Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (16 page)

Isabel's office buzzer sounded. She punched the intercom button. “Your one o'clock's here, Ms. Winthrop.”

Isabel picked up her yellow legal pad, tore off the top sheet and shoved it into her drawer along with the article, grabbed a pen and headed for the door. She wondered about the parents of the boy she was about to meet. Her pro bono task would be to help him get into the right school. He suffered from numerous learning disabilities and they'd had absolutely no luck getting support from the DC public school system. With everything she had going on, she felt some reluctance to take this on, but she'd promised one of the partners. Anyway, she'd get the new associate, Jason, to do most of the legwork.

At the door she took a quick look in the mirror. She noticed the cruel little lines etching themselves into her brow, but it wasn't surprising, not with everything she had going on. Maybe less work, she thought. With that, she plastered a smile on her face and exited her office.

Over the next couple of days, as the dance drew nearer, Phoebe received more private messages from Shane, all friendly and complimentary, with one about her friends.
Who's your best friend
, he'd written. After some thought, she wrote back:
Emma Blau, Skyla VanDorn, and ‘til recently, Jessie Littleton
. He'd stopped corresponding then, and she worried a little, though later he sent more flirty messages. When she reviewed these, she saw that on Sunday she'd suggested getting together, but he hadn't responded.

Maybe he was shy, she thought, and considered writing him and offering again, but when, and how? That's when she realized that she wished
he
was taking her to the dance, not Michael, who, when she checked him out again on Facebook, didn't even come close in the looks department. And, after their initial exchange, he'd only spoken with her a couple of times. By Wednesday she couldn't resist floating the idea.

After school that day, she saw that Shane was on Facebook, so she posed the question privately this way:
If I asked you to a dance, would you go?
This gave her an out in case he couldn't or had no interest.

Phoebe's eyes stayed glued to the computer screen, waiting for an answer. Surely he saw that she'd written him. After a minute or so, which felt like forever, her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. Oh, gosh, what have I done, she thought. At least another minute went by without a response. Then, finally, the answer appeared.

Defintely…depends on when
.

Phoebe noticed the misspelling, but who cared.
It's on Friday night
.

Would love to, but I've got a game.

Some other time, maybe?
.

Yep
.

She felt giddy with relief and joy, and simultaneously grateful that he couldn't make it. It would have been mean to cancel on Michael, and no way did she want to incur Skyla's wrath. After all, she'd been a good friend this year, and it was bad enough that she and Jessie were on shaky terms. But now it seemed inevitable that sometime soon she'd get to meet Shane.

The reflection that stared back at Phoebe grimaced at the sight of the three quarter-length sleeves. Sleeveless, even strapless, was the in-thing. And there was no way for her to pull that off. Not tonight. Not at this dance. She just hoped she wouldn't be the only one wearing a dress with sleeves. Still frowning, she berated herself for what she'd done, though Dr. Sharma had eased her feelings of guilt at their session this past week.

“You've done nothing wrong. You're trying to cope with overwhelming feelings, Phoebe, and that's completely understandable. You're not alone.” The doctor had helped order her thoughts a bit, had even explained how emotionally perceptive she was, perhaps a bit over-sensitive, but that was far better than being insensitive and unsympathetic. She'd suggested ways of avoiding triggers, though they both knew that was easier said than done.

Dr. Sharma had also explained that her mother's near collapse in the dressing room had been an act of love. Though what didn't help was that her mother now seemed to be watching her like some Über-Mom – Jessie's word for moms like that.

Jessie. Now, when she thought of her friend – former best friend? – she often grew sad, and couldn't help entertaining thoughts of cutting herself. She didn't feel like that now, but when she did Dr. Sharma had suggested she tuck those thoughts neatly into a box in the back of her mind and deal with them later, preferably in Dr. Sharma's office.

“Phoebe, you ready?” her mother called up the stairs.

Only a few more minutes before her parents were taking her to Skyla's, where everyone was gathering for the “photo shoot.” Though not Noah and Jessie, and not Emma; they hadn't been invited to Skyla's. As she applied some lip gloss and a tiny bit of mascara, she thought about running into them later in the evening, a notion that unleashed a wave of panic.

All week, things had been awkward between her and Noah; how could they not have been? He'd seen her with Michael, in the hall and at her locker, and she remembered blushing and looking away, unable to meet his gaze. Michael was okay, but she'd much rather be with Noah and wished she had the nerve to tell him. A smile came to her lips though when she imagined what she'd say.
Hey, Noah, you're so cool! Kiss me!

And that reminded her of Shane. He'd written her private Facebook messages every day, though he seemed to want to know stuff guys weren't usually that interested in: who she was going to the dance with, why she wasn't going to Jessie's after-party, and even what her dress looked like. She downplayed Michael, saying she didn't really know him, though he seemed nice.
Why aren't you going to Jessie's?
he'd demanded to know, which had also struck her as odd. Why would he care, especially since she'd told him Skyla was one of her best friends, but she dutifully told him that since Michael was friends with Skyla's date, she'd have to go there. But did guys really want to know about these things? Maybe Shane was different – most guys didn't seem to understand girls – and somehow that made him even more appealing.

Phoebe hadn't confided in Skyla about her growing interest in Shane; after all, she hadn't even met him. Besides there was Michael. She also hadn't told her about cutting or her visits to the shrink, and she prayed Jessie wouldn't sink so low as to unveil her secret now that they were, well, not best friends. Then she picked out a pair of glittery earrings and put them on.

They all gathered, some thirteen couples, on the back patio of Skyla's house for the “photo shoot” before the dinner. The parents took group shots, and then a few of each couple with everyone standing around watching. It was all a bit much for Phoebe, who tried to put on a happy face. It did not help that her mother kept mouthing the word “smile” and opening her eyes wide in that irritating way she had when trying to emphasize something. And Michael seemed to have a death-grip around her waist.

At last they all piled into a limo bus destined for the restaurant, the parents waving vigorously as if they were leaving for a distant country. Though everyone sat beside their dates, a lot of the girls chattered with one another like voluble monkeys while the guys looked vaguely uncomfortable in their ties and silly sports jackets.

Once the lights on the bus dimmed, Michael's arm crept around Phoebe's shoulder and he whispered something. She couldn't hear what, so she inched closer, asking him to repeat, which she then realized must have been a ploy he used to kiss her, as his other hand slid beneath her dress and up her thigh.

Noah's image swam into her mind. She almost started crying and tugged his hand away from her leg. “D—d—do you have to do that?”

Without skipping a beat or appearing the least bit shamefaced, Michael reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small silver flask. A smile materialized on his lips. “Have some of this,” he said. “It'll make you feel better.”

Yeah, right
, she thought. Nevertheless, she tilted the flask up to her mouth and took a swallow. She coughed a little – the stuff tasted vile and burned her throat, but she was desperate not to embarrass herself. Though of course, she
was
like a fledgling bird, ready to spread its wings yet unsure how to fly. A novice, not only at drinking but kissing and dating.

A cheer rose up from the back of the bus and Phoebe pivoted to see what was going on. Two of the guys were chugging beers, apparently having a race. More cans of beer sprouted, like bouquets of flowers from a magician's sleeve, and a bunch of guys joined in the drinking, which initiated a chant that grew in volume: “Chug, chug, chug
it
!!” The first guy to finish crumpled the beer can in his fist, then tossed it over his shoulder. The others followed suit.

The bus came to a sudden jerking halt. A light went on inside and the bus driver stood up, facing them. “All right, any more of that and I'm taking you all back to the VanDorns'.” His dark eyes swooped through the bus, stopping every so often to make contact with one of the boys and staring them down. “Understood?”

No one said anything. The boys nodded obediently.

“Understood?” he said more loudly.

“Yes, sir,” a few of the guys ventured.

Though no one believed he'd follow through, since their parents had hired him, they obeyed and the remainder of the ride to Sequoia, a glamorous Georgetown restaurant overlooking the Potomac, passed uneventfully.

They dined in one of the restaurant's semi-private rooms, where alcohol again grew pervasive, with flasks and “water” bottles containing gin or vodka appearing beneath the table, in the bathrooms, and so on. Wherever Phoebe turned, she was being offered a drink. And she dutifully imbibed, only tiny sips, but still she could feel its effects.

Just before the bus arrived at the dance, mints in various shapes and forms made their way from front to rear, and back again. The “water bottles” remained on the bus.

Fall had invaded the school gymnasium. To enter, couples passed beneath an archway of yellow, orange, and scarlet balloons and once inside they found matching balloon bouquets floating throughout the huge room. Brightly colored autumn leaves, attached to construction paper, approximated foliage. Hundreds of twisted rolls of crepe paper of similar hues were draped across the ceiling and met in the center, where a huge rotating, mirrored ball reflected the blaze of color across the room.

No sooner had Phoebe and Michael stepped beneath the balloon arch into the decorated gymnasium knotted with teens – a transporting, even slightly magical event that gave Phoebe her first real smile of the night – than she spotted Noah and Jessie, Emma and Nick. Though earlier she'd feared running into them, now she gazed longingly at the covey of kids she still considered her real friends.

In contrast to her own outfit, she noticed that Jessie's strapless dress was little more than a tube of black figure-hugging material ending maybe five inches below her crotch. Big dangly gold hoops swung from her ears, and at least a dozen gold bangles encircled each arm. She swayed slightly on black stiletto heels that seemed a little too big. Glancing at her own feet – encased in a new pair of Tory Burch flats – Phoebe wondered what it would be like to have a mother who'd let her dress like that. Gratefully, she noted that Emma wore a long-sleeved dress.

For an instant she contemplated joining them, but what would she say? Determined to make the best of things, she turned back to her group, hovering near Skyla, who seemed wildly happy.

When Skyla bounded onto the dance floor, dragging Max along, Phoebe abandoned Michael and followed her into the swarm of bouncing kids, many of them girls without their dates. There, hidden inside the throng, Phoebe swayed her hips and tossed her arms with slightly drunken abandon. At last she was having fun.

During several slow dances, she pretended that Michael was Noah and then Shane, though when he shoved his boner into her thigh, she pulled away and gave him a look. Now and then he snuck drinks from his flask, which he never omitted to offer her. If caught, she knew she'd be in big trouble, but the alcohol seemed to be helping her get through the night, so she took the occasional surreptitious sip. The next time he closed in on her leg, Phoebe felt far less timid and laughingly said, “What is wrong with you? Cut it out, okay?”

After another hour of dancing, Phoebe suddenly felt the floor tilt and saw the lights swirl. She mumbled an excuse to Michael and lurched off to the bathroom. She collapsed into an empty stall, where she knelt at the base of a toilet and heaved up her dinner. Disgusting. She hated the putrid taste in her mouth. Teary-eyed, she searched through her purse for a mint. Girls' laughter resounded against the tiled walls and she imagined they might be laughing at the sound of someone throwing up, but she was too sick to care.

At one point, she thought the door to her stall pushed open and someone's hand brushed her hair. When she turned all she saw was a blur of flesh and black fabric. “Jessie?” she said. But whoever it was had gone.

She finally peeled herself off the floor and peeked out of the stall into the bathroom. A few girls stood around talking; a couple of them were at the sinks examining their faces in the mirrors and putting on make-up. She avoided their gaze as she exited the stall and headed straight to the row of gleaming white basins where she washed her face, then repeatedly gargled water and spit it out. Still, her mouth tasted awful and she had a whopping headache.

As best she could she wiped the smeared mascara from beneath her eyes. She finally found a mint in her beaded purse, popped it into her mouth and sucked vigorously. After applying some lip gloss, she exited the bathroom.

“There you are,” Skyla cried, waving with her corsaged wrist. “Come on, time to go. Everybody's been waiting.”

Michael seemed understanding and wrapped his arm around her, guiding her out to the bus. On the ride to Skyla's, Phoebe tried to sit still to quell the nausea and to keep the pounding in her head from getting worse. She really couldn't believe how horrible drinking made her feel. She also couldn't believe that Michael had started groping her again.

She brushed his hand away and whispered, “I feel like crap, okay?”

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay.”

At Skyla's house, the kids tumbled out raucously and filed inside, but all Phoebe wanted was to go home, lie down, and surrender to the oblivion of sleep. She began hatching an exit plan. She'd go in for a little, have a snack to settle her stomach, get her act together, then sneak out and walk the short two blocks home.