Girls in the Moon

by Janet McNally

  “I don’t give a shit about Ben. This is about you, Phoebe.” She stood up in the sand in front of me. Dusty lifted her head and walked over to Tessa, sniffing her hand. Tessa didn’t seem to notice. She didn’t move her hand.

  “You can’t pretend things just happen to you,” she said. “You’re the one living your life. You’re the person.”

  She looked at me for one second longer and then she turned away. I didn’t follow her. I sat on the swing and watched her walk down the street until she was just a tiny figure on the sidewalk somewhere near her house. She could have been anyone.

  I sat on the swing for a few minutes more, and then I picked up Dusty’s leash and walked back home. The house seemed quiet and empty and though I thought about texting Tessa, or Ben, even, I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything. As I tried to fall asleep I went through the Morse code letters in my mind, all those dots and dashes, and thought about the messages I could send by flashlight to Tessa in her window, if I only knew what to say.

  I take a shower in Luna’s tiny bathroom, and then I come out, hair still wet, and stand in front of the refrigerator. This is the only place in the apartment with any photographs, but it makes up for the lack: the whole front of the freezer door is covered. Here’s Luna and my mother and me in Ireland three years ago, standing in front of a sapphire bay. Our hair whips around our shoulders, the exact same shade of dark brown in the sun. Here’s Luna going to kindergarten in our old red wagon, with three-year-old me next to her, clutching my stuffed bear, Fuzzy. Here’s Luna in her prom dress with Amala and Pilar, hitching up their skirts to show their garters. As far as the pictures show, her prom was perfectly fun: no ass-grabbing Dan Markham, no hiding in the bathroom. I wonder what I’ll remember if I look at the pictures from mine in a few years. Marshmallows and stars, probably.

  I open the fridge and take out the carton of vanilla soy milk, then a box of Rice Krispies from the cupboard. I’m about to sit down when I hear Luna’s phone chime a text message, and across the room, James’s phone does the same. Luna’s is right there on the table, and so I lean toward it. Without touching it, I can see that it’s from Archer. The screen goes blank before I can read it, and I have a short argument with myself about whether it’s ethical to read other people’s text messages. Then I stop arguing and click the screen back on.

  Going to Madeleine’s, it says. Any requests?

  The bet. Archer’s getting breakfast. I Google Madeleine’s and see that it’s a French bakery down Court Street in Cobble Hill. I could be there in ten minutes.

  “You’re the one living your life,” Tessa told me months ago, standing in front of the swing set. “You’re the person. You can’t pretend things just happen to you.” Here’s what I’m wondering: Will things turn out differently if I run straight toward trouble? If I go after the boy instead of floating around, letting him come to me? There is, as they say, only one way to find out.

  I put the milk back in the fridge. I find a takeout menu from a burrito place in a clip on the counter and a purple pen in a drawer, and then I write Luna a note in on the back: You’re asleep. I’m awake. Going out for a walk. I leave the note in the center of the coffee table. When I close the door, I do it as quietly as I can.

  twenty-four

  OUT HERE, I DON’T HAVE to be Phoebe Ferris, sister of Luna, daughter of Kieran and Meg. I can be just That Girl on the Street in the Blue Dress and Wet Hair. That’s what I like about New York. There are so many people that the chances of you seeing anyone you know at any given time are slim. You can disentangle yourself from your story. You can be whoever you want to be.

  Except then I open the glass door of the bakery and I have to be Phoebe again, because I see the boy I came to find. Archer is standing in front of the glass counter in his black Chuck Taylors, wearing a dark gray T-shirt and the same jeans as last night, I’m pretty sure.

  It takes me a minute to catch his eye because I don’t want to scare him, or seem like a baguette-buying weirdo who lurks around French bakeries. When he sees me he looks surprised, a question forming in his eyebrows, and then he smiles. It’s like a light goes on in his face.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.” I let myself smile.

  He walks toward me, holding a brown paper bag. “You found me,” he says.

  “I got your text,” I say. He looks puzzled. “I mean, the text you sent Luna. I peeked.” I point to my eyes then, as if he needs the extra clue. “I’m a text peeker.”

  “You can peek at my texts anytime,” Archer says, smiling.

  I feel my cheeks get warm. “Thanks,” I say. “Luna and James are still asleep.”

  “Really?” He glances at his watch. “Well, I’m just here to pay off the bet.” He holds up the bag.

  I look up toward the counter. “Where’s Josh?”

  “Oh.” He gestures over his shoulder. “He’s going straight to Luna’s. He’s a little slow in the morning. Plus he wants me to buy the pastries.” He smiles and pats his front pocket, and I stare at his pants a little until I realize he’s tapping his wallet. “Which is fair. I slept on his couch last night. You could pay a hotel bill in chocolate croissants from this place.”

  He holds the bag open for me and I take one out, half-wrapped in wax paper, a drizzle of dark chocolate on the top. I take a bite. The crust crackles, and the chocolate is smooth and bittersweet.

  “This is amazing,” I say, chewing, my mouth full of buttery pastry and chocolate. I pretend to swoon, sinking into a wooden chair at a tiny table by the window. “God, can I live here forever?”

  “Sure,” Archer says. “Well, probably not in this bakery.” He sits down in the other chair and takes a bite of his croissant. There’s one golden crumb beneath his lower lip and I want to brush it off with my thumb. Somehow I restrain myself. But then I knock my purse over on the table and my lip balm rolls out onto the floor. Which would be fine if I had only one tube, but I have at least four.

  Archer bends down to help me gather them. He raises his eyebrows at me under the table.

  “Is that all you have in that bag?”

  I laugh. “No,” I say. “I just always lose them. I buy a lot.”

  We both sit up and I snap my bag shut so nothing else goes rolling out. I look at Archer.

  “So what are you doing this morning?” I ask. My phone chimes then and I look down to see a text message from Luna.

  Hey, early riser, it says. What’s going on? I slip it back in my purse.

  “I have to head to my parents’ apartment,” he says. “My tuning pedal keeps shorting out, and I need to pick up my old one.”

  “So you don’t actually live with Josh?”

  “Not officially,” Archer says. “I crash on the couch a lot. He lives with three other guys and it’s actually kind of gross there. But it’s closer to the practice space, so after gigs I always sleep there. Going from Brooklyn all the way to the Upper West Side is no joke.” His eyes widen. “Once I fell asleep on the train and ended up in Washington Heights. It was a long ride back down.”

  “Can I come along for the ride?” I ask. Why not? Except that Luna might kill me for bailing on her. “I feel like I need to get out for a while,” I say. “I need an adventure.” I feel silly for a moment, as if the subtext here is: And you, sir, can you provide one?

  But Archer smiles, wide and warm. “Well, I’m not sure that going up to my parents’ place is an adventure, but you’re welcome to come along.”

  It would be easier if we could bypass Luna’s altogether, but Archer has to drop off the pastries. When we get back to the apartment, Josh is leaning against the front door.

  “Hey,” Archer says. “Luna and James are still asleep.” I stand there silently, not volunteering the information that Luna is, in fact, awake.

  “Damn,” Josh says. He looks at his wrist, but he’s not wearing a watch. “It’s like noon.”

  “Well, no,” Archer says. “It’s actually ten thirty.”

  “Right
,” Josh says. “Whatever.”

  I unlock the door for Josh and we all step inside for a minute.

  “Can you take this up?” Archer asks. He hands him the bag.

  “Where are you guys going?” Josh says.

  “To get my other tuning pedal,” Archer says.

  Josh looks at the bag of pastries. “Did you get the kind with the almonds and the chocolate?”

  “Yep,” Archer says. “But if you want one you have to deliver the rest upstairs.”

  Josh shrugs. “I guess that’s worth four flights.” He turns and starts up the stairs.

  I type a text to Luna then: Ran into Archer outside. Which is sort of true, in that I was outside her apartment when I saw him. In a bakery, sure, but who cares? Taking a subway ride uptown with him to get his tuning pedal. Be back in a bit.

  “Come on,” Archer says to me. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.” He touches his hand to the small of my back, but I’m already moving, over the tiled foyer and past the mail table and up to the heavy wooden door.

  When we step out onto the sidewalk, I feel as if we’re getting away with something. I look up at Luna’s bedroom window expecting to see—what? Her face, maybe, her waving hand. But I see only the curtain fluttering in the breeze.

  twenty-five

  MEG

  SEPTEMBER 1994

  I PUT THE RECEIVER BACK in the phone’s cradle and rested my hand on the rotary dial.

  “How’s your dad?” Kieran asked. He was standing at the edge of the kitchen table, holding on to the back of a chair. Our air-conditioning had broken the night before and the old box fan we’d propped in the window hummed behind him, blowing in hot, humid air. It was September, but the heat still wouldn’t let up.

  “They don’t really know yet,” I said. I pulled my hair off my neck, twisting it up onto my head. It was damp with sweat. “It was a heart attack, but he’s awake. He’s talking.”

  Kieran knelt in front of me and put his hands on my bare knees. “That’s good,” he said.

  “He’s going into surgery in the morning.” I heard my voice start to waver. “I have to go to Buffalo. Kit’s already there.”

  “Of course you do.” Kieran stood up. “Why don’t you pack a bag and I’ll call the airline?”

  I nodded, staring at the smooth and glossy surface of our kitchen table. My dad was a carpenter who did custom work in people’s houses: bookshelves and cabinets, sometimes a built-in table or bench. When we’d still lived in Buffalo, he and Kieran had built this table together. It took them a whole weekend, basically, because my father hadn’t just done it while Kieran watched. He’d shown Kieran how and let him do most of the work himself.

  “Will you come with me?” I asked.

  Kieran pulled out a chair and sat down. “Meg,” he said, “you know I can’t come today. One of us has to be at the VMAs or it’ll look like we don’t care.”

  “It’s MTV,” I said. “I don’t care.” We had gone to the Video Music Awards the year before, and though it was fun to see the spectacle (Madonna with her backup dancers in lingerie, dancing like strippers, for one), I could definitely have lived without going again.

  Kieran sighed. “Meg.” He held my gaze. “We need them to play our videos.”

  “Carter and Dan can do it.”

  “Carter and Dan aren’t Ferrises.”

  “Neither am I.” I looked down at the black-and-white tile of our floor.

  “You are,” he said, tipping my face up toward him. “You know you are. And someday we’ll make it official.”

  “Anyway, they’re honoring Kurt.” His voice was soft. “You know that.” I was surprised to hear him mention this. We hadn’t talked about it since we’d agreed to go to the show. After Kurt died in April, Kieran could barely say his name for months.

  “That just makes it worse,” I said. “Everything’s too sad.” A memory flashed into my mind then: Kurt and the rest of Nirvana backstage after the Video Music Awards a year before, being interviewed in front of a camera. On Kurt’s lap was Frances Bean, eating a cookie and clutching his beer bottle in her tiny hand. When the interviewer walked away, I caught Kurt’s eye. He waved, but another interviewer sat down just then, so I didn’t go over.

  “One of us should be there,” Kieran said, talking to himself as much as he was talking to me. I knew he loved Kurt, but at that moment, I wasn’t sure if he said this because of our dead friend or because of the cameras that would pan over the audience to see our tears while the memory reel played. “You don’t have to worry about it, though. Just go see your dad.”

  “My dad likes you,” I said. “He gave you a label maker.” I said this last part quietly, and as the words came out, it sounded a little ridiculous. But it was true.

  “Meg, I love your dad. And I love that label maker.” He smiled. “Just look at my record cabinet. You can always find the punk or the sixties soul.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I wonder what Madonna will do this time,” I said. “How can she top last year?”

  Kieran smiled widely, happy that I was willing to make a joke.

  “Maybe she’ll come out naked,” he said, smiling. “I promise I’ll cover my eyes.” He stood up. “I’m going to get you a plane ticket.”

  I knew I needed to get up and pack, but I sat for a moment, listening to the fan’s whirr and then to Kieran on the phone with the airline. He was trying to do the right thing—I knew that—but sitting here at the kitchen table, it felt wrong.

  twenty-six

  IT’S A LONG RIDE ON the train, and when we come up from the station the sky is sun-bleached and strewn with wispy clouds. Archer’s parents live up near Columbia, where his dad teaches economics. I remember the neighborhood from being there with Luna. We even pass the diner where I first met James.

  We walk a few blocks past the train until Archer stops in front of a tall gray limestone building. The doorman sees him and steps back to open the gold-framed glass door, beyond which I can see the dim lobby. He’s wearing a light coat even in the heat, but he’s smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “Good morning, Archer,” he says, and then looks at me.

  “Hey, Rafael.” Archer turns to me. “This is my friend Phoebe.”

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hello, Phoebe,” Rafael says.

  I smile and let him hold the door wide for me, but it feels a little strange to have a guy to open the door for me. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a doorman building before.

  Inside, the lobby floor is made of smooth gray marble, and light from the wall sconces seems to slide along it like molten metal as we walk.

  “Fancy,” I say.

  Archer presses the button for the elevator. It glows golden, an up-facing arrow dark in the center of it.

  “Yeah, it’s all right,” he says. “We’ve lived here since I was in ninth grade. That’s when my dad got the endowed chair. My parents wanted someplace they could give parties.” I imagine the partygoers walking across the lobby, the women’s heels clicking on the marble.

  The elevator opens. It’s big. The inside is dark wood, with a big silver mirror running the length of the back wall. For just a second I look at Mirror Archer next to Mirror Phoebe and I like what I see: a matched pair maybe, if you squint your eyes. Then I turn to face the door. Archer hits the button for floor twelve and leans against the wall. He even slouches cute.

  “Your mom must have a nice place, right?” he says.

  “It’s pretty,” I say. “We have a Victorian—a farmhouse, basically, but it’s on a city block. Super old. She hired some guys to paint it yellow.” I picture the big windows, the shaded porch. The two downstairs in the front have these fantastic arched parts filled with leaded glass in shades of blue and gray. I know my mom had this guy who calls himself the Glassman repair them when we moved in. “It was a mess when my mom bought it, and houses are pretty cheap in Buffalo. But I bet it’s worth a lot now.” The
elevator chimes and the door opens. The hallway is painted deep blue with glossy wood wainscoting running along the wall.

  “I’m not really sure what my parents’ arrangement is,” I say. “For money, I mean. I know my dad sends something. My mom just makes her art and sells it to rich people. And teaches at the university.”

  “I’m sure there are still royalties from Shelter,” Archer says. He stops in front of a door and pulls his keys from his pocket, finds the right one.

  “I never thought about it,” I say, which is true. My mom talks a lot about “rich people” as if they’re very different from us, and I’m sure they are, but it’s not as if we’re poor. “You’re probably right.”

  Archer shakes his head. He looks a little embarrassed. “I don’t even know why I’m talking about this. I get anywhere near my dad,” he says, opening the door, “and I just start thinking about money.”

  There’s a foyer inside the apartment, and beyond it, I see a kitchen with a huge, gleaming stove and granite counters. There’s a man in the kitchen, leaning against the counter looking at his phone. He’s tall with graying hair and ice-blue eyes, and he looks toward us when we come in.

  “Archer,” he says. “You’re home.”

  Archer nods. “I was at Josh’s place. We had a show last night.” He stands straight, his posture stiff, as if his bones are connected by wire. Archer looks at me, then back to the man. “This is Phoebe. Phoebe, this is my dad.”

  “Dr. Hughes,” Archer’s dad says, and he shakes my hand. “A pleasure. How do you know Archer?”

  Behind him, I can see that the front of the refrigerator is completely bare, no photos, no drawings. Nothing. “My sister is in his band,” I say. “She’s Luna. Um, obviously.”

  He looks at me as if he’s not sure what I mean. Then he says, “You’re a musician too?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m not anything yet.”

  “Archer is a musician,” Dr. Hughes says, and he turns his gaze to his son. “As for what he’ll be in another ten years, we’ll see.”