Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (3 page)

Mother and daughter arrived home at nearly the same time. Isabel had left work a little early to make this day a memorable one. When Phoebe entered the kitchen, Isabel could hardly contain herself. “How was the first day of high school, sweetie?”

Phoebe's eyes slid across Isabel's face and stopped somewhere beyond her left shoulder. She slipped into a kitchen chair and propped her elbows on the table, her head heavy in her hands. Then her chin trembled and Isabel was certain she was about to break into tears. She stared at her daughter, trying to decide what to say or do. What could have happened?

She crossed the room and ran her hand over Phoebe's hair and across her shoulders, saying nothing. A few moments later, Phoebe wiped her eyes with her sleeve and finally told her mother about Skyla. In the process, her eyes darted about, as if frantic to find shelter. “I can't do it, Mom, I can't go back to that school.” She sounded forlorn, like a child someone had abandoned in the woods. Like the fairy tale Gretel.

As she looked at her, Isabel's morning gratitude turned to dust.

For the rest of that first week of school, Isabel pumped up her daughter. “It'll be okay. It will. You're not a little girl anymore. You can handle this. You can.”

And each day Phoebe told herself that eighth grade belonged to the past, as her mother and Dr. Sharma directed. “I can handle it.” She mouthed the words, as she looked herself up and down in the mirror, selecting just the right clothes and the right amount of make-up, wearing her reddish-blonde hair in a long smooth curve that ended about two inches below her shoulders. Isabel would enter her room, smile at her and tell her what a smart girl she was.

Nevertheless, each day when Phoebe stepped through the doors of the school, she couldn't help peering around skittishly, just waiting for Skyla VanDorn to pounce and again make life miserable. At least, as her mother had observed, they didn't share a single class.

On those occasions when Phoebe couldn't avoid Skyla's gaze, usually across an acre of students, it seemed that Skyla directed a fabulously friendly smile at her. No matter how hard she tried, Phoebe couldn't help glancing over her shoulder in search of the real recipient of that winning expression. But it seemed the waves and smiles were meant for her.

No way she would trust that, though. No way would she fall into one of Skyla's malicious traps. “No way,” Jessie and Emma would say, buttressing their friend and peppering her with silly jokes about stupid Skyla.

Then on Friday, at the end of the second week of school, it happened.

In the morning, just before school started, Phoebe was hanging out with Jess, and she noticed that Skyla had again spotted her in the Great Hall. Surrounded by her usual clique, Skyla beelined toward them. Though of average height, Phoebe's nemesis seemed tall, very tall, and her stride purposeful. Her blonde-streaked ponytail flipped maniacally from side to side as she pushed closer to Phoebe and Jessie. No fewer than five girls shadowed her like bodyguards, maneuvering their way between clusters of students.

Phoebe grasped Jessie's arm. “Oh, my gosh, here she comes,” she said in a breathy whisper, her hard-won courage all but failing her.

“It'll be okay,” Jessie said softly, her eyes tracking Skyla's dogged movement toward them. “You're fine. Just be cool.”

A few seconds later, Skyla wore a triumphant grin as her assured walk ended and she stood before them. “Isn't this sooo exciting?” she gushed at Phoebe.

“What?” Phoebe said, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Four grades of boys to choose from! Not just one like last year. Isn't that sooo awesome? Every day I can hardly wait for lunch. My friend Kevin says that's where they check you out.” She arched her eyebrows dramatically. “At lunch in the cafeteria.”

Phoebe's palms grew sweaty and her throat constricted, making it almost impossible to talk. “I thought you were, uh, going to—uh—” she groped for the end of the sentence. To another school, she wanted to say.

“So who's Kevin?” Jessie said, intervening smoothly.

“He's a sophomore. Very awesome dude.” Turning back to Phoebe, Skyla said, “Don't you just love the salad bar, Feebs?” Feebs was Phoebe's nickname from grade school.

At the mention of food, Phoebe's stomach twisted painfully and the urge to flee grew. But Skyla's entourage had formed a tight circle around the girls, giggling and chattering and nodding, making escape impossible. “Yeah, it's great,” Phoebe managed, dreading what Skyla would say next, wishing she would leave.

Skyla cocked her head, and Phoebe took a step back, afraid of her penetrating eyes, as if in a single glance they could decipher her every thought and fear. “Look,” Skyla said, leaning in confidentially and lowering her voice, “could we like maybe leave all that crap behind, you know, from last year? And sit together at lunch?” Her eyebrows rose half an inch.

Phoebe studied her face, searching for the familiar hint of sarcasm, but Skyla's expression seemed genuine. And the warmth of her voice lingered, enveloping Phoebe like a down blanket. Despite their tortured past, Phoebe could feel herself wanting to believe Skyla. For a moment, she hovered between two worlds. One in which she imagined herself smiling and walking away and another in which she let bygones be bygones. The chasm between the two seemed vast. Then, avoiding Jessie's intense stare, Phoebe said, “Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”

“Okay, deal,” Skyla said and lifted her palm for a high five. Phoebe smacked it. As if she'd completed her mission, Skyla said, “Let's go,” to her troupe and tilted her head toward the door just as the school buzzer bleated. Like a flock of butterflies, Skyla and her friends fluttered away, whispering and laughing.

Phoebe began to move with them until she felt Jessie's arm jerk her back.

Phoebe stopped. “What?”

“Exactly, what the hell was that?”

“I guess she wants to be friends.”

“Seriously? She calls you ‘Feebs' once, invites you to lunch, and you trust her? After what she did to you all last year?!”

“Maybe she's changed.”

Jessie heaved an exasperated sigh. “Murrow, you've got a lot to learn.”

Often the simple things in life made Sandy happy. And Fridays were one of them. Today, though, as she rummaged through her gargantuan closet, a touch of anxiety bubbled up. Generally, Sandy experienced little nervousness, but the task at hand, selecting the appropriate dress for the evening's ninth grade parents' party, prompted perfect rings of sweat to blossom on her t-shirt.

One part of her looked forward to the event, while another wished that this Friday marked nothing more than the beginning of a casual weekend, a time when she'd no longer be alone in the oversized house Bill had built for her. On Fridays, she looked forward to doing things with Jessie – chatting, shopping, goofing around – and with Bill – dinner out, a movie, a round of golf with a few friends. The latter ranked right up there as one of her favorite activities, though she hadn't managed to get any of the women at Jessie's middle school to join her. She assumed it was because they belonged to the wrong club. The Woodmont moms, and now the ones at Georgetown Academy, belonged either to the Chevy Chase Club or to Congressional. She and Bill belonged to Kenwood.

In Towson, some thirty miles north of DC, where Sandy grew up, she'd joined her high school golf team after her stepfather had taken her to a public course. She'd had such a good time with Les that she wanted to replicate the experience. Plus, the golf team gave her as much time away from home as she wanted. Her mother definitely hadn't missed her. Immersed in the sport, she could imagine another kind of life than the one she'd gotten stuck with.

Now, standing in her closet, she longed for a simple night of duck pins with Bill at their club; she longed for that hushed moment when her ball glided down the lane – her body bending and twisting to influence the ball's trajectory – and then the clattering noise, the nanoseconds of suspense, her breath held, awaiting the outcome. How many pins had her ball knocked over? When she got a strike, she often squealed or shrieked, all eyes turning toward her. And she basked in the glow of their attention.

But tonight there'd be no bowling. No, she and Bill would be mingling with the parents of all the ninth grade students at the Thomas's ritzy home in historic Georgetown. A mansion, Jessie'd called it. Though Sandy could hardly wait to see the inside, meeting the new parents gave her heartburn.

She knew that most, if not all, these folks would have advanced degrees, but especially law degrees. In fact, she'd memorized a line of Sandra Day O'Connor's to get a laugh at cocktail parties: “There's no shortage of lawyers in Washington. In fact, there may be more lawyers than people.” If necessary, she'd quickly refer to her as the first woman on the Supreme Court who'd recently stepped down. But there her knowledge ended. And, the fact remained these people were smart with a capital S, while Sandy had barely eked out a diploma from a college in Baltimore, not known for its brilliant students.

All those degrees brought on long moments of suffering, especially when they trotted out the latest in domestic and foreign affairs, and references to concepts she couldn't care less about and often had never heard of. While she longed to penetrate the women's cliques, she felt more comfortable around the men. Despite their highbrow talk, she knew they were vulnerable to her charms. She giggled.
Highbrow
. Not part of her vocabulary, though on occasion she'd drop it and other such words into conversations. Sandy's instinct to fit in kept her sharp.

She pulled a red, low-cut, jersey dress out of the closet. Held it before her in the full-length mirror. It had possibilities. Though maybe a little too bright. She knew this crowd of women tended to wear black to evening gatherings. Like going to a funeral, she thought. She tossed the red dress onto her bed and picked up the phone. She'd call Isabel and find out what
she
was wearing. Perhaps this was the kind of call that would help her connect with Phoebe's mom. She was impossibly busy and never had time for her.

As the phone rang, she glanced at her watch. Isabel had once asked her not to call during business hours, except maybe at lunchtime or in case of an emergency with the girls. Sandy had felt the “request” to be rude and unfriendly, but now it made her nervous to be calling. Still, it was close to noon, so maybe that qualified as lunchtime.

“Hello? Isabel Winthrop here.”

Her officious greeting made Sandy hesitate before launching in. “Hey, it's me, Sandy, hope this isn't a bad time? How are ya?”

After a slight hesitation, Isabel answered, “I'm fine. What can I do for you?”

Sandy cringed at her businesslike tone. And she didn't sound fine. Not really. “Well, I was just wondering what you're planning to wear tonight? To the parents' party, I mean. I figured you'd know what's appropriate, you being a room parent and all? One of the hosts, you know?” Sandy's nerves were getting the better of her.

“It was on the invitation, wasn't it? Business attire, I think we said, since some people will be going there straight from work.”

Was that a dig? Sandy wondered, since she worked from home, selling a product that didn't impress Isabel in the slightest. “Well, yeah, I just thought—” she let the sentence trail off. She didn't have the courage to ask exactly what constituted business attire? Why couldn't Isabel be a little more helpful? After all, Jessie was one of her daughter's best friends. Had rescued her more than once from that awful Skyla. Shouldn't that count for something?

“Oh, gee, Sandy, a call's coming in. I've gotta run. Business. Would you excuse me?”

“Sure. See you tonight.” Sandy hung up. She twisted a lock of her tinted blond hair around her index finger.
Guess I set myself up for that one
, she thought. She was glad, though, that she'd heard a telephone ringing in the background. At least Isabel hadn't lied.

Sandy had made a few acquaintances last year, but now their daughters were attending another school. Back to square one. She'd tried Emma's mother, Lorraine, but she was just plain strange. Practically an outcast. Isabel seemed her best bet, and yet the coldness of Isabel's voice still echoed in her mind. For the life of her, Sandy couldn't understand why she was so drawn to that woman. Maybe it was her sophistication, the ease with which she traveled through various social circles that Sandy envied. Wanted. Isabel could help her break in. If only she would. She owed her, didn't she?

In the next instant she wondered if changing her name to Sandra would make a difference.

That third Friday of school went well enough. Maybe too well. Phoebe had found most of her classes to her liking, especially English, where she not only fell in love with Ms. Dickinson, who had laughingly claimed to be a distant relation to Emily Dickinson, but also discovered she shared the class with Noah, her middle school crush. At the end of the first week, he'd come up to her after class and in a playful way asked her to trade. “Your notes in English for my help in Algebra?”

Somehow she'd managed to keep her cool. “Sure, Noah. That'd be great.” And graced him with a sweet smile.

They'd spoken a little more each day, before and sometimes after class. Today, as he ran his hand through the thick weave of his short rust-colored hair, his neck turned a splotchy pink, and she wondered what was up. Then he asked her to join him, Dylan and several other guys in Adams Morgan after school, an invitation that excited her.

“Can Jessie and Emma come?”

“Definitely. Meet you at Five Guys on Columbia Road, okay?”

The thought of this made her tingly and nervous. No way would her mom allow her to go to a neighborhood as sketchy as Adams Morgan, she knew this without even asking. But she had to go, didn't she? She couldn't say, Oh, my mom won't let me. Then other thoughts trooped through her head, questions her mother would invariably ask: Exactly what is it you're planning to do there? Who are you going with? Why Adams Morgan? In other words, the third degree.

Well, why not? she told herself.

At lunch, she searched the room for Jessie; she'd know the answers to these questions. Then she heard a shout. “Over here, Feebs.” It was Skyla. She took one more look around for Jessie, then, not spotting her, took her tray over to the table where Skyla and a few of her friends sat. Skyla scooted over and patted a place beside her.

Phoebe had sat with Skyla more than once since the previous Friday. It surprised her how easily she slipped into conversation with her former archenemy, much as they had before all the drama began at the end of sixth grade. The one topic she avoided, though, was mention of Noah and Adams Morgan, until Skyla asked, “So, who do you want to go to the fall dance with?”

“Fall dance?”

“Yeah, it's in a few weeks, you know, a mixer. Kevin told me.”

Wary of sharing such confidential information, she said, “I guess…uh, I don't know.”

“Come on, there's gotta be someone.” Skyla gave her a sly, wide-eyed look. “What's the big secret?”

“No secret.”

“Okay, well then?”

“Maybe Noah?” Phoebe said tentatively, recalling his hair, several shades darker than her own, something that seemed meaningful.

“Yeah, he's cute, in a dweebie way.” She grinned, her magnificent pink lips stretching across her fabulously white teeth.

Phoebe smiled. “I'm a little bit of a dweeb too, Skyla.” She shook her head. “No, you're not. Look at you.” She stared pointedly at Phoebe's chest. “You lost weight and gained it in all the right places.
Now
you look fantastic.”

These words jarred Phoebe, but before she could fully consider them she felt someone's eyes on her; and when she glanced up, she saw Jessie staring at her in dismay. “Hey, you're late, where've you been?” Phoebe asked.

“Stupid teacher kept me after class,” Jessie said in a disgruntled tone as she perused the crowded table. “Guess I'll look for another spot. You seen Emma?”

“She got switched to next shift. Come here, Jess.” Phoebe tried to squeeze over but to no avail.

“Over there, Jessie,” Skyla said, motioning for two of the girls at the other end to make room. When they didn't, she said, “Hey, guys, move. Okay?” Reluctantly, Jessie sat down.

“Everybody happy?” Skyla chirped before turning back to Phoebe. “You know who I want to go with?”

“No, who?” Phoebe said, trying to make eye contact with Jessie.

“Max. He's a sophomore. Made Varsity football. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah, that's cool all right,” Phoebe said, planning to move to the other end of the table as soon as someone left. But Skyla chattered on, making escape impossible.

At once, Skyla lowered her voice. Eyes wide, she said, “What do you think about a joint birthday party, Feebs? Sweet fourteen?” She batted her lustrous eyelashes in dramatic fashion. “Just like the old days?”

Phoebe wanted to correct her, sweet sixteen, not fourteen, but confined herself to, “Okay, sure,” recalling their tenth and eleventh birthday parties. They'd been fun – delightful, really – and she yearned for the uncomplicated normalcy of those days.

“Maybe we can have it at the club?” Skyla went on, referring to the Chevy Chase Club, where Phoebe's parents were members and Skyla's had once hoped to join. Phoebe's eyes traveled to the end of the table worried Jessie might hear, but she was chatting with Daisy.

“Yeah, maybe,” Phoebe said. “I'll have to check with my mom.”

After lunch, and out of earshot of Skyla, Jessie said, “Your new best friend, huh?”

“Yeah,” Phoebe said and they both laughed, though she detected a hint of jealousy. She imagined if she claimed that she and Skyla had both matured, her comment might be met with Jessie's crossed arms and a skeptical look.

So there was no way she would tell her about Skyla's suggestion of a joint birthday party. In her mind she was already making excuses: Well, our birthdays are only a week apart in November. It'll be fun, don't you think? And, really, I think Skyla
has
changed.

Now she hugged Jessie and whispered Noah's invitation into her ear. Minutes later, a plan was in place to deflect Phoebe's mother's questions.