Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (17 page)

She glanced at the time. It was just past eleven. She'd managed to lose Michael and thought she might sneak out, even though her mother hadn't set curfew until midnight. “Oh, go ahead, honey,” she'd said. “I want you to have happy memories of the dance.” Phoebe knew her relaxed attitude had to do with her guilt about Noah and the sight of her cuts. They'd truly affected her mother. Destabilized her, if such a thing were possible.

If her mother knew how much drinking was going on, she'd probably go ballistic, Phoebe thought. Just then, someone came around and poured something clear into all the girls' glasses. Phoebe took a tentative sip. Another alcohol-laced drink, but she set it down.

“Hey, d'you see that crotch hugger Jessie was wearing? Jeez, talk about flaunting it.” Molly, one of Skyla's lieutenants, searched the group for agreement.

“Yeah, what's up with that?” Sophia said.

Though Phoebe feigned disinterest, she was on the verge of defending Jessie. She might be mad at her, but who were these girls to talk about Jessie that way?

Just then Molly turned to Phoebe. “And what's the deal with asking Noah? I thought she was supposed to be your friend?”

Phoebe responded with a tired shrug. Her anger over the whole Noah “thing” had waned. Just as she was about to wander off, something Molly said stopped her. “How about that cute Shane guy?” she said with a wide-eyed grin. “I want a chance to hook up with him!”

“No, no, me first,” Sophia added with a mischievous grin, “like in a dark theater!”

“Oh, keep dreaming,” Skyla broke in. “Not a chance!”

“He hasn't even friended you, has he?” taunted Molly, who everyone knew tried very hard to imitate Skyla, in style if not substance. Long blonde hair, lots of pastel clothing, your basic Lily Pulitzer prep.

Skyla gave her the evil eye, then said, “As if I care,” a comment that fractured the room with more teasing and laughter. Phoebe watched with dismay, and thought that maybe she should encourage Shane to friend Skyla. It struck her as odd that he hadn't, after all Skyla was the prettiest girl in ninth grade.

Amid the hectoring chatter, Phoebe snuck away to the food table and grabbed a pumpkin cookie frosted with a macabre face. She imagined Mrs. VanDorn and Skyla spending the past few nights baking and decorating them, and thought of asking her for the recipe so she could bake some with her own mother. As she nibbled on the cookie, Phoebe's fragmented thoughts returned to Shane. His image shimmered in her mind, glistening in the distance, like the grand city of Oz. She thought of their Facebook exchanges. He wanted to meet her. Did he want to meet the other girls too? Did he private message them? She hoped not.
Don't have too much fun
, his last entry had teased. No need to worry about that, she thought. And then imagined what she'd tell him about the dance. With that came a desire to see him, to be with him.

She snuck up the stairs, hoping to avoid Michael, who she'd last seen playing pool in another room. She figured he wouldn't miss her as she tiptoed down the hall away from the sound of laughter, bypassing the bathroom, and sneaking out a side door. She hadn't expected anyone to be on the porch, though. Maybe they won't notice me, she thought. Just then a board creaked beneath her feet.

“Leaving?” someone asked.

Squinting into the dark, Phoebe saw that it was Daisy, swinging with Alex on a suspended bench. Hoping they wouldn't make a fuss, Phoebe replied, “I just live a couple of blocks away.”

“What about Michael?” Daisy said.

“What about him?” Phoebe said, her tart reply pleasantly surprising her.

The crisp air helped to refresh her and strengthened her resolve to date Shane, before the other girls had a chance to, which made her look forward to something rather than back at the stupid Adams Morgan incident. She had a goal and she looked forward to making it happen.

She'd barely entered the night shadows, when footsteps echoed on the sidewalk behind her. She began to walk faster.

“Hey, Phoebe!” It was Michael. When he caught up to her, he grabbed her by the arm. “What the hell? Why'd you leave without sayin' good-bye?”

“Sorry,” she murmured, hoping Daisy and Alex couldn't hear. “I was tired and didn't want to bother you. Seemed like you were having fun.” She tried to pull away, but his grip grew tighter. With her free arm, she pointed in the direction of her house. “I don't live far.”

His offended eyes searched hers. “Don't I at least get a good-night kiss?” Before she could say no, his mouth pressed against her lips.

“Stop it!” she said in a loud whisper as she pushed her hands against his chest, trying to shake him loose.

“Come on, baby, just a kiss.”

His breath reeked of beer, and she could once again feel his stupid cock hard against her thigh. “No!” she said. “Let go!” Only somewhat irritated a moment ago, she now felt an urgent need to get away.

“Max said you put out,” he said, his words slurring a bit. “Guess he was wrong?”

“Max said that? I don't even know him!” She angled her body away from his chest, again trying to pull free, but his fingers dug into her arm.

His voice softened. “Come on,” he said, again trying to kiss her.

“No, Michael, stop it.”

Just then, a scene from a TV show punched into her brain. Instead of continuing to resist, she pretended to give in to his kiss. Once his grip relaxed, she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could and took off.

He let out a cry and stumbled back. “You little bitch!” he shouted after her.

Phoebe made it to the corner, where she briefly glanced over her shoulder. He was squatting on the ground rubbing his leg. As she rushed toward her house she looked back once more, but no one was there.

The doorbell rang and Isabel went to answer it. She was expecting to see Phoebe and Michael, not this mess of a girl who ran inside, angry and shouting.

“Phoebe, what on earth—” she said as she closed the gap between them. “What happened, sweetheart?”

All Isabel could hear was that Michael was a total creep, that she never wanted to see him again, that she hated him, and that he was
so
stupid. Then she revealed a little of what he'd done a few minutes earlier. She admitted to having taken sips of alcohol, hating it, and begging for forgiveness. “Please don't punish me. I'm sorry,” she said. And Isabel knew this wasn't the time to even reprimand her, including for walking home alone, but she couldn't help wondering why awful things kept happening to her daughter. Was this normal?

“What are
you
doing here?” Phoebe snapped at Isabel the following morning.

Isabel hadn't intended to fall asleep, but her daughter's nasty tone put her in no mood to apologize. “I was taking care of you. Remember, last night?” she answered tersely.

“How could I forget?” Phoebe shot back. “If you'd let me go with Noah none of this would have happened.”

God, why was everything her fault? She almost lashed out; only the memory of their intimacy the night before prevented her.

Phoebe rubbed her eyes and forehead. “Oh, my head,” she yammered.

Isabel got up and returned a minute later with a glass of water and two Advil. She held them out to her daughter.

“Mom, I'm fine,” Phoebe said, though she accepted the pills and took them along with several swallows of water. “Remember you promised not to tell Dad. About Michael. He'll go crazy.” Then she stared at the doorway as if to say, now get out of here. A moment later she dropped back onto her pillow.

This adolescent phase couldn't end soon enough, Isabel thought. She was halfway out the door, when something pulled her back. “Phoebe?”

“What?” she said without opening her eyes.

“First of all, I didn't promise
not
to tell Dad, and secondly, I think we should talk with Michael's parents.”

The shriek that erupted from Phoebe's throat sounded like a caterwauling monkey. “Are you insane, Mom?” she shouted. “You are not—” and now she popped up in bed like a trick Halloween cadaver, “—you are absolutely not going to do that! And neither is Dad! No way!”

Isabel stared at her daughter. Hormones didn't begin to explain her mood swings. At moments like this she felt there was something seriously wrong with her. Speechless, she made a hasty retreat down the steps in the hope that Ron might prop up her depleted spirit. She also wondered if he would agree with Phoebe's request.

The unmistakable and alluring smell of bacon wafted into her room. Phoebe pulled an old hoodie over her flannel PJ bottoms and went down to the kitchen, her stomach growling with hunger. On Sundays her dad traditionally cooked a big breakfast. Pancakes, with or without chocolate chips, eggs any style, including
huevos rancheros
, one of her favorites, French toast, the works. Whatever they wanted. Plus bacon. There was always bacon. And she loved sitting on a bar stool at the counter watching him and talking or arguing, though if the latter, it happened mostly in a good-natured way.

This morning when she stepped into the kitchen, Jackson was already perched on his stool, scooping up milk and Cheerios with a large spoon. As often as not, her brother still preferred cereal, despite the fact that the only brand Isabel allowed was plain Cheerios. The rest of that “junk” contained too much sugar. And Jackson refused granola and other healthy alternatives.

Phoebe squeezed his arm as she sat down beside him. “Hey, Jackson, was'up?”

“Nuttin', s'up with you?” he said, continuing to slurp down his cereal. “D'you have fun at the dance?”

She peered at him, a little surprised he'd ask, then looked suspiciously at her father.

“Daddy?” she said, examining his face.

“What do you want for breakfast, my little Miss Muffin?” Ron said innocently.

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “I'll have French toast, Daddy. And three slices of bacon, and some milk. Lots of syrup. The Vermont kind, okay?”

“Coming right up,” he said. “So how was the dance?”

“Yeah, Feebs, how
was
the dance?” Jackson said, making a goofy face at her.

She groaned. “You haven't heard, Daddy?” She tucked one of her legs under her bottom and leaned toward him on the counter. “Mom hasn't told you?”

“No,” he said.

She studied him as he worked. “That's hard to believe.”

“Well, let's just hear how it went, Pumpkin Noodle.”

“Daddy, you're so silly. Anyway, it was just fine…that is, until my date…well, until he turned into an asshole.”

He glanced over his shoulder as if to ensure Isabel wasn't there and then gave her a half-smile. “Easy does it. What happened?”

Jackson leaned in as if to listen more closely.

“Well, he was a jerk. Boys can be really stupid, Dad.” She glanced at Jackson. “Don't be a jerk when you grow up, okay?” she said before turning back to her father. “But the other parts were fun. We danced and there was lots of food, and, you know, it was good.”

“That's great honey,” he said with his back to her.

What Ron really felt like doing was wringing that asshole Michael's neck. But with everything else that had happened thus far in Phoebe's freshman year, he couldn't risk adding one more disaster to her young life. No, he needed time to think about this boy. As he considered how to teach Michael a lesson, maybe not now, but at some point down the road, he flipped the slices of bacon, one at a time, with a fork he'd like to shove in the kid's face.

“I need your help with something,” Phoebe said.

“What's that?” he said, sensing what was coming.

She looked over at Jackson but he'd turned on his Gameboy and was concentrating on the small screen of the handheld device. “Mom said she wanted to call Michael's parents.”

“Really?” He slid a plate of pancakes before her. “You think that's a bad idea?” He wanted to add,
Would you want him treating other girls like that?

“Yeah. That's nuts, Dad. I'd be, like, so ridiculed. You know what I mean? You can't let her.” She tilted her head at him curiously. “And not you either. Anyway, he's out of my life. He is so not happening. So what would be the point?”

“Hmm…here's the syrup.”

“It's not important. I just want it to be over. Okay?” She glanced up at him as she reached for the glass container. “Today's a bright new one, right, Dad?”

He fixed her with a loving stare. “Yup, it's a bright new one.” For her sake, he certainly hoped so.

After drenching the French toast in maple syrup, then soaking a morsel in the thick golden liquid, Phoebe said, “I think there's a different boy I like.”

Ron almost said “Noah?” but as a reporter he'd learned to let his sources do the talking. The same was true with kids.

“Who would that be?” he finally said.

“His name is Shane. He goes to another school.”

“Oh? How'd you meet him?”

She seemed to consider his question before answering. “Well, I haven't exactly met him, he friended me. On Facebook.”

Ron took in a breath. How safe was it to meet people on Facebook, or any other Internet venue? He knew how Isabel felt, and mostly on this subject he agreed with her. But then again, that was how kids communicated these days. He busied himself preparing Jackson's plate of food as he searched for a reasonable follow-up question. “What school does he go to?”

“Walter Johnson. Plays football. He made Varsity.”

“That's pretty good for a freshman.”

“No, he's a sophomore.” She grinned.

“You've gotta watch out for those sophomores.” He flashed a smile back at her.

“Yeah. But he seems really nice, Daddy. And he's new to the area.”

This set off another alarm, the word
predator
insinuating itself into his thoughts. “Well, maybe he can come over sometime?” he said, quickly adding, “But you know, Princess French Toast, it'll have to wait a couple of weeks.”

“I know,” she said grudgingly.

“Have you told Mom about him?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe you should?”

“Maybe.”

“She loves you, you know.”

She looked doubtful. “I guess.”

“Phoebe,” he said in a faux disappointed tone.

“Okay, okay. I know she does.”

Back in her room Phoebe checked Shane's Facebook page, but he wasn't online. Then she examined her various friends' Facebook pages to see what they'd posted about the dance. Skyla, predictably, had written little more than
So cool
, and included at least ten images of herself and Max. Jessie had added a few of Emma's photos and gushed about the evening, which clouded her mind briefly with unhappy thoughts. At least Noah had posted nothing; maybe he hadn't had fun, and maybe he'd missed her. But she knew she couldn't let her mind spin out in that direction. Anyway, she didn't care about Noah anymore; she was waiting for Shane to contact her. To ask her out.

Instead of doing her homework, Phoebe was drawn to the pile of used clothes in the corner and picked up an old lacy blouse, a pair of jeans, an old man's jacket. She held the articles up, studying each one, believing that if given the chance at another life the items knew just what they wanted to be. Other pieces followed. Some she discarded, others she set aside.

At her sewing machine she began ripping apart the lacy blouse, separating the lace from the cotton, then she cut open the seams of a pair of jeans. This was the first task: taking clothing apart. Then she could better assess the materials she might use to forge something new. Immersed in her work, she forgot all about Facebook, Shane, Michael, Noah, Jessie, her mother – everything was lost to her except the world of her imagination.

Phoebe wholeheartedly believed that Nana Helen inspired her creations. She'd died when Phoebe was 11, an event that had etched itself into her memory as one of the saddest in her short life. Not only had Nana taught her how to sew, but Phoebe had also inherited her grandmother's strawberry blond wavy hair and fair skin, so unlike her mother's dark tresses, olive complexion and aquiline nose. Her own pug nose, which freckled in the summer, looked just like Nana's in a photo taken not long after her arrival in the US from Hungary. When Phoebe examined her hands she saw Nana's, except that Nana hadn't chewed her fingernails or cuticles.

Sometimes when she sewed, a kind of magic happened. In the midst of manipulating the fabric – bunching it, straightening it, or guiding it into the path of the needle – she suddenly felt the material develop a rhythm all its own, and it began to fly beneath her fingers as if it knew the exact shape of the piece she intended to create. When she told her mother this, she'd laughed, not meanly, but the way adults sometimes laugh at childish statements. Phoebe had given her a slightly wounded look and thereafter had stopped confiding in her about her deepest, secret, intimate dreams.