wished for more time off and shorter hours, but the truth was she loved her work. She couldn't understand how women who stayed at home felt satisfied. Endless volunteering? Baking cookies? Going out to lunch with friends? Tennis, golf? How could any of that compare to winning a tough legal case in court? Did she want more time with her children? Of course, but no way would she trade places with all those women who'd forsaken their careers.

Phoebe glared at her. “Like I care about all that stuff. I'd rather you stayed home.” Then her voice softened. “Why won't you?”

“You'll understand when you have a career of your own.” Isabel began pulling leftovers out of the fridge.

“No, I won't, because I won't have a
career
.” She spat the word. “I'll be designing clothes and working from home like Jessie's mom! She's always there after school. And she actually cares what happens to Jessie!”

Phoebe's comment stabbed her. Little else that her daughter could say would have a more damning effect. But Isabel tried to remember that this was a young girl talking, a girl who knew little about the world but her own selfish needs and desires. Desires which, by the way, were volatile and all over the map.

She wanted to say something, but what? “Honey, tell me what happened at Dylan's? Are you still designing the band's outfits?”

“Yes, but what do you care?”

“I care a lot. Maybe you and I can do something this weekend?” She poured the contents of a stew that Milly had made into a pot and placed it on the stove.

Then, as though a magician had snapped his fingers, Phoebe transformed into a well-adjusted teen who began telling her mother with great zeal about the band's name and how she planned to scour used clothing stores for dark suits and how she would make some sketches of guys wearing thin ties and vintage-style fedoras, just like ones she'd recently seen on a few celebrities. “And maybe you'd like to go with me?” she concluded.

Isabel stopped stirring the stew and looked up. “There's nothing I'd love more than that, Phoebe.”

It took Phoebe a moment to register her comment. “Oh, Mom, I know that's not true!”

And they both began laughing.

Sandy observed her daughter slouching into the kitchen, a downcast expression on her face. “What's up, honey?”

“Nothin',” Jessie said, her backpack landing on the floor beside the table. She pulled out a chair, the legs scraping the pale wood, and dropped into it.

“Doesn't look like
nothin'
to me. Want a celery stick?”

“No, I don't want a celery stick!” She gave her mother a look of disgust. “Chips and a soda.”

“Okay, but I thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong. Do you want to know what happened or not?”

“Of course, I do. One soda coming up.” Sandy crossed the room to the fridge, pulled out a diet Coke and deposited it on the counter. “Here you go, sweets.”

Jessie briefly glowered at it before popping the tab and taking a sip. “Unbelievable. Phoebe at Dylan's alone,” she looked at her mother to make sure she was listening, “alone with him! They pick the band's name, the one
she
suggests, and when she talks about going to used clothing stores, Dylan's all over it. She knows I like Dylan,” she said plaintively, her eyes widening, “I told her so, and now she's trying to steal him—” She glanced at her mom. “I think she's still mad at me for asking Noah to the dance.”

Sandy looked at her daughter protectively. With each image of Phoebe – cunningly smart, curvaceously sexy, and deceptively devious – her insides heated up, and she barely heard what Jessie said about Noah or Dylan. Her mind had jumped ahead to how she would quiz Phoebe, how she'd get her to tell
Shane
the truth. But would she tell Shane about Dylan?

Then she noticed Jessie looking at her, anticipating a response. What had she been saying? Snapping back to the present, she forced calm on her rampant mind. “What was that, honey? Something about Noah?”

“I think she's still mad at me for asking him to the dance.” Jessie's brow arched in an accusatory fashion. “Remember? That brilliant idea of yours, the one that would make Phoebe so happy?”

Sandy hadn't anticipated this glitch. Actually, she hadn't thought much about it at all. So, things
had
backfired. Well, hell, Rome wasn't built in a day. Now what advice to offer?

Before she'd had time to fully formulate the thought, the words tumbled out, “We'll have a party, and you'll invite Dylan. Tell him we'll hire his band. Of course he'll have to come over and check out the space and discuss money. I can pick you guys up at school—”

She hadn't finished speaking before Jessie shouted, “Oh, Mom, you're brilliant! Did I ever tell you that?” She skipped out of the room, her mother feeling relief and redemption. A solution to every problem – that was her motto. You just had to think about it.

One thing seemed to elude her though, no matter how hard she thought. And that was making Jessie popular. Getting lots of boys to like her. Girls too. She didn't know why, it just seemed important. Like something that spelled success in life. Besides, it couldn't hurt. Having parties couldn't hurt either.

After finishing a Chinese carry-out meal with Jessie and Bill, she left them sitting in the family room watching TV. Up in her office she scrolled through her e-mails to see if she'd heard from Ron – not yet. Then she looked for new
Slenderella
orders. Nope, none. Damn that Isabel. Sandy routinely cursed her for all sorts of reasons, but even more so since the e-mail that banned use of the school directory “to solicit business.” More than once she'd fretted over the nasty chit-chat that must have ensued among the snitty moms.

Memories of real and imagined slights, along with Phoebe's most recent betrayal, tumbled through her mind in a chaotic stew. She studied Shane's Facebook page.

Hope you like my picture. I didn't get yours? Looked up Walter J, but you weren't in the team photo
.

Sandy blanched. She'd hoped Phoebe would forget her request. A moment's thought and her devious brain found a solution.
I arrived after they'd taken the shots
. But it also brought to mind the need for greater caution; she ought to check the website for wins and losses, which she hadn't done. She began to wonder if
Shane
was worth all the trouble.

A few seconds later, Phoebe wrote:
Do you want to get together?

A smirk played on Sandy's lips. The message from Phoebe, God bless her, was perfect. She felt absolutely giddy. Now to stir the pot
and
gather some intel.
Love your pic. How about this weekend?
she wrote back, fairly certain Phoebe was still grounded. But perhaps she'd shed some light on her upcoming shopping date with Dylan.

Phoebe:
I'm still grounded on weekends, but maybe I could meet you one day after school?

Little liar, thought Sandy. Now, how to flush her out about Dylan. But first, in response to Phoebe's question, Sandy's fingers skipped lightly over the keys:
Can't, football practice
. The answer had come easily. How many times had she watched Shane Barnett on the football field? Of course that had been in the fall before she knew she loved him. All the girls had watched Shane; he'd been Mr. Popularity. And then in April she'd imagined marrying him, to spite Les, but mostly because she'd truly fallen for him. Countless afternoons in the spring she'd sat in the bleachers watching him on the baseball team, waiting to steal a kiss, to make out with him until her chin was raw. To let him feel her up. To let him fuck her. Which he had, in more ways than one. How was it that memories of Shane always created such emotional turmoil?

She shook him from her head and read Phoebe's response:
Right. Oh, well, guess we'll have to wait until I'm un-grounded
.

Shane:
Hey, your friend Jessie's having a party. Maybe we can meet then?

Phoebe:
She invited you?

Sandy again panicked. Was Jessie so mad that she hadn't invited Phoebe? She'd been so sure Jessie would post a blanket invitation on her Facebook page that she hadn't even checked. Something she quickly remedied. And sure enough her predictable daughter had announced it online. Invited the whole damn grade!
Party at my house. Save the date
.

Good girl, Jessie.

Shane:
She posted it on Facebook
.

Phoebe:
I don't know. I have to ask my mom
.

Shane:
Oh, come on, your mom can't be that big of a…you know what!

Phoebe:
Maybe she'll let me go
.

Shane:
Promise to ask her?
Hope you can't come, Sandy thought.

Phoebe:
Okay
.

Shane:
Can I tell you a secret?

Phoebe:
Sure…what?

Shane:
Of all the girls at your school, you're the only one I want to go out with
.

Phoebe:
Well, I really want to go out with you too
.

With a come-on like that Sandy figured she could pry just about any info out of Phoebe, including what she was doing with Dylan.
Who are your favorite guy friends
, though, failed to elicit the answer she was looking for. Of course, the girl wasn't stupid. No, she was cunningly smart. When Sandy asked what was on tap for the weekend, Phoebe claimed to be going shopping with her mother. Fucking liar! You're going with Dylan, admit it!

Ron loved Isabel's white silk pajamas. The way they outlined her breasts and accentuated her legs always put him in the mood for sex. He figured she wore them because the thought of him working at the
Post
turned her on. Fact was, though, he didn't actually have the job yet. Gil hadn't mentioned an offer, just that they wanted to see him. Yet why else would they want a meeting?

“You've got the jitters, I can tell,” Isabel said.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Mmm…hmm. Come to bed, honey, it'll be fine. You'll see.”

He'd drummed up a couple of story ideas. Like tailing Sarah Palin. Getting a real inside look. She seemed like such a ball-busting ice maiden. He wanted to see if he could make her defrost. A charming come-on. He mentioned the idea to Isabel, who laughed. “You are incorrigible.”

They spent a few minutes devising a strategy for his meeting, nothing spectacular – she predicted the
Post
would make him an offer, he'd push for a little more money or stock in the company, maybe a higher-level title, then he'd take it – after all, writing for the prestigious paper was what he wanted, so what would be the point of playing hard to get?

He gazed admiringly at his wife. In situations like this, Isabel was so logical, so reassuring. She's definitely the brain in the family, he thought.

He eased back against the pillow and reached for Isabel's hand. “Craziest thing,” he said. “I got an email from Sandy today. She wants to go to lunch to talk about the girls. Of course I'm not going, but I was thinking maybe you could reach out to her?” When he turned and saw the look on Isabel's face, he realized the ill timing of his remark.

“Really? That's what you think?” she said.

He watched as she rolled over, her silky back now facing him. “Come on, Iz.” He touched her shoulder but she shrugged him off. She'd been all ready for sex. Why in the hell had Sandy popped into his head? He felt like getting up and going into the other room to masturbate, but suddenly he was too tired, and his cock, which had sprung to life a moment ago, now simply withered in his hand. Goddamn it.