by Herta Feely
Phoebe hadn’t confided in Skyla about her growing interest in Shane; after all, she hadn’t even met him. Besides there was Michael. She also hadn’t told her about cutting or her visits to the shrink, and she prayed Jessie wouldn’t sink so low as to unveil her secret now that they were, well, not best friends. Then she picked out a pair of glittery earrings and put them on.
They all gathered, some thirteen couples, on the back patio of Skyla’s house for the “photo shoot” before the dinner. The parents took group shots, and then a few of each couple with everyone standing around watching. It was all a bit much for Phoebe, who tried to put on a happy face. It did not help that her mother kept mouthing the word “smile” and opening her eyes wide in that irritating way she had when trying to emphasize something. And Michael seemed to have a death-grip around her waist.
At last they all piled into a limo bus destined for the restaurant, the parents waving vigorously as if they were leaving for a distant country. Though everyone sat beside their dates, a lot of the girls chattered with one another like voluble monkeys while the guys looked vaguely uncomfortable in their ties and silly sports jackets.
Once the lights on the bus dimmed, Michael’s arm crept around Phoebe’s shoulder and he whispered something. She couldn’t hear what, so she inched closer, asking him to repeat, which she then realized must have been a ploy he used to kiss her, as his other hand slid beneath her dress and up her thigh.
Noah’s image swam into her mind. She almost started crying and tugged his hand away from her leg. “D—d—do you have to do that?”
Without skipping a beat or appearing the least bit shamefaced, Michael reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small silver flask. A smile materialized on his lips. “Have some of this,” he said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Yeah, right, she thought. Nevertheless, she tilted the flask up to her mouth and took a swallow. She coughed a little – the stuff tasted vile and burned her throat, but she was desperate not to embarrass herself. Though of course, she was like a fledgling bird, ready to spread its wings yet unsure how to fly. A novice, not only at drinking but kissing and dating.
A cheer rose up from the back of the bus and Phoebe pivoted to see what was going on. Two of the guys were chugging beers, apparently having a race. More cans of beer sprouted, like bouquets of flowers from a magician’s sleeve, and a bunch of guys joined in the drinking, which initiated a chant that grew in volume: “Chug, chug, chug it!!” The first guy to finish crumpled the beer can in his fist, then tossed it over his shoulder. The others followed suit.
The bus came to a sudden jerking halt. A light went on inside and the bus driver stood up, facing them. “All right, any more of that and I’m taking you all back to the VanDorns’.” His dark eyes swooped through the bus, stopping every so often to make contact with one of the boys and staring them down. “Understood?”
No one said anything. The boys nodded obediently.
“Understood?” he said more loudly.
“Yes, sir,” a few of the guys ventured.
Though no one believed he’d follow through, since their parents had hired him, they obeyed and the remainder of the ride to Sequoia, a glamorous Georgetown restaurant overlooking the Potomac, passed uneventfully.
They dined in one of the restaurant’s semi-private rooms, where alcohol again grew pervasive, with flasks and “water” bottles containing gin or vodka appearing beneath the table, in the bathrooms, and so on. Wherever Phoebe turned, she was being offered a drink. And she dutifully imbibed, only tiny sips, but still she could feel its effects.
Just before the bus arrived at the dance, mints in various shapes and forms made their way from front to rear, and back again. The “water bottles” remained on the bus.
Fall had invaded the school gymnasium. To enter, couples passed beneath an archway of yellow, orange, and scarlet balloons and once inside they found matching balloon bouquets floating throughout the huge room. Brightly colored autumn leaves, attached to construction paper, approximated foliage. Hundreds of twisted rolls of crepe paper of similar hues were draped across the ceiling and met in the center, where a huge rotating, mirrored ball reflected the blaze of color across the room.
No sooner had Phoebe and Michael stepped beneath the balloon arch into the decorated gymnasium knotted with teens – a transporting, even slightly magical event that gave Phoebe her first real smile of the night – than she spotted Noah and Jessie, Emma and Nick. Though earlier she’d feared running into them, now she gazed longingly at the covey of kids she still considered her real friends.
In contrast to her own outfit, she noticed that Jessie’s strapless dress was little more than a tube of black figure-hugging material ending maybe five inches below her crotch. Big dangly gold hoops swung from her ears, and at least a dozen gold bangles encircled each arm. She swayed slightly on black stiletto heels that seemed a little too big. Glancing at her own feet – encased in a new pair of Tory Burch flats – Phoebe wondered what it would be like to have a mother who’d let her dress like that. Gratefully, she noted that Emma wore a long-sleeved dress.
For an instant she contemplated joining them, but what would she say? Determined to make the best of things, she turned back to her group, hovering near Skyla, who seemed wildly happy.
When Skyla bounded onto the dance floor, dragging Max along, Phoebe abandoned Michael and followed her into the swarm of bouncing kids, many of them girls without their dates. There, hidden inside the throng, Phoebe swayed her hips and tossed her arms with slightly drunken abandon. At last she was having fun.
During several slow dances, she pretended that Michael was Noah and then Shane, though when he shoved his boner into her thigh, she pulled away and gave him a look. Now and then he snuck drinks from his flask, which he never omitted to offer her. If caught, she knew she’d be in big trouble, but the alcohol seemed to be helping her get through the night, so she took the occasional surreptitious sip. The next time he closed in on her leg, Phoebe felt far less timid and laughingly said, “What is wrong with you? Cut it out, okay?”
After another hour of dancing, Phoebe suddenly felt the floor tilt and saw the lights swirl. She mumbled an excuse to Michael and lurched off to the bathroom. She collapsed into an empty stall, where she knelt at the base of a toilet and heaved up her dinner. Disgusting. She hated the putrid taste in her mouth. Teary-eyed, she searched through her purse for a mint. Girls’ laughter resounded against the tiled walls and she imagined they might be laughing at the sound of someone throwing up, but she was too sick to care.
At one point, she thought the door to her stall pushed open and someone’s hand brushed her hair. When she turned all she saw was a blur of flesh and black fabric. “Jessie?” she said. But whoever it was had gone.
She finally peeled herself off the floor and peeked out of the stall into the bathroom. A few girls stood around talking; a couple of them were at the sinks examining their faces in the mirrors and putting on make-up. She avoided their gaze as she exited the stall and headed straight to the row of gleaming white basins where she washed her face, then repeatedly gargled water and spit it out. Still, her mouth tasted awful and she had a whopping headache.
As best she could she wiped the smeared mascara from beneath her eyes. She finally found a mint in her beaded purse, popped it into her mouth and sucked vigorously. After applying some lip gloss, she exited the bathroom.
“There you are,” Skyla cried, waving with her corsaged wrist. “Come on, time to go. Everybody’s been waiting.”
Michael seemed understanding and wrapped his arm around her, guiding her out to the bus. On the ride to Skyla’s, Phoebe tried to sit still to quell the nausea and to keep the pounding in her head from getting worse. She really couldn’t believe how horrible drinking made her feel. She also couldn’t believe that Michael had started groping her again.
She brushed his hand away and whispered, “I feel like crap, okay?”
He held his hands up in mock surr
ender. “Okay, okay.”
At Skyla’s house, the kids tumbled out raucously and filed inside, but all Phoebe wanted was to go home, lie down, and surrender to the oblivion of sleep. She began hatching an exit plan. She’d go in for a little, have a snack to settle her stomach, get her act together, then sneak out and walk the short two blocks home.
She glanced at the time. It was just past eleven. She’d managed to lose Michael and thought she might sneak out, even though her mother hadn’t set curfew until midnight. “Oh, go ahead, honey,” she’d said. “I want you to have happy memories of the dance.” Phoebe knew her relaxed attitude had to do with her guilt about Noah and the sight of her cuts. They’d truly affected her mother. Destabilized her, if such a thing were possible.
If her mother knew how much drinking was going on, she’d probably go ballistic, Phoebe thought. Just then, someone came around and poured something clear into all the girls’ glasses. Phoebe took a tentative sip. Another alcohol-laced drink, but she set it down.
“Hey, d’you see that crotch hugger Jessie was wearing? Jeez, talk about flaunting it.” Molly, one of Skyla’s lieutenants, searched the group for agreement.
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Sophia said.
Though Phoebe feigned disinterest, she was on the verge of defending Jessie. She might be mad at her, but who were these girls to talk about Jessie that way?
Just then Molly turned to Phoebe. “And what’s the deal with asking Noah? I thought she was supposed to be your friend?”
Phoebe responded with a tired shrug. Her anger over the whole Noah “thing” had waned. Just as she was about to wander off, something Molly said stopped her. “How about that cute Shane guy?” she said with a wide-eyed grin. “I want a chance to hook up with him!”
“No, no, me first,” Sophia added with a mischievous grin, “like in a dark theater!”
“Oh, keep dreaming,” Skyla broke in. “Not a chance!”
“He hasn’t even friended you, has he?” taunted Molly, who everyone knew tried very hard to imitate Skyla, in style if not substance. Long blonde hair, lots of pastel clothing, your basic Lily Pulitzer prep.
Skyla gave her the evil eye, then said, “As if I care,” a comment that fractured the room with more teasing and laughter. Phoebe watched with dismay, and thought that maybe she should encourage Shane to friend Skyla. It struck her as odd that he hadn’t, after all Skyla was the prettiest girl in ninth grade.
Amid the hectoring chatter, Phoebe snuck away to the food table and grabbed a pumpkin cookie frosted with a macabre face. She imagined Mrs. VanDorn and Skyla spending the past few nights baking and decorating them, and thought of asking her for the recipe so she could bake some with her own mother. As she nibbled on the cookie, Phoebe’s fragmented thoughts returned to Shane. His image shimmered in her mind, glistening in the distance, like the grand city of Oz. She thought of their Facebook exchanges. He wanted to meet her. Did he want to meet the other girls too? Did he private message them? She hoped not. Don’t have too much fun, his last entry had teased. No need to worry about that, she thought. And then imagined what she’d tell him about the dance. With that came a desire to see him, to be with him.
She snuck up the stairs, hoping to avoid Michael, who she’d last seen playing pool in another room. She figured he wouldn’t miss her as she tiptoed down the hall away from the sound of laughter, bypassing the bathroom, and sneaking out a side door. She hadn’t expected anyone to be on the porch, though. Maybe they won’t notice me, she thought. Just then a board creaked beneath her feet.
“Leaving?” someone asked.
Squinting into the dark, Phoebe saw that it was Daisy, swinging with Alex on a suspended bench. Hoping they wouldn’t make a fuss, Phoebe replied, “I just live a couple of blocks away.”
“What about Michael?” Daisy said.
“What about him?” Phoebe said, her tart reply pleasantly surprising her.
The crisp air helped to refresh her and strengthened her resolve to date Shane, before the other girls had a chance to, which made her look forward to something rather than back at the stupid Adams Morgan incident. She had a goal and she looked forward to making it happen.
She’d barely entered the night shadows, when footsteps echoed on the sidewalk behind her. She began to walk faster.
“Hey, Phoebe!” It was Michael. When he caught up to her, he grabbed her by the arm. “What the hell? Why’d you leave without sayin’ good-bye?”
“Sorry,” she murmured, hoping Daisy and Alex couldn’t hear. “I was tired and didn’t want to bother you. Seemed like you were having fun.” She tried to pull away, but his grip grew tighter. With her free arm, she pointed in the direction of her house. “I don’t live far.”
His offended eyes searched hers. “Don’t I at least get a good-night kiss?” Before she could say no, his mouth pressed against her lips.
“Stop it!” she said in a loud whisper as she pushed her hands against his chest, trying to shake him loose.
“Come on, baby, just a kiss.”
His breath reeked of beer, and she could once again feel his stupid cock hard against her thigh. “No!” she said. “Let go!” Only somewhat irritated a moment ago, she now felt an urgent need to get away.
“Max said you put out,” he said, his words slurring a bit. “Guess he was wrong?”
“Max said that? I don’t even know him!” She angled her body away from his chest, again trying to pull free, but his fingers dug into her arm.
His voice softened. “Come on,” he said, again trying to kiss her.
“No, Michael, stop it.”
Just then, a scene from a TV show punched into her brain. Instead of continuing to resist, she pretended to give in to his kiss. Once his grip relaxed, she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could and took off.
He let out a cry and stumbled back. “You little bitch!” he shouted after her.
Phoebe made it to the corner, where she briefly glanced over her shoulder. He was squatting on the ground rubbing his leg. As she rushed toward her house she looked back once more, but no one was there.
Chapter Four
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The doorbell rang and Isabel went to answer it. She was expecting to see Phoebe and Michael, not this mess of a girl who ran inside, angry and shouting.
“Phoebe, what on earth—” she said as she closed the gap between them. “What happened, sweetheart?”
All Isabel could hear was that Michael was a total creep, that she never wanted to see him again, that she hated him, and that he was so stupid. Then she revealed a little of what he’d done a few minutes earlier. She admitted to having taken sips of alcohol, hating it, and begging for forgiveness. “Please don’t punish me. I’m sorry,” she said. And Isabel knew this wasn’t the time to even reprimand her, including for walking home alone, but she couldn’t help wondering why awful things kept happening to her daughter. Was this normal?
“What are you doing here?” Phoebe snapped at Isabel the following morning.
Isabel hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but her daughter’s nasty tone put her in no mood to apologize. “I was taking care of you. Remember, last night?” she answered tersely.
“How could I forget?” Phoebe shot back. “If you’d let me go with Noah none of this would have happened.”
God, why was everything her fault? She almost lashed out; only the memory of their intimacy the night before prevented her.
Phoebe rubbed her eyes and forehead. “Oh, my head,” she yammered.
Isabel got up and returned a minute later with a glass of water and two Advil. She held them out to her daughter.
“Mom, I’m fine,” Phoebe said, though she accepted the pills and took them along with several swallows of water. “Remember you promised not to tell Dad. About Michael. He’ll go crazy.” Then she stared at the doorway as if to say, now get out of here. A moment later she dropped back onto her pillow.
This adolescent phase couldn’t end so
on enough, Isabel thought. She was halfway out the door, when something pulled her back. “Phoebe?”
“What?” she said without opening her eyes.
“First of all, I didn’t promise not to tell Dad, and secondly, I think we should talk with Michael’s parents.”
The shriek that erupted from Phoebe’s throat sounded like a caterwauling monkey. “Are you insane, Mom?” she shouted. “You are not—” and now she popped up in bed like a trick Halloween cadaver, “—you are absolutely not going to do that! And neither is Dad! No way!”
Isabel stared at her daughter. Hormones didn’t begin to explain her mood swings. At moments like this she felt there was something seriously wrong with her. Speechless, she made a hasty retreat down the steps in the hope that Ron might prop up her depleted spirit. She also wondered if he would agree with Phoebe’s request.
The unmistakable and alluring smell of bacon wafted into her room. Phoebe pulled an old hoodie over her flannel PJ bottoms and went down to the kitchen, her stomach growling with hunger. On Sundays her dad traditionally cooked a big breakfast. Pancakes, with or without chocolate chips, eggs any style, including huevos rancheros, one of her favorites, French toast, the works. Whatever they wanted. Plus bacon. There was always bacon. And she loved sitting on a bar stool at the counter watching him and talking or arguing, though if the latter, it happened mostly in a good-natured way.
This morning when she stepped into the kitchen, Jackson was already perched on his stool, scooping up milk and Cheerios with a large spoon. As often as not, her brother still preferred cereal, despite the fact that the only brand Isabel allowed was plain Cheerios. The rest of that “junk” contained too much sugar. And Jackson refused granola and other healthy alternatives.
