Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (26 page)

Jackson's hands shot out and captured the prize. “Got it, Dad.”

“Hmmm…sounds like it might have potential,” Isabel said, “to win the Pulitzer, I mean.” They both laughed. “Come, sit down.” Reassured by the exchange, she patted the cushion beside her, then took another sip of wine.

He trotted over, plopped down, and turned his attention to the TV. “What's this? Your mother's letting you watch
Spider-Man
?”

“Yup.”

“What'd you do right?” Ron said to Jackson as he placed his arm possessively around Isabel, and in turn she squeezed his thigh. Jackson snuggled against her other side, the three of them nestled comfortably on the couch, the very image of a Norman Rockwell painting.

After Phoebe had drained several more small cups of beer, which made her feel slightly woozy, she glanced past the ping-pong table around the room. Somebody was making out in the corner. Several somebodies. And still no sign of Shane, despite the fact that it was already 8:30.

The band, in full swing, could be heard throughout the lower level, an area so extensive that one could truly get lost. Phoebe heard Jessie's voice singing backup on a couple of songs. For someone with trouble staying on key, she sounded pretty good and Phoebe felt glad for her.

Just then Skyla came toward her. Phoebe grabbed her arm and whispered into her ear, “If you see Shane, tell me, okay?”

“You'll be the first to know,” she said, tossing back another miniature cup of cheap light beer. About to return back to the game, Skyla stopped. “Hey, have some fun. Don't worry about that guy. After all, who the hell is he? I mean no one's even met him.” Perhaps she noticed Phoebe's distraught look, because she added, “He'll show, Feebs! Anyway, if he doesn't come he's the one missing out. Haven't you noticed all the guys checking you out?”

It was such a Skyla thing to say, though for a moment Phoebe wondered if it could be true. She was about to respond when Nick's voice came through the loudspeaker announcing that anyone who wanted to sing could come and take a turn at the mike. Without another word, Skyla darted toward the makeshift stage in the other room. Phoebe was left considering whether guys, besides Noah and Dylan, really were looking at her?

After a few minutes, she squeezed her way into the room with the band and watched as Skyla readied herself to sing, tapping the microphone and adjusting it to her height. She leaned in close to Dylan and they exchanged a few words, probably about what to sing, and then in a flirty gesture she grabbed his fedora and placed it on her own head at a jaunty angle. Dylan gave her an appreciative nod, counted, “One, two, three,” and the music began. Phoebe was mesmerized by Skyla's near perfect imitation of Taylor Swift's deep country voice as she belted out the words to “Our Song,” with Dylan and Nick singing back-up.

With the ease and grace of a rock star, Skyla shimmied across the floor, then trained her eyes on Dylan and sang to him as if they were performing a duet. Phoebe glanced around hoping Jessie wasn't around to see. The band sounded good. Really good, Phoebe thought. And there was an on-stage connection between Skyla and Dylan that made it fun to watch. Skyla even looked a little like Taylor Swift.

Out of her peripheral vision, Phoebe noticed Jessie maneuvering into the room, slipping between people and drawing closer to the stage, a scowl etched on her face. A chill ran through her when she saw Jessie's eyes squinting and leering at Skyla. It was obvious she wished her away from Dylan and out of her house. Probably wished she'd never invited her.

As she continued to watch her angry stare, Phoebe felt as if Jessie was the new someone to watch out for. How could that have happened, she thought, as she began to make her exit. She'd loved Jessie, just as she'd loved Skyla before she'd turned on her. Why were girls so fickle? In some ways, it seemed easier being a guy; maybe she should stick to having mostly guy friends. Music cascaded around Phoebe, the noise dimming as she retreated from the room. She most definitely didn't want to be there if words were exchanged between Skyla and Jessie.

She wandered upstairs to see if Shane had gotten stuck up there. Maybe he'd arrived late and had been waylaid by Mr. or Mrs. Littleton. Which brought her back to marveling at how casually they treated alcohol. It shocked her. Plus she knew her mother would have a total fit if she found out. Well, she wouldn't. Besides, Phoebe had brought some mints to mask the smell, and would be sure to use them before getting into her mother's car. God, she would freak. But then Phoebe couldn't blame her. After all, it was her mother's job to make sure she didn't drink or do other stupid stuff kids her age did. Standing alone in the hallway, a momentary feeling of warmth toward her mother washed over Phoebe.

She continued her search for Shane. She poked her head into the kitchen, where half a dozen kids were pulling beers and sodas out of the fridge to take downstairs, then entered and exited other rooms, eventually stumbling upon a few kids making out. She gazed at them longingly, but Shane was nowhere to be found. A pang of disappointment stabbed through her. He isn't coming! She thought of checking her iPhone to see if he'd sent her a message on Facebook, but before she could a female voice sang out, “Looking for someone?”

As Phoebe pivoted she came face to face with Mrs. Littleton. A huge smile dimpled one of Mrs. Littleton's cheeks. Her platinum blonde hair was piled loosely atop her head, with alluring loose strands framing her face. She was so different from her mother that Phoebe sometimes didn't know what to make of her. She seemed fun, but something told Phoebe she might be someone to watch out for too. The way she was looking at her, so intently, her head tilted to the side, like a curious bird.

“I'm looking for a guy named Shane,” Phoebe said in her still small not quite 14-year-old voice. “He's not from the Academy. He goes to public school,” she felt compelled to add.

“Oh. What does he look like?” Mrs. Littleton asked, with a strange little smile.

As best she could, Phoebe described him. With the odd way Mrs. Littleton continued to observe her, she felt increasingly uncomfortable.

“You like him, don't you?” Mrs. Littleton said, a faint smile returning to her lips.

Phoebe's cheeks flushed red and her ears grew hot. “Uh…I don't really know him yet, but,” she was about to say she'd like to know him, instead she added, “he said he'd be here.” She began edging backward toward the stairs that led down to the party.

Sandy made a tsk-tsk sound. “Guys can be so unreliable.” Then under her breath, seemingly to herself, she added, “I should know.” Phoebe wondered if what Skyla had told her the other day was true. That Mrs. Littleton was or had been slutty. Sandy lifted a Bud Light out of a cooler on the floor and extended it to Phoebe, who stared at it in confusion. Just then an arm slipped around Phoebe's waist.
Shane!

But no, it was Emma. Her friend accepted the icy can from Sandy, muttered thanks, and the two fled the kitchen.

“She can be a little much sometimes,” Emma offered, as if reading Phoebe's thoughts.

“Yeah, but she doesn't usually act like
that
.”
So weird
, Phoebe thought.

About half an hour later, feeling a bit queasy, Phoebe stood with her back against the wall half-watching another round of beer pong, her friends getting even more plastered, though Jessie wasn't among them. She seemed intent on singing with the band, probably to keep Skyla away from Dylan. Thinking about this and feeling increasingly sad that Shane hadn't shown up, she startled when a guy's hand suddenly shot past her eyes and landed on the wall behind her, his face so close she could smell his breath. Certain it was Shane, she gasped.

“You're so pretty, Phoebe, you know that?”

She felt herself blushing. Before she could think what to say, he was kissing her neck. Then her mouth, and she was kissing him back even though halfway through the kiss she knew it was Noah, not Shane.

Anxiety wormed its way back into Isabel's thoughts. Jackson had been sent to bed, and the effects of the wine had worn off. First came a moment of panic that began with a sensation like a stone thrust into her gut, followed by fear radiating in waves through her chest. Something was wrong. Or she was having a heart attack. She ran in search of her cell phone, located it on the kitchen counter, and checked for any missed calls or text messages. Nothing.

A few minutes later, around 10:15, she grabbed her purse and on her way out the door shouted to Ron, “I'm going to pick up Phoebe.”

“But I thought you didn't need to get her until eleven?”

“I'm stopping for some gas,” she lied. “Anyway, it won't hurt if I'm there a little early.”

“You sure you don't want me to go?”

She pretended not to hear and shut the door behind her.

Slowing to a cruise as she approached the Littletons' – Party Central! – she found a parking spot with a perfect view of their house. The car sat in the shadow of an ancient oak. She wondered briefly at the fact that the developer, that is Bill, had had the sense not to cut it down. Maybe he'd left it because of its proximity to his own house, for both aesthetic reasons and the added value. Yet how many others had he felled for the sake of profit?

The sound of tittering disrupted her thoughts.

She peered into the darkness, but saw nothing. Then, continuing to train her eyes in the direction of the sound, she made out two people entwined in a passionate embrace alongside the Littletons'. She couldn't help watching and wondering if it was anyone she knew. Anyone but Phoebe, she hoped. Phoebe with anyone but Shane?

Then two more teens emerged from behind bushes at the side of the house; they were laughing, one passing a bottle to the other. A bottle of beer? Vodka? Gin? Could it be water? Of course it's not water. No sooner had the thought entered her mind than a bottle sailed through the air and crashed into the street, the breaking sound of glass rupturing the silence. It was followed by a gasp, a loud exclamation – “Jeez-us! Come on!” – and more laughter.

Four kids scampered to the front of the house, turned to the right and headed north before jumping into a parked car, gunning the engine, and tearing off into the darkness. Half a block later, the headlights of the car finally switched on.

Fury shot through Isabel. Of course, what had she expected? That Sandy would respect the e-mail she and Amanda had sent out? Damn her!

The Bethesda cops had a bead on most parties in the area and routinely broke them up, dragging every kid they could lay their hands on to the police station. And, of course, the flagrant permissive host parents, too. She wasn't about to let Phoebe get arrested. She needed to get her out of there.

Her watch said 10:45. Phoebe would be ticked off if she called now, but what choice did she have? A few seconds later, Phoebe's phone began to ring. She'd explain to her what was going on. A text would simply take too long. She drummed the fingers of her free hand on the steering wheel. Come on, Phoebe, answer.

The couple engaged in making out continued. Isabel eyed them. Phoebe's voicemail engaged. “Hey, this is Phoebe. You know what to do…so do it, okay?”

Isabel hastily explained that she was early, that she saw some kids drinking, and added, “You know our rule about that, Feebs. So come on out, I'm here waiting for you across the street.” The last thing she wanted was to embarrass Phoebe by going to the door. Nor did she relish the thought of encountering Sandy.

She'd give her five minutes. In the meantime, she decided to investigate, to gather evidence of drinking. She got out of the car, grateful Ron had requested an extra feature that allowed the doors to close with barely a click. It didn't take much before she found the bottom half of the broken bottle. Gingerly, she picked it up from the gutter, careful not to slice her fingers, and lifting it to her nose, confirmed it had indeed contained alcohol. In this case it smelled like that awful spiced rum.

A few more kids sprouted from the back of the house and entered the side yard. They headed to roughly the same spot where the previous rowdy group had been. She hoped they hadn't seen her. From the noise and laughter, it became apparent they were too absorbed in their own activities to notice her. Obviously, someone had stashed alcohol there, the kids all knew and were helping themselves. An old trick. Something her own classmates had done. But as seniors, not freshmen. And in this case she suspected Sandy and Bill had made it far too easy for the kids to slip outside. Their ineffectual version of chaperoning.

In the car she found a reusable grocery sack in the back seat and deposited the broken bottle inside.
Let me introduce item number 1 as evidence, your Honor
. Her impulse was to call Ron. Her finger hovered over the home number as her thoughts returned to the kids who'd driven away a few minutes earlier. Certainly they'd been drinking, and a breathalyzer test would confirm just how much they'd consumed. Her mind jumped to the various hazards they faced: DUI arrests, car accident, a crash in which they were killed, occupants of another car dead, or worse: all of them DOA. Teen drunk driving horror stories abounded. It was a nightmare. How did parents survive such devastating events? Where did they find the strength?

She glanced at the time: 10:54. She called home. Ron's groggy voice answered. “What's going on?”

Isabel quickly relayed what she'd witnessed.

“It's a party, Iz,” he said sleepily.

“Are you kidding me? This is what you expected? Why on earth didn't you say so?”

There was silence on the other end. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Call the police,” Isabel said.

“I'm not calling the police. Have you forgotten you have a daughter in there?”

“
We
have a daughter in there, Ron.”

“So go get her and bring her home.” She could hear Ron breathing, thinking. He added, “Don't you remember what it was like when you were young, hon'?”

Somewhere in the back of her mind the word “
hon
'” registered. It wasn't a word he normally used. “Not that young! They're only thirteen!”

“Fourteen.”

“Christ, Ron, thirteen or fourteen, what does it matter? Anyway, we didn't have people like Sandy Littleton shoveling alcohol down our throats.”

“That's a little extreme, don't you think?” he said. “Just go get her, and we'll talk about it when you get home.” He hung up.

Rattled by his summary dismissal, she felt anger boiling up inside of her. How could he side with the Littletons? Correction, with Sandy. She tapped another text into the phone to Phoebe:
I'm outside. You have 2 minutes to get out here. Otherwise, I'm coming in. There's drinking and you know…
She erased the last sentence, wrote
I already left a voice message
, and hit send. She watched the little dialogue bubble turn blue and then a few seconds later came the popping sound that indicated the message had been delivered.

She bit her lip and took in a deep breath. The blackened tree branches grew eerily into something out of a horror film. She felt unnerved, unhinged, as if something really bad was about to happen. Every few seconds she glanced at her phone, willing Phoebe to contact her. Two more minutes passed. What if the police were less than a block away?

Unable to wait longer, she tore open the car door and ran up the walkway. She didn't care if the kids saw her or not. She strained to see if Phoebe was part of the couple still in the throes of passion, but couldn't really make out more than shadows.

At the door, she composed herself. Who would answer? What would she say? She dreaded embarrassing Phoebe, but finally she rang the doorbell. Laughter filtered outside. After another minute of standing there, she tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. Before she could let herself in, the door opened and several teens, none of them familiar, tumbled past her with furtive glances, a bit of giggling, and mumbled hellos.

She stepped inside and stood in the large foyer, momentarily at a loss. Should she call out to Sandy or Bill? As she paused there, deciding, she couldn't help taking a quick look around. The living room was off to the left and done in creamy shades of white, beige and pink. Though the lights were low, she could see dried flower arrangements and pillows of the same hue throughout the room. It surprised her that reproductions of Monet's “Water Lilies” and several other Impressionist paintings hung on the walls. Surely they could afford better than that?

At once, in the corner furthest from her, two of the pillows moved. Then they lifted off the sofa. She tore her gaze elsewhere, realizing she'd been watching two teenagers making out, then peeled off in the direction of noise and light.

The enormous kitchen was a mass of food and ice chests overflowing with sodas. On second glance she saw that some of these were cans of beer. Bud Light! Kids meandered about, grazing on an assortment of teen party food – open boxes of Domino's pizzas, several metal baking trays of mini-hot dogs, platters of cookies and bowls of chips and dips. All this, along with empty beer and soda cans, lay scattered on a long granite kitchen counter, a large oak table, and the counters of an island that housed a sink.

She was staring at the beer in the ice chests when she felt someone's eyes on her. It was Jessie. Isabel called out to her, ignoring the alcohol and pretending politeness. “Hey, Jessica, do you know where Phoebe is?”

Jessie flicked her eyes away from what had captured Isabel's attention and now looked at her curiously, perhaps wondering if Phoebe would be in trouble. “No, Mrs. Murrow, I don't.”

Automatically Isabel said, “Winthrop, not Murrow.” Catching herself, she added, “Oh, for heaven's sakes, where are your parents?”

“They're upstairs.”

“Upstairs? Well, could you please help me locate Phoebe?”

“Uh, okay.”

Isabel wasn't sure if she should follow the girl downstairs, or strike out in another direction, finally deciding on the latter. She peered into a few more rooms on the first floor, where she found more kids making out and drinking, then turned to the stairs, climbing them as if a string were drawing her toward some unavoidable destiny. “Sandy? Bill?” she called out. Despite two stories of separation, the loud thump of drums and guitars reached her.

At once Sandy's head popped around the edge of a doorway and into the hall. “Isabel? What are you doing here?”

“I'd like to ask you the same thing.”

“Well, I live here,” Sandy said, looking annoyingly composed and amused.

“Do you have any idea what's going on downstairs?”

With the same stupid grin, she answered, “Last time I checked the kids were having fun. You remember what that's like, don't you?” She hesitated, then added loud enough for Isabel to hear, “Or maybe not.”

Isabel shook her head. “I can't believe you. There's beer in the coolers!”

“Now how did those get in there,” Sandy said, phony consternation knitting her brow.

“What on earth are you thinking? Kids are drinking and then leaving your house.”

“Well, stop worrying, for gosh sakes. This isn't your party.”

“You don't care if someone gets killed?” Isabel tried to keep her emotions in check.

Sandy cocked her head. “In case you forgot, they're not old enough to drive.”

“Well, some of them must be because I saw a few kids driving away – in cars. And you're giving them alcohol. Last time I checked that was illegal!”

“Oh, chill out.”

Isabel felt her anger about to rage out of control. “Christ, you are a piece of work.”

“If it's so awful, just take your precious Phoebe home, and everything'll be all right. I promise.” Then, with a coy smile, she added, “Oh, and tell Ron hi.”

Isabel squinted at her a long moment, then turned on her heel and swept down the hallway. Now, as for Phoebe. Where the hell was she?

About to descend to the first floor, she saw her daughter at the base of the stairs looking up, her face twisted in confusion and anger. “Mom, why are
you
here?” she hissed.

Taking the steps quickly, Isabel responded in a loud whisper, “I'm taking you home is why. Let's go.”

Phoebe dashed ahead of her out the front door. As Isabel watched her go she used the remote to open the car doors. Then, following her daughter outside, she hesitated before joining her in the car. With her back to Phoebe, she pulled out her phone and without thinking touched three numbers.

There was an immediate response. “Emergency 911, dispatcher 5021, ambulance, fire or police? How can I help you?”

“Police,” Isabel said.

In a matter of seconds she was transferred. Hastily, she said to the woman who'd answered, “I want to report there's alcohol and underage drinking going on without adult supervision.” Staring at the house address, she gave the woman the number and street name.

“And your name?” the policewoman asked.

Isabel hadn't thought of this. Of course, they'd want to know. Instinct prompted her to quickly tap the red “end” button. Right after she did, she realized the police could discover her name by simply checking the caller ID. So the cat was out of the bag on that one. Too, they might think it was a crank call, in which case they probably wouldn't forward the information to the police on patrol. Well, if that's what happened, then fine.

Isabel hurried along the curvy pathway and got into the car. She sniffed the air and caught the scent of alcohol. She wanted to ask Phoebe to allow her to smell her breath, but stopped herself. What would be gained by that now? Maybe she'd have Ron do it. Why hadn't she thought to buy a home breathalyzer? Because until recently there'd been no need to.

Silent and sullen, Phoebe refused to even acknowledge her. In a way, Isabel was grateful, at least she wouldn't have to tell her she'd just called the police on Jessie's parents. Who might or might not get arrested.