Read Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel Online
Authors: Herta Feely
Shane:
Sure. Bye
.
Phoebe dropped back onto her pillows and stared up at the clouds painted on the blue ceiling. She was in love. Her first thought was to text Jessie, then she remembered they were barely talking. Although if Jessie wrote to her, she'd respond. She would. She returned to daydreaming about Shane. That's when it struck her. Why hadn't she thought of this before? She Googled Walter J High School and looked for the football team. Shane wasn't in the team photo. She wondered why. A while later, she printed out another of his Facebook photos and pinned it alongside the one already on her bulletin board. She loved the idea of him observing everything she did.
Glancing back at the computer, she saw a note from Dylan:
Hey Feebs, can you come over after school tomorrow? Help us figure out cool outfits for our band
.
She hesitated, wondering what Jessie would think, then decided to say yes, though she'd have to clear it with her mother. But she felt fairly certain she'd let her go since she “adored” Mrs. Thomas, who lived in Georgetown not in evil Adams Morgan.
“Sure, honey,” Phoebe's mother said in response to her question about going to Dylan's. Though she added, “If only you could be as enthusiastic about other things as you are about sewing. My God, there'd be no stopping you.” When her mother made comments like this, Phoebe wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or offended.
“By the way, I've been thinking about you doing some volunteering next weekend.”
“Volunteering? Where?” She frowned at her mother.
“Well, we do live in a political town, and there is an amazing presidential race underway â as you know, we might elect the first African American president! â and I do have lots of contacts on the Hill.” She gave Phoebe a searching look.
“But, Mawm, I hate politics.”
“Well, you owe me some time and it's never too soon to do something good for the world,” she paused, “
and
something that'll look good on your resumé.”
“My resumé?”
“For college.”
“I'm a freshman!”
“It's never too early to start.”
Phoebe was about to argue the point when she remembered it would probably lead to a lecture. “Oh, joy! See you tonight,” she said as she walked out the door to catch the bus.
“I almost forgot,” her mother called after her. “Mrs. VanDorn and Skyla are coming over this week to talk about the birthday party.”
Ron opened his email and almost instantly his eyes were drawn to two messages. Or rather the senders of those two messages. One was from Gil at the
Washington Post
and the other from Sandy.
The latter would contain a pleasant surprise, he hoped. As for the
Post
email, it would bring either good news or bad. Gil's previous email hadn't sounded particularly promising. Which one to open first.
Finally he double-clicked on the
Post
message.
Dear Ron
,We'd like to talk to you. Give us a call and let us know when it's convenient. My assistant, Sarah, can be reached at the number below. Hope you can make it today or tomorrow
.Best, Gil
He read it twice before thinking, shit, they're gonna offer me a job. His next thought was to call Isabel.
He dialed her cell. It rang but she didn't answer. He left her a hurried message, then returned to Gil's email and read it again. He glanced at his watch. It was a little past nine. Best not to be too eager. He decided to call Gil's assistant after he'd gone through the rest of the day's emails. Though Sandy's roused a certain curiosity in him, he also felt a little dread. He hated it when people left the subject line empty, which she'd done. Maybe he should just delete it.
Good God, man, he said to himself, just open the damn thing. He clicked on it.
Hi Ron
,Just thinking about the girls and, you know, what I mentioned the other day. Just wonder if I could take a little of your time over lunch to talk about it? This week I'm free just about any day except Thursdayâ¦so let me know
.xox, S
Those three letters before her signature â xox â caught his attention, and his imagination. Either they meant nothing, or everything. With Sandy he figured there was no telling. Isabel would most certainly say she hadn't signed her note that way by accident. Of course, she'd never know about this. Just as she'd never known about the two one-night stands he'd had while on the road as a young reporter. Yes, she'd found out about a third one, but that's because he'd been cocky and careless. Not that he was about to have a one-night stand with Sandy.
He was struggling with his answer, when he decided to put Sandy off by saying that this week was insane, and the only day he could even think about having lunch was Thursday, the day she couldn't. Just as he finished writing, the phone rang. It was Isabel calling him back.
A savage look crossed Skyla's face. “Well, how do you expect me to do anything if you won't tell me what happened?” The other girls at the lunch table â Molly, Cara, Sophia and Daisy â hunched in eagerly awaiting Phoebe's answer.
“I don't
want
you to do anything,” Phoebe whispered. “Michael was drunk and really, well, reallyâ” she hesitated, trying to find the right word to placate Skyla without blurting out the whole sordid ordeal, “âhe got really pushy. All right? That's it, it's over.”
Skyla gave Phoebe an intense stare. “Fine with me,” she said, though Phoebe could tell it wasn't. “It's all Jessie's fault, you know. If she hadn't asked Noah, then none of this would have happened! Right?”
Phoebe hadn't thought of it that way and was now eager to change the topic. She glanced around the table and asked if the girls knew that Dylan was forming a band, one that lacked a name and a backup singer.
Skyla's eyes widened with interest. “I'm a pretty good singer, you know.”
“Really? I didn't know that,” Cara laughed. “Let's hear it.”
“Yeah, come on,” several others joined in.
It surprised Phoebe that Skyla was letting her minions get away with that sort of talk, though she'd noticed the same thing at her house after the dance. Not always, but often she seemed like a new Skyla.
“Well, not here,” Skyla said with an offended pout, “but I
am
in the
a capella
group.” Then quietly she asked Phoebe to put in a good word for her. “Ask Dylan if I can try out; I'm really good. Do you think they'll have tryouts?”
“Sure,” Phoebe said, noting the change in Skyla's tone and demeanor, and intrigued by her mercurial shifts. She didn't tell Skyla that Dylan was not a big fan of hers â “the pink girl,” he'd called her on more than one occasion.
“We can talk about it at your house. You know my mom and I are coming over on Wednesday, right?” Skyla said. “We should probably figure out who we're inviting, what kind of food to have, a band or a DJ, all that stuff, you know?”
“Yeah, sure,” was all that Phoebe said, then sat there listening to Skyla reel off ideas and eyeing her overly ornate cursive as she made lists of food and people in her notebook.
In Phoebe's last class of the day, once more facing a question about her date with Michael, this time from Jessie during lab, Phoebe said, “You don't wanna know.”
“That bad, huh?”
Phoebe nodded, happy that Jess seemed to care, but refused to elaborate, nor did she ask about Jessie's evening. She wondered if Jessie had been the one to help her in the bathroom, but felt too embarrassed to ask. Since Jessie didn't mention going to Dylan's, Phoebe didn't either. If Jessie found out Dylan had invited Phoebe and not her it would probably erase any progress they'd made. By day's end, she felt a thaw between her and Jessie. It would have been a stretch though to say they'd resumed their best buds' status.
When Ron spoke to Sarah, Gil's assistant, he made an appointment for the following day, Tuesday. That would give him time to discuss his strategy with Isabel. And it gave him an ounce of control, the sense that he wasn't groveling. That he wasn't just going to drop everything and run over to the
Post
's offices on 15
th
Street.
He sat at his desk tapping out a story on the computer, trying to concentrate, but his mind wandered.
While he wanted to continue to cover the White House for the
Post
â after all, he was good at it, and as far as he knew that's what they were looking for â what he really hoped was to get on board the media bus, now, and follow the Democratic presidential candidate in the final weeks of the race. What Barack Obama had put in place was the most exciting campaign since John F. Kennedy's, one he'd read volumes about.
While many of his colleagues had been traveling around the country tailing McCain, Palin, Obama or Biden, he'd spent most of the campaign in White House briefings on the economy with Bush â a lame duck President if he ever saw one â and his staff. He was dying to get in on the action. Even if it was only at the end. What he needed were some new angles on the campaign, stories no one had yet done. He'd come up with something, and tomorrow, as part of his discussion with the
Post
, he'd offer to write a feature or two for the paper, even as he wrapped things up at AP. He vibrated with excitement. He could see an entirely new future. The timing couldn't have been more perfect.
Just then another email arrived from Sandy. He opened it, surprised yet again to see what she'd written.
Hi Ron, well, I changed my appt on Thursday to see you
.
So where should we meet and what time? xox, Sandy
Oh, Christ, he thought. He stared at her message â what should he do? â then he struck the delete button. He'd deal with her later.
At Dylan's, Phoebe helped collect chips, Gatorade and sodas to take to the studio apartment above the Thomas's three-car garage. Beneath a bright blue sky, they walked across the courtyard behind the main house and climbed the stairs to the studio. Here, where the guys would practice, drums had already been set up, along with speakers, an electric keyboard and two guitars â a bass and a lead. Dylan told her that Eric Clapton used the same type of guitar he'd gotten on his birthday. He plucked its strings in a way that produced a pleasing melody.
“Come here,” Dylan said. “Let me show you something.”
She went over to him. “Hold the guitar as if you were about to play it,” he said, handing her the instrument. He was close to her. She could feel his breath on her face as he pulled the guitar strap over her head. “Go ahead, play a few notes.”
She felt awkward, but did as she was told. Despite the randomness of the notes the melodic sound that erupted from the speakers amazed her. Though she'd tried playing the piano, she hadn't been very good and didn't consider herself the least bit musical. “Wow, that's sick,” she said, pleased and smiling.