In Some Other World, Maybe: A Novel

by Shari Goldhagen

  “Maybe it’s a big theater?” Gennifer offers hopefully.

  And once more the date seems a monumentally poor idea.

  * * *

  Phoebe’s bedroom is three times the size of the one she’d had at her mother’s house in Palatine, and in the center is a huge canopy bed that she’d really, really wanted when her father got it for her twelfth birthday. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him she now thinks it’s ridiculous. Her closet here is also twice the size, and she selects a blue baby-doll dress that makes her boobs appear slightly larger than the barely B’s they are.

  Remembering Evie’s Pippi Longstocking comment, Phoebe undoes her braids, smooths the ebony waves with her fingers. Oliver is tall, so she slides on Mary Janes with a three-inch heel that make her five eleven. Dots gloss over her lips and applies a light coat of mascara. Even before the nose job, everyone told her she should model, and at her old high school she got all the cute-girl roles in plays. Still, it’s different now. She always looked like her mother—pale skin, dusk-colored eyes—and their noses had been almost identical. With her new upgrade and her mother working halfway around the globe, it’s as if Phoebe has lost that entire world.

  She wonders if Oliver would have liked her as much with her old nose, if he would have been so eager to help her with physics.

  The doorbell rings, and she glances out the window at Oliver’s red hatchback parked in the driveway. One final check in the mirror, and she grabs a peacoat, jogs down the steps.

  Ollie, despite what Evie said, looks plenty good standing in the foyer, hands shoved in his pants pockets. Less attractive is that Chase (wearing a Captain Rowen T-shirt) apparently answered the bell and is deep in conversation with her date—something about the E&E comic books.

  “Hey, you found it.” She smiles at Oliver, angling Chase out of the way.

  He grins back and tells her she looks nice; her brother remains frustratingly close.

  Ollie asks if she’s ready. Phoebe nods enthusiastically, and they head out.

  Chase follows.

  Spinning to face him, Phoebe rolls her eyes to the left and raises her right brow in furious communication.

  “Ollie said he’d give me a ride.” Chase shrugs.

  Phoebe raises her eyebrows again.

  “It seemed dumb to make Gen schlep to the mall when you were already going, so I told her I had a ride, and she went to meet Dad for dinner.”

  “Did you tell her your ride was with me?” Phoebe’s desire not to appear a spoiled brat on her first date with Oliver is all that keeps her from screaming.

  “I didn’t think that was important.”

  “It’s really no big deal,” Ollie says politely.

  She’s about to protest again but concedes. Turning so only her brother can see, Phoebe mouths, “Fine, but we’re not taking you home.”

  Chase shrugs again. Phoebe takes a deep breath and tries to remember that she’s excited to be on this date, that it may be the first truly good thing that’s happened since she switched schools.

  In gentlemanly fashion, Oliver opens the passenger door for her, but the gesture loses something when Chase crawls in the back.

  Surprisingly, Chase doesn’t say much on the ride, though Phoebe occasionally feels his eyes on her. Oliver asks about the rest of her day and tells her about a crazy sub he had in calculus. She’s almost forgotten Chase is in the car at all until they pull into the packed mall parking lot and her brother points out the window at Nicole and Dave getting out of her BMW.

  “Look,” he says. “It’s your married friends.”

  Oliver gives Phoebe a curious glance, and she bows her head. “Yeah, Nic mentioned they might see the movie.”

  Ten minutes later, they’re in a roped-off line waiting to enter the theater. Chase is ten people ahead with a handful of ETHS underclass boys, who occasionally look Phoebe’s way and whisper. Phoebe focuses on ignoring them. Nicole suggests that they go to Maggiano’s for dinner after the movie, and Phoebe again tries not to commit to arrangements while not offending. Dave makes mindless small talk with Ollie about an AP math test.

  They’ve been there twenty minutes when Evie, dressed in ripped black fishnets and a tight ribbed dress, arrives with a college-age dude wearing almost as much kohl eyeliner as she is.

  “Sorry we’re late; we were fucking,” Evie says in the tough-girl persona Phoebe is never clear how seriously to take. Dave gives a choked laugh, and Nicole’s eyes narrow into the mother of all withering glances. Phoebe looks at her shoes.

  Evie starts to pull up the rope to join them, but Nicole crosses tiny arms over her tiny body and informs Evie that line jumping is rude.

  “Seriously, Nic?” Evie’s face ices over, and Eyeliner Guy looks tragically bored. “What’s the BFD?”

  Then, as everyone else just stands there, Evie and Nicole proceed to have one of their stare-down fights, the result of having been best friends forever and ever, long before Phoebe joined them full-time.

  Mercifully, the theater doors open, and everyone shuffles forward.

  But conditions don’t really improve inside. The only row with enough open seats to accommodate them is in the very front, and there’s awkward chair hopping as the group determines the best configuration of couples. When they’ve finally settled, Dave asks Oliver if he wants to go to the snack counter, and Evie suggests she and Phoebe hit the ladies’.

  “I’ll wait until you guys get back. Someone has to hold all these seats,” Nicole says, more forty-seven than seventeen.

  Staring into the wall of mirrors above the bathroom sinks, Evie applies burgundy lipstick to already burgundy lips, blots on a paper towel.

  “So Oliver seems cool,” she says, apparently having forgotten that Phoebe is way too hot for him. “How far do you think you’ll go tonight?”

  Embarrassingly, it takes Phoebe a half second to realize what Evie is asking.

  “I don’t know.” She tries not to sound rattled. “Guess it depends what time the movie gets out.”

  “This is the fifth time Reed and I’ve hung out, and he’s older.” Evie sprays perfume on her ample cleavage, teases tawny hair. “I’m pretty sure he’s expecting the works,” she says with a hint of sadness.

  While Phoebe figured that Dave and Nicole were probably sleeping together, and that there may have been a slab of truth in all of Evie’s talk, she’s never actually told the girls she’s still a virgin—that the pinnacle of her sexual experience was giving a pretty cruddy handjob to Jared Wells after junior prom. And she realizes Evie and Nicole may have just assumed she’s more experienced than she is, either because she’s pretty or because her old school had a high rate of teen pregnancies. This discovery is so completely isolating and unnerving that Phoebe ducks into one of the toilet stalls, leans her head against the plastic divider, and just breathes for several minutes until Evie asks if she fell in or needs a tampon.

  As the girls are leaving the bathroom, Evie bumps into Chase, who was apparently standing directly outside the ladies’ room.

  “Careful there, mini-Fisher,” Evie says.

  Phoebe tries to communicate to Chase with her eyebrows that he should let this go.

  Based on her brother’s bizarre behavior all day, Phoebe fully expects that Chase will take umbrage at Evie’s ribbing, but he apologizes and starts back toward the theater.

  Spotting Oliver and a tub of popcorn at the condiment stand, Phoebe hustles over to help.

  “Hey there,” she says, and he stands even taller, handing her the diet soda she’d wanted.

  “Hey yourself,” he says.

  For a second they have their familiar ease from the school cafeteria, and this date once again seems a brilliant idea. She leans close, and he takes her hand; this time he’s the one who initiates the kiss. They’re doing that smiling/staring bit when she notices Chase standing next to them.

  “What?” Phoebe asks, caring less and less about appearing a spoiled brat in front of Oliver.

 
Chase doesn’t have an immediate answer, but when she raises her right eyebrow, he says, “I was gonna get a Coke, but Gen left before giving me my allowance.”

  Phoebe contemplates telling him off, but at this point she’s willing to pay a bribe and reaches for her purse.

  Oliver stops her. “I got it,” he says, unfolding bills from his own wallet. “Is ten dollars enough?”

  Thrusting her arm out in the universal motion for stop, Phoebe prevents the exchange. Ollie’s talked at lunch about saving for college (her own father has not only volunteered to foot the whole bill but is currently trying to sweeten the prospect with a new car if she ever passes the driver’s test). “You shouldn’t give him money,” Phoebe says to Oliver gently. And then, not at all gently, to her brother, “Don’t you dare take that.”

  “It’s fine,” Ollie insists.

  Chase thanks him, tucks the cash into his jeans pocket, and finally leaves.

  “I’m so sorry,” Phoebe says. “I don’t know what his problem is today.”

  “He’s just worried about you.” Oliver shrugs. “Wants to make sure I’m a good guy.”

  It’s a nice thing to say, and Phoebe wonders if it’s true.

  “Haven’t you noticed he’s been following you around all night, and the whole business with the ride?” Oliver continues. “It’s kinda sweet; I never did that stuff for my sister.”

  Maybe Chase is looking out for her? She tries to recall the last time the two of them did something together, decides she’ll go to his track meets in the spring and will drive him to school if she ever gets her license.

  “Well, I already know you’re a good guy.” Phoebe tries to sound sexy, to channel a little of Evie, wonders what Oliver’s expectations are about how far they’ll go tonight.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  Before they can discuss Oliver’s merits in more detail, Dave, his own sodas and tub of popcorn in hand, comes over and tells them the movie is going to start soon.

  Back at their seats, a preview for Jurassic Park rolls. Evie and Reed start making out, and Nicole and Dave melt into cuddle positions. Evie’s question from the bathroom still bouncing around her head, Phoebe notes, with regret and relief, that two inches of air separate her leg from Oliver’s and their hands are occupied with soft drinks and snacks.

  The theater darkens further, and images of a violent plane crash fill the screen. Seated so close, Phoebe is instantly nauseated by the loud pops and whirls and jumpy camera work.

  Vomiting on Oliver would definitely answer the question of how far they’ll go tonight. Closing her eyes makes it a bit better; perhaps she can remain like this for the whole two hours.

  Breath on her shoulder makes her shudder. Oliver in her ear: “Let’s get outta here.”

  They hunch over, but still their backs cast shadows on the screen as they get up. A few people, probably her brother’s friends, boo at them.

  As they slink past, Nicole gives Phoebe the kind of challenging glance she usually reserves for Evie fights, and Phoebe mouths, “Headache.” Face softening, Nicole whispers, “Call me tomorrow.” Still kissing Reed, Evie pats Phoebe’s arm as she goes by; Phoebe squeezes back in confirmation. Chase catches her eye as they walk by his row, and he starts to climb out. Using their eyebrow communication, she lets him know it’s okay, that Oliver is a very nice guy. Giving her one last look, Chase nods, eyebrows that he’ll get a ride home with his friends.

  Phoebe and Oliver continue to the exit and find themselves in the courtyard of the outdoor mall, where leafless trees are strung with Christmas lights, and the air is crisp and not terribly cold for December in Chicago.

  “That was a little crazy, right?” Oliver says. “I hate the front row, too.”

  “Did you really want to see the movie?” Phoebe unconsciously twists her fingers and presses them to her chest.

  “Naw, I mean, I used to read the comic books, but it will be out on video in six months. We can rent it then.”

  “Just the two of us?” she asks.

  “That would be really, really awesome.” He laughs. “Do you wanna get ice cream or something?”

  “There’s a good bakery on Sheridan,” she says. She used to go there with Nicole and Evie back when this wasn’t her regular mall, when it was a place to go on weekends with friends who weren’t everyday friends. When Evie and Nicole had known and dismissed Oliver, never suspecting he was someone Phoebe might like. When her brother was too young to worry about whether or not she was dating good guys. When most of her life was a world and the western suburbs away. But this world is kind of cool, too. “Maybe I can treat you to a cookie?”

  Halfway to the car, he takes her hand.

  “I had a nose job,” Phoebe blurts. “Last summer before I transferred.”

  Oliver looks at her bewildered.

  “I didn’t want you to see a picture of me and think I lied about it. And I had it done because I wanted to, not because I broke it in an accident or anything.”

  “Oh.” He still seems perplexed. “I like your nose. I probably would have liked your old one. Your nose really isn’t the reason I asked you out.”

  Technically she kisses him first, but Oliver is quick to kiss back.

  2 we still don’t have a winner

  Phoebe is surprised Adam is registered to vote in California at all, let alone in their district. He’d only moved into the second bedroom of her Studio City apartment in December, and for the last few months, he’d been so obsessed with whether the pilot he’d filmed would be picked up that she couldn’t imagine he’d gotten around to filling out the forms.

  The more surprising thing Phoebe discovers, when she wobbles from her bedroom at 9:00 A.M. on November 7, is that Adam is awake, showered, and dressed in something other than the NYU T-shirt and track pants he’s been wearing every day since CBS officially, officially passed on Goners three weeks ago. Adam is wearing gym clothes, but clean gym clothes, like he might actually work out, as opposed to getting drunk or high and insulting the TV and all the actors who do have on-air sitcoms.

  “Is this that hotel off Lankershim?” he asks, gray eyes alert, no longer drugged and dilated, as he studies the Department of Elections mailer.

  “Yeah, the ExecuStay.” Phoebe’s not even sure she’s still registered, but it’s good to see Adam off their secondhand couch, so she tells him to give her a few minutes and she’ll come along. “Just lemme brush my hair.” She starts to run fingers through her short black bob, but he reaches for her hand.

  “Don’t—it’s sexy like that.”

  It is; she knows.

  After he booked the pilot and they started sleeping together, Adam had suggested she chop the heavy, straight hair that had hung halfway down her back since sixth grade. He’d said it would accentuate her features, make her more distinctive. Following the cut, she’d booked two crappy local print ads through her crappy modeling agency and had gotten even more phone numbers slipped to her at the hostess stand at Rosebud. But it’s been weeks since she and Adam have had sex and, as they never bothered discussing what it meant when they started screwing, they’d certainly not gotten around to analyzing what it means now that they’re not. Phoebe’s been waiting for him to say anything.

  His hand still on her arm, him noticing she looks good—this could be that moment.

  He lets her wrist go; it’s not.

  “When I was in high school, they let everyone over eighteen leave early to vote.” His voice takes on the gauzy nostalgia it has had since Goners was pronounced a no-go and he started idealizing the small Florida town where he grew up. “I don’t think my grandfather’s ever forgiven me for going for Clinton.”

  She’d still been seventeen in November 1992, but Oliver had been of age, and when they were in love and telling each other everything, he’d confessed that he’d been confused by the punch cards in the voting booth. Kissing him, she’d whispered they should go back to her dad’s house, because she’d “never fucked a voter before.�
� (She’d actually never fucked anyone at that point but was trying on her sexuality and liked the way it sounded.) Now that’s the kind of line she’ll throw out at an audition to show she’s tougher than she actually is, something to say when flirting with the bartenders and waiters so they’ll remember to tip her out at the end of a shift. With Oliver, it had been different—eight years ago, sex had been a concept linked to love.

  Adam suggests they walk to their polling place, since it’s just down the street.

  “Nobody walks in LA,” she sings in her best New Wave voice, and when he laughs, she feels herself smile, excited she made it happen.

  The natural light in their basement apartment is so limited that, stepping outside, she’s temporarily blinded by the sun. Tripping over broken concrete, Phoebe grabs Adam’s biceps for support. He pats her fingers. Neither one lets go when she’s stable.

  “Are you going home for Thanksgiving?” he asks. “Your father and your brother called again last night.”

  “So everyone can tell me I’m wasting my life? No thanks.”

  Adam shrugs. “I like your parents.”

  The feeling wasn’t entirely mutual. Six weeks ago, her father and Gennifer had been in town and taken Adam and her to The Palm. While Gen had squeezed Phoebe’s arm in the ladies’ room and pronounced Adam “a doll,” her dad had barely contained a grimace when she’d said Adam was an actor, and he’d taken strange issue with Adam calling him “Dr. Fisher” instead of Larry.

  Phoebe doesn’t mention this. Nor does she ask if Adam is going to Florida. In February, after he shot the Goners pilot and he and Phoebe were hooking up, Adam had flown his mother out to visit, but he never goes home.

  She tells him Melissa, another hostess at the restaurant, is having an orphans’ Thanksgiving in Culver City (doesn’t ask if he slept with Melissa, who had asked Phoebe for his number last year after Phoebe and Adam’s acting class had come in for drinks).

  “We can do that if you stick around,” Adam says, and she thinks this might be his way of asking her to.