Extraordinary

by Nancy Werlin

  It was a regular bedroom, as bland as Mallory’s, with white walls, two windows with roller shades, a nightstand, and a small desk heaped with papers. And also, naturally, a bed—unmade, with tumbled sheets and a comforter slipping off one side. Phoebe glanced at it only briefly before looking down, away, anywhere else but at it or at Ryland.

  He stood a scant inch behind her, so close that she could feel heat radiating from his body. His hands came down suddenly, heavily, to curve over on her shoulders and gently but forcibly position her in the middle of the room. His breath stirred the hair on top of her head. His voice was low, amused, narcotic. “Do you see anything unusual here?”

  “I—no.” Phoebe’s answer whispered out of her throat.

  Only when she felt his breath against the back of her bare, suddenly dampened neck did Phoebe realize Ryland had gathered her hair and moved it aside. “What do you see?”

  “Uh—furniture.”

  She felt his mocking smile against her skin. “I see my bed. Do you see it too, or do you see that garden bower you mentioned? Or maybe, hmm, both?” His breath moved to her ear.

  Now Phoebe literally could not reply. She had no breath, no thoughts, no words. But it wasn’t asthma—

  “Poor little Phoebe-bird.”

  His body brushed heavily against her back as he moved around her, stood in front of her.

  Phoebe felt heated and ashamed, frightened and excited. Somehow she found the courage to look at him.

  Holding Phoebe’s eyes, he moved deliberately backward a few steps. He sat down on the edge of his bed. He was no longer the slightest bit amused, there was something else in him now, an emotion just for her; an unmistakable desire. It pulled at her. It felt perilous, exciting, and more than anything, disarmingly honest in its longing. Phoebe chewed the inside of her cheek and tasted blood. Reality was a regular bedroom that only felt enchanted, and that was enough.

  He opened his arms.

  She never remembered going to him. She was simply there, standing before him, reaching out her own arms, moving—awkward, untried—onto his lap. His arms wrapped around her, a dragon whipping its muscular tail around a small prey—no, what a weird vision! Another stupid hallucination. Phoebe closed her eyes—

  Ryland’s hands settled on either side of her head. They turned her mouth to his, gently, gently. His lips teased hers; warm, soft. His body, his arms, his hands, his lips on hers, his mouth opening hers.

  She’d never been held like this. It was astonishing; she felt secure and at the same time, deliciously, dangerously, wanted.

  Then the salt taste of her blood filled both their mouths. It sickened Phoebe, but Ryland murmured something, and she didn’t pull away after all, but instead moved closer and—

  Mallory’s scream broke through Phoebe’s fog.

  “Phoebe—red light!”

  Belatedly, Phoebe stepped on the car brakes. A horn blared ferociously from somewhere, while ahead of her a white Subaru wagon swerved, just missing Phoebe’s car. She caught a glimpse of the driver’s angry face and of his mouth moving, his middle finger flashing, before he was through the intersection and away.

  Two other cars were now blowing their horns at her as well.

  Phoebe exhaled. “Sorry,” she said to Mallory. “Sorry, sorry!”

  With the car at a standstill, Phoebe leaned her head momentarily on the steering wheel.

  It had just been a kiss. True, a kiss on a bed, with arms wrapped around each other, bodies pressed against each other, but still only a kiss, no more than a kiss, she was eighteen, why couldn’t she be kissed, what could be wrong with a kiss, even a blood-filled kiss—the blood was Phoebe’s own fault, of course, for chewing her own cheek, a terrible habit, she had to stop it. There’d been no time for more than a kiss . . . which was good, wasn’t it? Or was it?

  “Phoebe? Would you drive on now?” Mallory sounded panicked, but not as panicked as Phoebe felt. “You can’t park here in the middle of the intersection. Go a little farther and then pull over. Can you do that? Phoebe?”

  Phoebe gathered herself. “Right. Sorry.” She lifted her head, and then, after another second, moved her foot off the brake and got the car moving forward again. She drove gingerly through the intersection and, when it was safe, pulled over to the side of the road and parked. “Sorry,” she said again. She glanced helplessly at Mallory. “I was thinking about—about—um, maybe it would be better if you drove?”

  Mallory exploded. “What’s wrong with you, Phoebe? Have you gone crazy suddenly? I don’t know how to drive!”

  “Oh,” said Phoebe. “I knew that. Bad joke. You could hardly do worse than me.” She tried a smile.

  Her lips felt strange. Of course they did. She ran her tongue nervously over the wound on the inside of her cheek. His tongue had caressed that too—

  “What’s wrong with you, Phoebe?” Mallory’s eyes were narrow.

  “Noth—”

  “Don’t you dare say nothing’s wrong. This is me. What’s going on?”

  Phoebe averted her eyes, but she could feel Mallory’s gaze boring into her like a laser.

  The desire to tell her everything was strong. She could almost feel the words pressing against her throat, clamoring to come out.

  Mallory, I’ve had such a crush on your brother since I met him, and I found out today he’s interested in me too, and so we’re going to just try and see where it goes. Don’t worry; I won’t neglect you and neither will he. We talked about that already. Actually, I think it will be great! I already love you, so it just makes sense, doesn’t it, that I’d love your brother too? And even the other way around? And imagine—and I know this is way too soon, years too soon, to think about—but imagine, what if Ryland and I ended up married one day? We would be sisters! And you’re the exact sister I would have picked if I could. How great would that be?

  The rush of words in her head sounded hysterical even to Phoebe. She was glad she wasn’t going to say them. Ryland had said not to confide in anybody, not yet. He had said they needed to keep this a secret, at least for now, from everybody.

  At first Phoebe thought he meant that they should keep the secret only from her parents. She had not needed that warning; she knew that would be a bad idea right now. Her parents would worry about the age difference between her and Ryland—silly, given that the age difference between Phoebe’s parents was even wider.

  But Ryland had meant Mallory too.

  He said, “You don’t know Mallory as well as I do. I know you think you do, and it’s sweet that you care so much about her. I like that. But there’re some family things that go into Mallory’s makeup, and I know them and you don’t, and so I’m a better judge. She’s a complicated girl. She’s going to be jealous of you and me. She might even warn you away from me. So we’ll have to handle her carefully, and we really don’t need the stress of that just yet. We have other things to focus on. More important things.” He’d paused. Smiled. “Personal things. You understand?”

  She’d blushed. “Yes.”

  “Also, I don’t really like the thought of you confiding, uh, private things to my sister. You know what I mean?”

  She did.

  She had said she would not.

  “So you won’t talk about me with my sister? You promise? And if she tries, you’ll refuse to listen? You’ll leave her?”

  “Okay. Yes.”

  “Phoebe?” Mallory’s voice had risen. “You look so strange. Is everything all right with your parents? You didn’t just get bad news—an accident, or—Catherine was traveling today, wasn’t she? She’s okay? Phoebe? Your mother is okay, right?”

  This shocked Phoebe out of her unwitting haze. Why in the world would Mallory suddenly be worrying about Catherine having an accident?

  “Yes, of course my mother is okay.” She turned fully toward Mallory. “She’s fine. It’s nothing like that.” She found herself laughing, ironically glad of the change of subject. “God, Mallory! Believe me, something like that, I�
�d tell you right away! I’d be crying in your arms, I’d be—and you’d better believe I wouldn’t be driving! Licensed or not, I’d make you do it. I’m sure you could figure it out.”

  In that moment all the tense, strained feeling between the girls disappeared. Mallory laughed too, and Phoebe grinned back. “What I’d do,” said Mallory, her calm self again, “is call Jay-Jay. Or a cab. I’d take care of everything, though, because you’d be a wreck. You’re right about that.”

  Phoebe shuddered. “No kidding. I don’t even want to think about it.” Then she thought of something she could tell Mallory. “It actually is a little bit about my parents, just not in the way you mean. It’s my SAT scores. I was trying to figure out a way to break it to them that I didn’t do well. I was rehearsing what I might say.”

  Mallory leaned in, frowning. “Wait, you got your scores? How come you got them and nobody else did?”

  “No, I didn’t hear about them yet. But any day now, and since I already know how I’m going to do, I just want to be ready. My mother is going to be disappointed.”

  Mallory sighed. “One, you don’t know how you’re going to do. You’re just guessing. And two, you’re wasting time and energy on stuff you have no control over.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Listen, do you feel safe to drive again? You can pull out now; there isn’t anybody coming.”

  Phoebe pulled out again onto the road. It was only a few more blocks to her house, and she managed to stay carefully focused both on her driving and on the lecture Mallory was delivering. “I’m sure you did better on the SATs than you think, but even if not, you can study this summer and take them again in the fall. Plus . . .” Mallory fell silent as Phoebe drove into the garage and turned off the car. They got out and headed inside.

  “Plus what?” Phoebe prompted, more to show that she was paying attention than because she really wondered what Mallory was going to say.

  “Plus, you don’t even know that Catherine would be disappointed.”

  “We’ll see.” This was comfortable, familiar territory to be on with Mallory. Mallory insisting that Phoebe was better than Phoebe herself thought. The dangerous moment—the desire to confess—had safely passed and she could breathe easy. For now, anyway.

  So there was only the evening of acting normal to be gotten through—dinner, homework, chat—before she could be alone in her room and call Ryland.

  Only a few more hours and then she would hear his voice again, and be reassured that what had happened with him today was real, not a dream or another stupid hallucination.

  It was actually worth knowing she might be a little bit unstable, a little bit crazy, if, in exchange, Ryland wanted her.

  CONVERSATION WITH THE FAERIE QUEEN, 8

  “Your Majesty, please listen to me. I know Phoebe better than my brother does. It’s true that I failed with her so far. But he’s going about this the wrong way. Seducing her—playing with her mind—please—”

  “He has told me his plan and it has met with my approval. Child, listen to me. I understand what you are feeling. But we have already tried it your way. We do not have much time. And you now have one last important part to play in your brother’s plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You will now quarrel with the girl. It will be simple enough. He has told her that she is to conceal from you that she is involved with him. When she has done this long enough to feel guilty, then you will act. You will reveal to her that you know. You will be very angry at her for her deceit. You will hurt her with your words, as deeply as possible, and thereafter you will no longer be her friend. This will isolate her so that she depends entirely on your brother. Do you understand?”

  “I—yes. I understand.”

  “There will be no changes or plans of your own. That time is past.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “You will do exactly as you are instructed. I must have your promise on this, child. No improvisations; no better ideas.”

  “I promise. I know we’re out of time. I won’t fail now. I’ll push Phoebe away and—and hurt her.”

  “As badly as you can, child. Undermine her sense of herself to prepare the way for the work your brother has yet to do on her. This is where her trust in you will be of good effect. If she believes you think poorly of her, she will think the worse of herself.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It’s true. I can make her bleed inside. It’s only that—”

  “What?”

  “I’ll bleed inside too.”

  “I have read your heart, child, and I understand. You may indulge in sadness about it later on.”

  “I understand. I—I know that you’re right. I’ll do it. I’ll obey.”

  “In every particular, you will do as your brother has decreed.”

  “Yes. I will. There’s no other way for us.”

  “And, child? I remind you: In any sacrifice, blood is always involved.”

  “I just didn’t think that it would be like this. For me.”

  “You made that choice, child.”

  chapter 17

  The next couple of weeks were both exciting and troubling. Phoebe felt as if she were a spy, figuring out with Ryland safe times and places to meet in secret. It was difficult, which in practice meant they could meet only briefly, frustratingly.

  Once, Mallory was also there. That was nerve-racking, but Phoebe discovered that part of her almost enjoyed the need to pretend in front of Mallory that she and Ryland hardly knew each other. The secrecy—paired with a few taut, clandestine seconds when Ryland laid his warm hand at the base of Phoebe’s spine, while Mallory was only inches away but turned in another direction—was—it was—well. It was dangerously, shamefully, wonderfully erotic.

  A split second after this incident, when Mallory turned back to face Phoebe and Ryland, Phoebe observed a sharp glance dart from Mallory to her brother. For one flash of a moment she thought Mallory knew, but then Mallory had smiled and laughed as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Then Ryland laughed as well, and Phoebe knew she and Ryland had fooled Mallory. She was so relieved; she didn’t want to disappoint Ryland.

  There were other ways in which the secrecy felt right too, and Phoebe decided this was because her feelings for Ryland were like a tender new plant that needed a protected environment in order to grow. She would probably not have confided in her parents at this stage, she told herself, if it had been some boy at school or even her friend Benjamin on Nantucket, who her parents liked. So why should this be different? Why should she feel guilty about not telling her parents about Ryland yet? She would not.

  On the other hand—with another boy, she’d certainly have told Mallory. It would have been a delicious part of the whole experience; sharing with Mallory, laughing with Mallory, getting advice and opinions from Mallory. Phoebe felt so sad about missing this, and at first she couldn’t figure out why. She had never heard anyone, anywhere, claim that part of love was talking to your best friend about it. Heroines in romance novels weren’t calling their friends every day and reporting in, were they? Jane Eyre, for example, loved Mr. Rochester in tortured silence.

  Jane Eyre had no best friend, however. A better example was Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy couldn’t blink without Jane and Elizabeth Bennet discussing what it might mean. Phoebe longed to talk to Mallory like that, but she couldn’t. Apart from the uncertainty about how Mallory would react, Ryland had forbidden it.

  So maybe it was Phoebe’s consciousness of this missing piece that caused the new, uncomfortable constraint between her and Mallory. Maybe this was why Phoebe found that she was suddenly unable to talk normally to Mallory anymore, even about things like school that had nothing remotely to do with Ryland.

  But Mallory was acting odd too. She was jumpy, brooding, quick-tempered, and impossible to understand. Her behavior had changed in general, not only toward Phoebe. One day in school, given a surprise math quiz, Mallory simply curled her lip in scorn and c
rumpled the paper. Phoebe could almost see the black storm cloud over her head, and she had a sudden flashback to the Mallory of seventh grade, with the tawdry fairy wings hanging off her back, the Mallory who had seemed so ferocious, so needy, and yet so completely incomprehensible.

  Phoebe didn’t say a word about the quiz. She didn’t even dare ask what the math teacher said to Mallory after class. She was too afraid that Mallory would whirl on her, scream at her publicly. She could almost feel that Mallory longed to do just that. And Phoebe’s guilt about Ryland made her feel that she deserved it. But that didn’t mean she wanted it.

  It was in fact amazing how quickly the mood between the two girls ripened toward an explosion. Phoebe could almost feel it coming . . .

  And it happened on a Friday night; the same Friday on which Mallory had spurned the math quiz. Mallory had that afternoon abruptly announced that she was staying over at Phoebe’s.

  There was nothing unusual about Mallory inviting herself; she had done it all the time in the past. Her room at the Rothschilds’ was truly hers, after all. But Phoebe could feel how different this was. Every minute of silence or forced conversation weighed heavily on her. She wondered how her parents could miss the strained atmosphere, but they chatted at dinner in the usual way.

  By eight o’clock, the girls were alone in Mallory’s turquoise room. Mallory sat on her bed, her back propped with pillows, tapping on her laptop, while Phoebe rocked, uneasily, in the little Shaker chair by the gas fire and pretended to read. She was supposed to call Ryland soon. How would she do that, knowing that Mallory was just across the hall? Should she go downstairs and call from the library? Slip out into the garage and call from her car? Should she text instead? But Ryland hated texting. He had told her that it was important to hear each other’s voices, if they couldn’t see each other.

  She was just trying to find the words to tell Mallory she was tired and was going to bed—even though it was barely past eight—when her dad showed up at Mallory’s open bedroom door.

  “This came in today’s mail for you, Phoebe.” Drew Vale handed over a college brochure. “It got mixed in with my mail. Huh. Oregon. Are you thinking of going west?”