by Herta Feely
Sandy had gotten lucky when Bill entered her life; his timing had been perfect – she’d just turned 18 and things were rotten; in fact her whole life had fallen apart several weeks before. So now, she did her utmost to keep Bill happy, and really that was pretty easy. Give him a good meal, a few laughs, clean laundry, some steamy sex and he was good to go. Besides, in a sense, she’d given him Jessie and he loved the girl deeply.
That was the thing about Sandy, she never forgot the people she owed, nor did she forget the ones who’d slighted her. Like her mother. And that damn Isabel, she’d really gotten under her skin. She still couldn’t believe the note from the headmistress about some stupid policy for the “appropriate use” of Georgetown parents’ e-mails. If that didn’t have Isabel Winthrop written all over it, she didn’t know what did. Sandy took a giant bite of lemon meringue pie. Did Isabel really think she could get away with that?
The truth was, though, Isabel’s consistent year-long rejection had wounded her, more deeply than she cared to admit. So when she thought of Isabel now, she didn’t cry, no, she launched into an angry internal monologue, something Sandy was prone to, just like overindulging on sweets. And once she got going little could stop her. That evil woman does not know who she’s messing with, she thought. I’m going to make her suffer.
She would make sure of that. But how?
Sandy sucked a thick mound of meringue off her fork. Oh, God, that’s good. Another bite followed a long sip of coffee. She wound her tongue around another spoonful of lemon custard, drew it into her mouth, and sat there thinking. How to get to that woman? Really get to her.
Then, part of the answer materialized, as it always did. It had been sitting right there in her brain since her earlier memory of Les; in fact, she’d already made a start without fully being aware of it. Ron!
The delightful hum of shoppers buzzed around Sandy as she sat there, smug and cat-like, polishing off the last of her dessert.
At home in her kitchen, Sandy pulled out the Academy phonebook and turned to “M” for Murrow. A glib smile rose to her lips. She’d never forget the tortured look on Isabel’s face a mere Friday ago. Now, insert needle and twist. True Ron hadn’t responded to her first email, but she hadn’t really expected him to, and long ago she’d learned the value of persistence. Besides that email had only laid the groundwork for another more specific one.
So, what would she say? That she wondered if they could talk about the girls. Not a get-together, she’d save that for later. She figured it would be awkward for him to turn her down, and he certainly wouldn’t be telling Isabel about it. So on her kitchen computer she typed up a short note:
Could we have a quick chat about our girls. Things are a little tense!
I’m sure you understand. Sandy.
While waiting for a reply, Sandy clicked on the Internet icon. She went to Facebook, typed in Isabel’s name, but no, she still didn’t have an account. So she went to Liz VanDorn’s page to see what Academy moms were gabbing about. Nothing interested her. Why should she care about which college so-and-so had gotten into, or somebody’s “fabulous” new job, or some silly morning news item? The photos she examined more closely and commented on a few.
Next, she opened up Jessie’s page and scanned recent postings, checking on who, what and how many posts – the more the better in her opinion. She relished the notion that Jessie could be popular. But wait, what was that?
An exchange with Phoebe in Jessie’s private message chat box. A day ago.
Jessie: Are you still mad at me?
Phoebe: Not mad…
Jessie: Then what?
Phoebe: Confused, maybe.
Jessie: But I said I was sorry. Noah likes you, not me, you know.
Phoebe: Let’s drop it, okay?
Jessie: Ok, best buds for life?
Phoebe: Sure.
Sure? Sandy thought. Does it get any less convincing than that? She wondered what Phoebe might be saying about Jessie. Her eyes narrowed in thought. She hoped that her ill-timed suggestion to invite Noah wouldn’t backfire on her. She didn’t want Jessie hurt, or, God forbid, to become an outcast.
After the meeting at Ms. Kendall’s office she’d stewed all afternoon. Doesn’t want Phoebe to hang out with my kid? Fine. But she simply couldn’t let Isabel get away with dissing Jessie. That’s when the idea of Jessie inviting Noah had popped into her head. See how Phoebe likes that. No girl wants her crush to go on a date with someone else. Especially not her best friend. And yet she’d twisted the idea into a reasonable suggestion. And Jessie had bought it hook, line and sinker.
She checked her emails. Still nothing from Ron. He’ll come around, she told herself.
Late afternoon, as she unconsciously popped a peanut into her mouth and sipped a can of Bud Light, she sat at the kitchen counter studying Phoebe Murrow’s pudgy eighth-grade face in Jessie’s Woodmont yearbook. She decided the girl’s innocent looks probably belied her true nature. Lurking in there was someone just as mean as her stupid mother, though even Sandy knew Isabel wasn’t stupid, which made the situation all the more vexing. What are you saying about my daughter, Phoebe?
Wiping her greasy fingers on her new pink sweats, she left the kitchen and sprinted up two flights of stairs, though by the time she reached her messy office, she was huffing and puffing. Time to cut back on dessert, beer and peanuts. And get back on a Slenderella diet.
She sighed and checked her computer for that elusive email from Ron. The email that would get things rolling. The very thought of it made her smile. Just you wait, Isabel, you have no idea who you’re messing with.
Part Two
Revenge
Chapter One
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Phoebe slipped into a long-sleeved shirt, but there was simply no way that she could go shopping with her mother. Her arms were a mess. She kept staring at them as if some magical words might make the wounds disappear. To put her mind elsewhere she opened her computer, and logged onto Facebook. A new “friend” request. Hmm. Someone named Shane Barnett.
She re-read the name, but it meant nothing to her. Since the beginning of school, Phoebe had been friended by dozens of new kids, and her texting and tweeting had exploded. She thought Shane might be a friend of Max’s, but on closer inspection that didn’t seem to be the case. Shane’s profile said he went to Walter Johnson High School, which she knew was over in Bethesda near Westfield Mall. His message indicated he was new and that he wanted to get to know some of the kids in the area. He’d already friended Jessie and Emma, and a few other girls, though not Skyla. As she took in his Facebook photo she couldn’t get over how adorable he was. He had a familiar look.
She accepted his friend request and sent him a quick note. Welcome, she wrote, noticing he was instant messaging. Where are you from?
A shout from her mother interrupted her.
“You all set, Phoebe?”
“I don’t think I feel well,” Phoebe shouted down from her room.
“Oh?” Isabel said to herself. As she made her way upstairs, a feeling of disappointment invaded her. She’d been so looking forward to their shopping trip; at least a month had passed since their last intimate mother-daughter outing. Had Phoebe come down with something? She’d seemed all right a little while ago at breakfast and even the night before.
The carpeted stairs muted Isabel’s footsteps, perhaps the reason that Phoebe looked so startled when Isabel walked through the open doorway into her room. She noticed Phoebe hurriedly pushing down her left sleeve, or maybe she was just imagining it. The thought that Phoebe had cut herself again lodged itself in her mind. Although she hoped, as Ron often suggested, that she was just concocting things.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked, concern etched on her brow. “Should I take your temperature?”
Without looking up at her, Phoebe shook her head. “I just don’t think I’m up for a big shopping trip.”
Isabel sat down on the end of the bed a couple
of feet from Phoebe and put on a cheerful face. “So let’s make it a short, very focused one. Because if we don’t find a dress for the dance today, honey, I don’t know when we’ll get the chance. It’s next weekend, you know.”
Phoebe responded with a slightly aggrieved “I know.”
“So what’s wrong?”
She shrugged. “I dunno.”
Isabel wondered if she’d returned to moping about what had happened with Noah, maybe once more wanting to make her feel guilty. And Isabel couldn’t blame her, she felt awful about it. She wondered, too, who Noah was taking to the dance, and if perhaps that didn’t play a role in Phoebe’s state of mind. But instead of probing, she did her best to enliven Phoebe’s mood.
She suggested they go to Georgetown instead of a mall, preview a few stores by doing a little window shopping along Wisconsin and M Streets before checking out Claire’s Boutique, a cute shop with unique teen dresses, pricey and high-end, but stylish. The kind of clothes she thought Phoebe might actually like.
She scooted closer to Phoebe, who then rested her head against Isabel’s arm.
“I’ve got it, Feebs!” Isabel had suddenly hit on an idea that might pique her daughter’s interest. “Let’s go to one of your favorite second-hand shops and see if you can find something there?”
Phoebe twisted her head and looked up at her mother. A sweet smile blossomed on her face. “Really, Mom? Okay, let’s go.”
They began their search at Secondhand Rose, though Phoebe didn’t find anything there and then suggested going mainstream, which both surprised and pleased Isabel.
As they cruised the countless boutiques up and down Wisconsin Avenue, Isabel felt sunny and upbeat; she chatted about this and that and pointed out various items of clothing, (“wouldn’t that look terrific on you;” “check out this color, Feebs, it goes perfectly with your eyes”). Together they ducked in and out of one store after another, until Isabel felt certain that Phoebe had forgotten whatever had thrown her off-kilter earlier. Now she was clearly into the spirit of shopping. And Isabel willingly pulled out her credit card more than once.
Finally, they arrived at Claire’s Boutique, Phoebe appearing more enthused and happy than in quite some time, which generated an equally uplifting effect on Isabel. They each collected an armful of dresses, and followed an ambitious young sales clerk to a large dressing room. “Here you go,” she said. “Let me know if you need any help.”
Phoebe entered with Isabel close on her heels. But at the curtain, Phoebe blocked her path. “You wait out here, okay, Mom, and I’ll model them for you.”
“Okay,” Isabel said agreeably, though she would have preferred going in to watch Phoebe try on each dress, helping her zip and adjust them, and chatting with her as she did. But knowing how fragile these interactions with Phoebe could be, Isabel was careful not to mar their adventure together. So she sat down a few feet outside the dressing room and rested on an upholstered chair.
It was then, in that relaxed moment that an unbidden thought screeched into Isabel’s brain. Phoebe doesn’t want me in the dressing room because she has something to hide! She had trouble breathing when her mind gave voice to what her daughter was hiding: scars and wounds from cutting herself. As the ugly thought gained purchase Isabel had to restrain herself from jumping up and barging into the fitting room.
After a couple of minutes, Phoebe emerged. “What do you think?” she said, tilting her head to the side. She stood there and modeled the short black dress, with its gauzy long sleeves, taking mincing steps to turn around.
“It’s okay, what do you think?” Isabel said, trying to focus on the dress, not the sleeves of the dress. All the dresses Phoebe was trying on had sleeves, she now realized.
“It’s not the one,” Phoebe said.
“Just what I was thinking,” Isabel concurred.
Once Phoebe stepped back into the dressing room, Isabel returned to the racks, browsed for a second, pulled a dress from one of them, hardly bothering to check for size, and practically ran back to the dressing room. Without hesitating, she yanked the curtain aside, just in time to catch Phoebe peeling off the dress she’d just tried on.
“So I saw this, honey—” Isabel said, but halted in mid-sentence as her eyes fixed on Phoebe’s mutilated arm in the mirror.
Phoebe wore a look of horror as she stared back at her mother’s reflection. Her hand flew to cover the mosaic of cuts and scabs that disfigured the area just above and below her elbow. “Mom, why’d you come in?” She groaned as the dress fell to the floor, revealing more wounds on her thighs.
“Oh my God, Feebs,” Isabel said as she took a step closer to her daughter. What have you done, my darling girl? she thought.
Phoebe’s face puckered with shame.
Isabel’s eyes glistened. “Oh, baby.” It was all she could say, as tears streamed down her face. “I’m so sorry.”
While Isabel and Phoebe were out dress shopping, Ron took Jackson to his soccer game. He stood on the sidelines watching, then stepped away from the other parents to type an email to Sandy. She’d written the previous day and he hadn’t figured out what to say or whether to confide in Isabel. Of course, I’d be happy to talk with you, he wrote. Why don’t you call me at the office next week? Maybe Monday? Ron
Though distracted by Sandy’s curvy figure in his mind, he turned his attentions back to the field just as Jackson scored. All around him shouts kicked into the air: “Goal!” “Way to go, Jackson!” “Yes!”
On Sunday Phoebe stuck close to her mother, who’d set up a series of appointments for her with Dr. Sharma, beginning the following week. She felt catapulted back in time, as if she were 10 or 11, not almost 14. For once she didn’t mind being fussed over. Her mother insisted on tending to her wounds, dressing the scars, scabs, and wounds with a Vitamin E ointment. Her father prepared a fun breakfast (“All right, Princess Blueberry Muffin, what’ll you have?”), and with her mother, she took a leisurely walk in Rock Creek Park early afternoon.
They came to a halt at an overlook to watch the stream glitter in the sunlight, winding between the forested hills awash with fall. Phoebe began crying, as if the water had roused deep-seated emotions. “Mom, Noah is taking Jessie to the dance!” The despondent words tumbled out as though the two of them had been in the middle of a conversation.
Her mother’s brow furrowed. “Really? How did that happen?”
And that was all Phoebe needed to unleash the thoughts and emotions she’d suppressed for the past few days. She explained the tortured logic Jessie had used to justify her actions. It was Jessie, after all, who had approached Noah.
This time it was Phoebe’s turn to feel surprised by her mother’s behavior. She said very little, though the expression on her face revealed the depth of her dismay. And if Jessie had been persona non grata with her mother before, this secret didn’t help, but Phoebe didn’t care. No, her best friend had betrayed her, and now she sought solace, which only her mother could give.
Late afternoon, Phoebe went to her room to do some homework. She listened to the Jonas Brothers, Miley Cyrus, Adele and other popular singers on her iPod. Now and then, she checked her Facebook page then turned to Noah’s, and for a few minutes scrolled through his photos, of which there weren’t many. And happily nothing about going to the dance with Jessie.
She’d forgotten all about Shane, until she saw that he’d answered yesterday’s question. Dad got transferred down here from Baltimore. She began messaging with him and found out that he was on the Varsity football team. Still preoccupied with Noah, she ran out of clever things to say.
Then, almost as if sensing her discomfort, he wrote: gotta go to football practice. Later.
Phoebe was surprised he had football practice at this late hour on a Sunday, but didn’t give it more than a passing thought.
A while later, Skyla called. She wanted to know all the details of the dress she’d gotten. And she spoke of the coming dance. But nothing about Shane. Skyla always wanted
to talk about the latest guy with whom she or Phoebe had become Facebook friends. This neglect surprised Phoebe a little, and, she realized, it disappointed her. While chatting, she saw that Shane had left her a private message. Your eyes are so cool. I wish I could see them in person.
A thrill coursed through Phoebe, and she actually felt herself blushing. Eager to end the call, she kept her answers brief without being rude. “What’s with you?” Skyla asked at once. “Nothing,” Phoebe said, “let’s talk tomorrow,” and then hung up.
Since Shane didn’t attend her school, she felt less inhibited in her response, so she wrote exactly what she thought: Thanks, maybe you can? BTW: You remind me of the guy in Twilight.
You remind me of Emma Stone. ;-)
Phoebe laughed aloud, feeling a sense of unrestrained glee. If he thought she looked like Emma Stone, then they truly were meant to be friends. She was about to ask how he knew she adored the actress’s looks, but before she could, he’d written to her again.
Do you have a boyfriend? No, don’t tell me, of course you do. To which she wrote: No, not really. How about you? Do you have a girlfriend? To which he responded: Of course not, otherwise I wouldn’t be flirting with you!
She touched the word “flirting” on the screen and rubbed her finger across it, as if by doing so she could somehow reach through the netherworld of computers and connect with him. After they signed off, Phoebe printed out his Facebook photo and pinned it to her bulletin board. And studied it repeatedly. In bed that night, Phoebe tried to imagine what it would be like to meet him.
