Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (23 page)

Instead of completing
Slenderella
orders, Sandy turned her attention to Shane's Facebook page, where she noticed several new friend requests. Including one from Skyla, who she'd excluded. Because Skyla was nearly as much to blame as Isabel for her daughter's recent distress. Her lips curved into a faint smile, considering the request, then sent Phoebe a note asking if she'd mentioned Jessie's party to her parents.
Dying to meet you
. Not! What she really wanted to say was: how were things with Dylan? Did he kiss you? Instead she wrote,
Heard you're designing the band's outfits. What do they look like?
More importantly, would she finally admit having spent time with Dylan? Doubtful.

She stared at Shane's photo, suddenly hating herself for having used it, for not having anticipated that the mere sight of him would force her to relive a past she'd relegated to a remote part of her mind. In fact, she'd made a point of not keeping up with her old friends. So God only knew where Shane was. Now, she routinely wished the pox on him. Especially when she recalled the unceremonious way he'd dumped her, without any consideration for the fact that he'd gotten her pregnant. Something neither Bill nor Jessie could ever know.

With an obsession born of habit, she went to the bookshelf reserved for the paraphernalia of her teen years and found her senior yearbook. Class of 1993. When she pulled the book down, it fell open to of the Senior Prom. And there was Julie Donovan smiling her toothy smile beside Prom King Shane Barnett, captain of the football team. Sandy almost threw the book down. How could such a long ago event still get her all twisted in a knot? She was going to be his date, until she'd gotten pregnant. And then Shane had decided he'd rather go with Julie. Julie, whose parents weren't divorced. Julie, who hadn't fucked her stepfather. Cute fucking Julie!

Sandy flipped the pages to her class's senior photos, skimming the face of each boy she'd screwed around with – there were maybe a dozen – allowing old memories to sift through her, until she landed on Shane's. Even now his mischievous smile goaded her. The bile of old hurt and anger rose up inside her as if he'd betrayed her yesterday. He'd crushed her.

Occasionally, he still tormented her. In one dream he'd spied doodles in the margins of her notebook—a series of linked “S's,” his initial and hers, swinging down the page like monkey arms. His hyena laughter haunted her. She slammed the book shut.

Oh, well, now he'll break another heart and this time she wouldn't be the one to suffer.

Sandy distracted herself from this odious memory by fulfilling orders and coming up with new
Slenderella
“ads” and new lists of people to contact. She'd recently joined Linked-In and had developed a Facebook page for the product.

At once, an email arrived from Amanda Thomas and Isabel Winthrop. She scanned it. In an instant she knew its message targeted her. Just like the one from Alison Kendall. And this time it focused on “chaperoning,” in other words, Jessie's party. Her emotions ricocheted from hurt to pissed-off to embarrassment. It sent her mind into a tailspin, as she imagined what the women would say about her. She tapped her fingernails on the desk, listening to the hollow sound. “Fuck them,” she said, trying to sound tougher than she felt.

Before heading out for her pedicure, she checked the
Slenderella
Facebook page, then again Shane's to see if Phoebe had responded (she hadn't). Of course not, she's still with Dylan, she thought. Next she checked Jessie's. For the sake of appearances, she made sure “Shane” wrote on Jessie's and a few of the other girls' pages with some regularity, and now saw that Jessie had written to “him”:
Come to my party. Bring some friends! Can't wait to meet ya!

Right. Hate to disappoint you girls, but Shane will not be coming to your party.

Then she heard a voice mocking her.
Shane? Ha, ha, ha. You'd better watch out or he'll fuck you again. How long do you think you can keep up this charade?

Sometimes Sandy wished she could turn to someone for guidance, but Mrs. E had died some years ago, and when it came to her mother she was greeted by a stunning, deafening silence. On occasion she heard Margaret's nasty recriminating voice in her mind. Lately, a new unpleasant voice had entered her head and Sandy wished it would go away.

“Damn it, I know!” she said loudly, sensing that sooner or later this Shane, like the real one, might fuck her. So the sooner he did his disappearing act, the better. This was something she occasionally fretted about, especially when she mind-tripped in the middle of the night. But he hadn't finished the job she'd created him to do.

Later that night, Sandy checked to see if Ron had sent a reply. When he hadn't, more disappointment flowed through her, but she chided herself (
he will, you know he will
), then on Shane's Facebook page she saw the private message Phoebe had left:
Yes, designing outfits, cool, huh? But even cooler I got to see a few minutes of your football game today!!

Sandy actually shook her head to make sure she'd read correctly. Such a thought had never occurred to her. She read on:
My mom and I were passing by after a trip to the mall. Tried to find out your jersey number, but couldn't find anybody who knew you. What
is
your number?

The words sent Sandy's heart racing and sweat bloomed in her armpits. Again, she heard the mocking voice: “One of these days Little Miss Muffit will get caught in her own spider's web.” Now that sounded like her mother, which irked her. But it irked her even more when her mother was right, like now.

Should she just pretend she hadn't seen the message? Christ, what was she going to say? What had those kids said to her? She could imagine Phoebe asking, and someone saying, “Who?” But as she followed this line of thinking, she began to calm down. Phoebe was just a kid, one who – from what she could tell – was infatuated, a lovesick little puppy. Shane was as real to her as her stupid mother. She wouldn't even stop to wonder if there was a Shane. No, kids were gullible. Her secret was safe.

But she had to respond. And that was annoying, because she'd actually have to do some work. She checked her watch. Better get it done now. She Googled “Walter Johnson High School football team.” After a few clicks she saw a photo with a list of the team members' names beneath it. The boys were seated on a set of indoor bleachers. Of course, she'd already told Phoebe Shane had arrived at Walter J after the photo had been taken. But she'd have to make sure she didn't assign him someone else's number.

She studied the photo again, noting that some of the boy's heads obscured the numbers of the kids behind them. She obsessed on this a few minutes, chewing her pinky nail to the nub. She even threw a pencil across the room. She wanted to scratch Shane's eyes out. “Damn you! You're such a pain in the ass,” she muttered, then realized the obscured jerseys worked to her advantage.

The number she decided on was 10; it looked like none of the kids had that number. If Phoebe checked the website, she wouldn't find anything to contradict this, would she?

Trying to keep herself from completely losing it, she wrote a cagey note back to Phoebe:

Won the game! With the help of Number 10
. Which could mean that was Shane's number or not.
I bet you're a 10 too! I want
you
to be
my
number 10. Are you coming to Jessie's party? I'll show you what a 10 is all about! Did you ask your mom?
Sandy's hands shook. She exited from Facebook and went to the kitchen where she pulled a Bud Light from the fridge. She guzzled half the beer, then slammed the can on the counter.

“Take it easy, babe.”

Startled, Sandy twirled about. “Oh, it's you.”

“Who'd you think it was?” Bill said.

“Nobody,” she said with a sigh.

He put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her close and asked what was wrong. She kissed him lightly. “Nothing, hon,” she said. Together they had another beer. Their afternoon spat forgotten, she thought about what a find Bill had been. A very basic sort of guy, but the best sort of basic, the answer to all her anguished prayers half a lifetime ago.

Finally, her besieged mind settled down. Much later, in the middle of the night, after she'd made love to, then fucked Bill – the second time more of a release for her than for him – she realized what had escaped her before. All she had to do, if worse came to worse, was to disappear Shane. Like all those milk carton kids. And no one would be the wiser.

It was the day before an historic presidential election, but this was of little consequence to Phoebe, Emma, Jessie, and all the band members, including Noah, who'd reconvened at Dylan's for a last practice session before Jessie's party on Saturday. At least initially, Phoebe thought things were going well. Especially between her and Jessie.

“Okay, guys, let her rip!” Nick shouted. The group began to jam loud and hard, with Jessie taking a couple of eager turns at the mike.

Phoebe looked on, tapping her foot to the beat of the drums. The second time she felt Dylan's gaze on her she turned away to stare out the window, noticing the flurry of leaves floating to earth. It seemed that Dylan had a thing for her, and if it weren't for Jessie, she wouldn't mind. It was nice having a boy like her, two boys even, because she'd noticed Noah watching her too, but all she could think about was Shane. Only a few more days before she'd see him at Jessie's party, though her mother hadn't given final approval. But she had to go, she just had to.

She'd already begun embroidering a 10 in Walter J's colors – kelly green and white – on the pocket of the jean jacket. A pocket located directly over his heart. She'd even imagined both of them getting tattoos, absolutely
verboten
by her mother, hers a 10 inside a heart, and his would be the same but with her birthday inside, the number 18, something straight out of a modern-day
Romeo and Juliet
. Or something like that.

The group took a short break to try on their band outfits. For a few minutes the room turned into a blizzard of clothing and halfrobed bodies. Phoebe caught both Emma and Jessie staring at the guys' naked torsos. She too was impressed by Noah's muscular biceps, but busied herself yanking clothing out of several shopping bags – secondhand dark blazers, white t-shirts and skinny black ties – and tossing them to the guys, while Jess and Emma kept up a steady flow of comments. Laughter tumbled through the room as freely as opinions. “Too neat,” “loosen the tie,” “untuck the t-shirt,” “yeah, awesome.” “Super cool!”

Phoebe declared that Dylan and Nick, the two guitarists and lead singers, should wear slightly beat up felt fedoras pulled low over their brows. She went over to fit them properly on their heads.

After they were all dressed, the guys picked up their instruments, took their spots on the “stage” and struck a series of cocky and comic poses, the entire session recorded in video and static images by Emma, who promised to post them on Facebook and YouTube, and even send out tweets, announcing the formation of the group.

“Yeah, and their first paid gig is at my house,” Jessie piped in.

Dylan stroked the strings of his guitar a few times, then rotated his arm 360 degrees and screeched out a few notes Jimi Hendrix style. The others chimed in with their own instruments, and Jessie was again given a chance to sing.

Still, it didn't mean she was
in
the band. That was to be decided at some later time.

After a second break, and seemingly out of the blue, Emma, looking quite serious and wide-eyed, posed the question, “Do you think we're going to grow up to be like, well, pretty much like our parents?”

A wild series of shouts ensued, denying that any such thing could or would ever happen. But once the chaos subsided, Noah, sitting on the drummer's stool, announced with great seriousness, “No doubt. You know, genes and all!”

“Oh, God, that sucks,” several of them exclaimed.

“But probably accurate,” Emma said. Her very black bangs, cut bluntly across her forehead, revealed her equally dark brows and earnest eyes.

Phoebe thought it was a little odd that Emma, the least conforming of any girl she knew, would ask such a question and wondered if the question was as innocent as Emma now appeared. She couldn't imagine Emma ever becoming like her mother. Or anyone's parents. Especially if she kept adding more piercings. Recently, she told Phoebe she wanted one in her tongue, to which Phoebe had said, “Wouldn't that get annoying?”

Emma had shrugged. “Maybe, but then life's annoying.”

In a recent exchange Phoebe had learned that Emma's father, a year after her birth, had left his wife and child for another man and moved to LA to work for some Hollywood studio. He rarely called or wrote. Now and then he sent money. Emma harbored another secret she'd shared with Phoebe. Someday she'd go out to California, find “that bastard,” and guilt him into supporting her through college.

Phoebe spoke up. “It may be in the genes, Noah, but we have reason and free will,” she said, recalling a recent discussion in English class. Turning to the group, she added, “Are your parents replicas of their parents? There might be a resemblance, but they're not copies. We
are
individuals. We
are
different.” And recalling what Emma had told her, she said, “I'm certainly not going to be like
my
mother.” Then, realizing how that sounded, she stopped to examine her friends' faces. All but Emma stared at her. A little embarrassed, she added, “You guys?”

They all chimed in with: “Yeah, no way!” Except Jessie. Hand on jutting hip, she announced, “Well, I'd be happy to be like my mom
or
my dad. They're great!”

“Good for you, Jess!” Nick shouted, and they all laughed. Jessie's face flushed despite the make-up she'd used to cover up a mini-bout of acne. Phoebe wanted to come to her rescue, but what could she say?

Later, when Phoebe left, she was pretty sure Noah timed his departure to coincide with her own. Out on the sidewalk, he synchronized his footsteps with hers. The whole thing felt a bit awkward, and she wondered if she ought to tell him about Shane.

“You're coming, aren't you?” Noah asked quietly. “I mean to Jess's party.”

“Yeah,” she said. Then, “Yes, definitely.” She'd die if her mother prevented her.

“Oh, great. Me, too.”

“I hope so. You're in the band!” She laughed a little.

He kicked at the leaves, appearing ill at ease. “I think it'll be a blast,” he said, though his tone didn't sound convincing.

“Yeah, I hope so.”

As they neared her bus stop, Phoebe saw the 32 approaching. Although there was plenty of time, she shouted, “That's mine, gotta run. Sorry.” She gave him an apologetic look, but actually felt relieved. Seated at a window, Phoebe noticed that Noah, his expression a bit bewildered, still stood where she'd left him, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

She turned her gaze back inside the bus and pulled
To Kill a Mockingbird
out of her backpack. She had no trouble imagining Scout as a friend and wondered if she ever felt about Atticus the way she felt about her mom – that he spent far too much time at his job.

Forks, knives and spoons clattered noisily onto the glass kitchen table as Jessie dropped them beside each plate.

“Christ, Jess,” Sandy said, “you wanna break the frickin' table? Go easy.”

Jessie grunted, “Whatever.”

When Bill strolled in, Sandy gave him a warning look, aiming her eyes at Jessie. “Beware, teenage beast on the prowl,” her look suggested. They sat down and began to eat.

It wasn't long, though, before Jessie spilled her discontent, complaining about Dylan and Phoebe, her words twisting this way and that until she'd again accused Phoebe of making a play for Dylan. She described the afternoon's events a second time, all the while inhaling forkfuls of mashed potatoes. “I'll never get Dylan.”

Sandy responded lightly, “Well, for starters you might try slowing the carb intake, hon'. Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Sandy gave Jessie huge latitude, but one thing she couldn't abide was people feeling sorry for themselves, wallowing in their misery. She was all about picking yourself up and figuring out how to get what you wanted. “If you're fat and your face is full of zits, well, then you get what you deserve, don't ya?” she added matter-of-factly, though with a dimpled, disarming smile.

Tough love wasn't one of Sandy's tactics, but she could see something radical was needed to jolt her daughter out of the valley of selfpity and get her back on track. What with the party five days away.

Jessie slammed down her fork, rose from the table, picked up her half-full plate and practically tossed it in the sink. “Thanks a lot! Maybe you should take your own advice, Mom!”

Mission accomplished, Sandy thought as Jessie flounced out of the room. She'd apologize later and have the mom-daughter talk that always followed such mini-dramas, but for now she'd at least stopped her daughter from eating all that food. In a while Jessie would calm down and then she'd join her upstairs and together they'd hatch a plan. How to get beautiful for the party and take back Dylan: diet and exercise (with the help of
Slenderella)
, a five-day facial program, just the right cleavage- and thigh-revealing clothes, get her hair done, etcetera, etcetera. The steps to success broken down into bite-sized pieces.

Bill brought plates to the sink as Sandy stacked them in the dishwasher. In a low voice, without sounding accusative, he said, “A little rough on her, weren't you?”

“Not to worry, babe, I've got it covered.” She turned and lightly rubbed her hand over his crotch. “Got you covered too,” she whispered in his ear.

His voice turned husky in her ear. “You always do,” he said and gave her ass a squeeze. That meant sex was a sure thing later on, and she loved Bill for the way he turned her on. Though she knew that sometimes her sexual appetite outpaced his. He was probably one of the few men in the world who on occasion didn't act on his wife's come-ons.

The truth was Sandy loved sex. Whether Les's careful lessons had enflamed her sexual desire then taken it to stratospheric heights, or she was just built that way, she didn't know. By being married, though, she sometimes missed the fun of getting guys to do exactly what she wanted. A little coaxing and moaning, a little sucking on their dicks, and they'd do just about anything. Anyone who didn't, she had tremendous respect for.

Until that lunch, she'd thought Ron might fall into that latter category, but now she was pretty sure he'd be a willing victim. She considered him a topnotch catch for all sorts of reasons. He was cute, for sure, but on their recent date he'd even promised to get her into the White House, which made her think of
doing it
in the Oval Office! Since their lunch she sometimes lost sight of her original goal – rubbing her achievement in Isabel Winthrop's face – but she reminded herself of that now. If he didn't email again soon, she'd think of another reason to contact him.

She finished the dishes, and instead of watching her favorite show,
Desperate Housewives
, she caught a few minutes of the pre-election day newscast. Things had reached a feverish pitch, something she wanted to be able to discuss with Ron. She'd tell him she cast her vote for Obama, because that's what he planned to do, though she couldn't understand why when DC residents' votes didn't count in national elections. In contrast, though her ballot counted, living in Maryland and all, she doubted she'd go. Lines would be unbearably long, and she figured Obama would win without her.

On her way upstairs to talk with Jessie, she thought about passing on a few of her “how to get your man” tricks. She
was
a freshman in high school after all. Maybe she ought to introduce her to birth control pills. She grabbed a pack from her bathroom then went and knocked on Jessie's door, though she entered without waiting to be invited in.

“Hi, toots, what's up?” she said to Jessie, who was propped against several pillows on her bed, her knees slightly bent, her laptop resting against her thighs.

Jessie looked up, an Eeyore expression on her face.

“Don't be glum, puss.” Sandy went and sat down beside her. “Okay, here's what we're gonna do,” she said and laid out the plan for the next few days until the party. “See? It's that easy. And by the way, Mick Jagger had it all wrong. He said, you
can't
always get what you want, but I say you can!” She chuckled at her own cleverness.

Before she left, she laid the package of birth control pills on Jessie's bed. “Now, hon, I'm not condoning sex with boys, but I am trying to be realistic. You do
not
want to get pregnant. You just wanna have fun.” She smiled at her daughter. “Remember, more than anything boys want to have sex. But you're in charge. You put out when you want and when you're ready. Don't give it away for free or too often, because that's just plain cheap. You understand?”

Jessie stared at her mother. She chewed on her lower lip. “I think so.”

“And don't forget, I got your back. Any questions, you come ask your ole' ma! Okay?”

“Okay, Ma,” Jessie said, elongating the word “Ma” and rolling her eyes.