by Herta Feely
Phoebe squeezed his arm as she sat down beside him. “Hey, Jackson, was’up?”
“Nuttin’, s’up with you?” he said, continuing to slurp down his cereal. “D’you have fun at the dance?”
She peered at him, a little surprised he’d ask, then looked suspiciously at her father.
“Daddy?” she said, examining his face.
“What do you want for breakfast, my little Miss Muffin?” Ron said innocently.
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “I’ll have French toast, Daddy. And three slices of bacon, and some milk. Lots of syrup. The Vermont kind, okay?”
“Coming right up,” he said. “So how was the dance?”
“Yeah, Feebs, how was the dance?” Jackson said, making a goofy face at her.
She groaned. “You haven’t heard, Daddy?” She tucked one of her legs under her bottom and leaned toward him on the counter. “Mom hasn’t told you?”
“No,” he said.
She studied him as he worked. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Well, let’s just hear how it went, Pumpkin Noodle.”
“Daddy, you’re so silly. Anyway, it was just fine…that is, until my date…well, until he turned into an asshole.”
He glanced over his shoulder as if to ensure Isabel wasn’t there and then gave her a half-smile. “Easy does it. What happened?”
Jackson leaned in as if to listen more closely.
“Well, he was a jerk. Boys can be really stupid, Dad.” She glanced at Jackson. “Don’t be a jerk when you grow up, okay?” she said before turning back to her father. “But the other parts were fun. We danced and there was lots of food, and, you know, it was good.”
“That’s great honey,” he said with his back to her.
What Ron really felt like doing was wringing that asshole Michael’s neck. But with everything else that had happened thus far in Phoebe’s freshman year, he couldn’t risk adding one more disaster to her young life. No, he needed time to think about this boy. As he considered how to teach Michael a lesson, maybe not now, but at some point down the road, he flipped the slices of bacon, one at a time, with a fork he’d like to shove in the kid’s face.
“I need your help with something,” Phoebe said.
“What’s that?” he said, sensing what was coming.
She looked over at Jackson but he’d turned on his Gameboy and was concentrating on the small screen of the handheld device. “Mom said she wanted to call Michael’s parents.”
“Really?” He slid a plate of pancakes before her. “You think that’s a bad idea?” He wanted to add, Would you want him treating other girls like that?
“Yeah. That’s nuts, Dad. I’d be, like, so ridiculed. You know what I mean? You can’t let her.” She tilted her head at him curiously. “And not you either. Anyway, he’s out of my life. He is so not happening. So what would be the point?”
“Hmm…here’s the syrup.”
“It’s not important. I just want it to be over. Okay?” She glanced up at him as she reached for the glass container. “Today’s a bright new one, right, Dad?”
He fixed her with a loving stare. “Yup, it’s a bright new one.” For her sake, he certainly hoped so.
After drenching the French toast in maple syrup, then soaking a morsel in the thick golden liquid, Phoebe said, “I think there’s a different boy I like.”
Ron almost said “Noah?” but as a reporter he’d learned to let his sources do the talking. The same was true with kids.
“Who would that be?” he finally said.
“His name is Shane. He goes to another school.”
“Oh? How’d you meet him?”
She seemed to consider his question before answering. “Well, I haven’t exactly met him, he friended me. On Facebook.”
Ron took in a breath. How safe was it to meet people on Facebook, or any other Internet venue? He knew how Isabel felt, and mostly on this subject he agreed with her. But then again, that was how kids communicated these days. He busied himself preparing Jackson’s plate of food as he searched for a reasonable follow-up question. “What school does he go to?”
“Walter Johnson. Plays football. He made Varsity.”
“That’s pretty good for a freshman.”
“No, he’s a sophomore.” She grinned.
“You’ve gotta watch out for those sophomores.” He flashed a smile back at her.
“Yeah. But he seems really nice, Daddy. And he’s new to the area.”
This set off another alarm, the word predator insinuating itself into his thoughts. “Well, maybe he can come over sometime?” he said, quickly adding, “But you know, Princess French Toast, it’ll have to wait a couple of weeks.”
“I know,” she said grudgingly.
“Have you told Mom about him?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe you should?”
“Maybe.”
“She loves you, you know.”
She looked doubtful. “I guess.”
“Phoebe,” he said in a faux disappointed tone.
“Okay, okay. I know she does.”
Back in her room Phoebe checked Shane’s Facebook page, but he wasn’t online. Then she examined her various friends’ Facebook pages to see what they’d posted about the dance. Skyla, predictably, had written little more than So cool, and included at least ten images of herself and Max. Jessie had added a few of Emma’s photos and gushed about the evening, which clouded her mind briefly with unhappy thoughts. At least Noah had posted nothing; maybe he hadn’t had fun, and maybe he’d missed her. But she knew she couldn’t let her mind spin out in that direction. Anyway, she didn’t care about Noah anymore; she was waiting for Shane to contact her. To ask her out.
Instead of doing her homework, Phoebe was drawn to the pile of used clothes in the corner and picked up an old lacy blouse, a pair of jeans, an old man’s jacket. She held the articles up, studying each one, believing that if given the chance at another life the items knew just what they wanted to be. Other pieces followed. Some she discarded, others she set aside.
At her sewing machine she began ripping apart the lacy blouse, separating the lace from the cotton, then she cut open the seams of a pair of jeans. This was the first task: taking clothing apart. Then she could better assess the materials she might use to forge something new. Immersed in her work, she forgot all about Facebook, Shane, Michael, Noah, Jessie, her mother – everything was lost to her except the world of her imagination.
Phoebe wholeheartedly believed that Nana Helen inspired her creations. She’d died when Phoebe was 11, an event that had etched itself into her memory as one of the saddest in her short life. Not only had Nana taught her how to sew, but Phoebe had also inherited her grandmother’s strawberry blond wavy hair and fair skin, so unlike her mother’s dark tresses, olive complexion and aquiline nose. Her own pug nose, which freckled in the summer, looked just like Nana’s in a photo taken not long after her arrival in the US from Hungary. When Phoebe examined her hands she saw Nana’s, except that Nana hadn’t chewed her fingernails or cuticles.
Sometimes when she sewed, a kind of magic happened. In the midst of manipulating the fabric – bunching it, straightening it, or guiding it into the path of the needle – she suddenly felt the material develop a rhythm all its own, and it began to fly beneath her fingers as if it knew the exact shape of the piece she intended to create. When she told her mother this, she’d laughed, not meanly, but the way adults sometimes laugh at childish statements. Phoebe had given her a slightly wounded look and thereafter had stopped confiding in her about her deepest, secret, intimate dreams.
Sandy was a little surprised by Jessie’s post-dance report. She’d expected nothing short of: Oh, my God, Mom, I had such a fabulous time. But complaints were what she got: I didn’t wanna go with Noah; that was a really dumb idea, Mom. Why didn’t Dylan ask me? And, according to Jessie, it was Phoebe who’d had all the fun. Dancing and laughing with her new set of friends.
This pained Sandy
. So much of her life revolved around making Jessie happy. She took to heart her daughter’s grievances, and spent much of the afternoon trying to figure out how “to make it better.” From the time Jessie could talk, Sandy had sworn an oath to her little girl. Mommy will make it better, no matter what. Not like her own mother.
Mostly, what Margaret had done was shockingly neglectful, and certainly Sandy hadn’t forgiven her. There was perhaps the small but not negligible fact that Sandy’s relations with Les had played a role in her mother’s reaction, though Sandy failed to see it this way.
After vowing to get back at Les, Sandy had kept her promise. She began to bring boys home, mostly when her mother was at work. She’d lie around making out with them on the family room couch, almost always with her stepfather nearby, working in his study on various writing assignments, or so he said. She sensed how much this bothered Les, who occasionally came out and asked her to keep it down. Things changed though when Sandy brought home a guy she actually liked, the first one she took to her room, to fuck, no holds barred.
A few days later, Les stood at her bedroom door, watching her. “So who’s your new fellow?” he asked. She could tell her wild episode had rattled him and that now Les wanted her, while her own feelings for him had slowed to a simmer. Still, she couldn’t help taunting him.
With a sly smile, and pointing at her bed, she said, “That’s where we did it, Les.”
In the next moment he stepped inside her room, grabbed and kissed her. A rough, needy kiss. She willingly gave in to him, allowing him to tumble her onto the bed. When they’d finished Sandy said a bit breathlessly, “I thought our last time was at the gym?”
He gave her a sheepish look but said nothing.
“Well, guess what? I don’t care any more, Les.” She gave him a self-satisfied, vengeful grin, enjoying her tiny victory.
She never knew if her mother had sensed this breach or Les had been indiscreet, but in any case Margaret stomped into Sandy’s room that night and told her to get out. Screamed at her. “You think you can just do whatever you want. Well, you can’t! I want you out.”
“Are you kidding me, Mom? I’m your daughter.”
“Not anymore you’re not.” She stood with her arms crossed. “Get your stuff and go.”
Sandy had gone to her girlfriend’s to spend the night, assuming her mother would calm down and invite her back. But she never did.
And that was how Shane the popular, handsome football star had entered her life and exited a couple of months thereafter. Bastard that he turned out to be. She should have been his date to the prom, she’d dreamed of walking in on the arm of the Prom King, but she wasn’t. No, pregnant with Jessie and uncertain of the girl’s paternity. Bill believed she was his. Good old Bill, she now thought gratefully.
While mulling over how to improve Jessie’s frame of mind, she decided to bake some chocolate chip cookies, and make an extra dozen or two for her neighbor, Mrs. Wilkins, whose son was arriving home after a year in Iraq. Sandy liked to pretend the gracious older woman was her mother, a little like Mrs. E; they’d have imaginary conversations, her favorite being ones where Mrs. Wilkins couldn’t wait to introduce her to the daughters of her friends.
Later, she sat at her computer composing Shane’s next round of Facebook posts and private messages, determined to rectify the wrongs of the world. To make Jessie happy.
Because life beyond fabric had ceased to exist, Phoebe did not hear her mother’s shout. Then her cry rang out a second time. “Phoebeee, DINNER!” Could it be that late already? The clock said six-thirty. A bright, shiny moon hung outside her window. She stared at it as if it were trying to tell her something. Then she remembered her mother’s cautionary words last year when all her problems seemed to revolve around Skyla. The moon is a reminder, she’d said, that sometimes things are not as they seem. The moon appears to cast its own light, but it’s merely a reflection of the sun.
She gazed at its brilliant surface a moment longer. Then returned her attentions to her sewing. She just needed to finish this one seam before heading downstairs. Once done, she quickly scanned her Facebook page.
A note from Shane! Her heart sped up as she read: How was the dance? Wish I could have gone with you.
“Phoebe! Come on!”
“Coming!”
Her youthful lips curled into a smile as she hurriedly typed back: Me too! I’ve been working all afternoon on a new jean jacket (I sew) and just saw your note. Will write more after dinner. How was the football game? Did you win? With that, she raced down the stairs.
“Oh, my gosh, Phoebe, you look like the proverbial cat that swallowed a canary! What happened?” her mother quipped as she walked into the kitchen.
Gleaming, a broad smile on her face, she said, “Yes, I ate the canary, mom, and it tasted really good.” She licked her lips.
Her mother rolled her eyes. “Teenagers!”
After dinner, as soon as she’d helped with the dishes, she bounded back upstairs and found another private message from Shane: Yeah, we won. Wish you’d been here. Excitedly, she wrote back, telling him that the jean jacket could be his if he wanted it. Of course she’d have to get rid of the lace, but that was easily remedied.
She had other personal messages too. One from Emma: We missed you last night. Did you have fun? How was Michael? He’s kind of cute.
To which Phoebe responded: Don’t let looks fool you. Missed you too.
Then Shane wrote again: Jean jacket? Nice! What happened at the dance?
Phoebe: The guy I went with was a creep.
Shane: What happened?
Phoebe: He was drunk and sort of attacked me, but please don’t tell anybody.
Shane: For real? He attacked you?
Phoebe: I don’t really want to talk about it. He’s history.
Shane: Just tell me, you can trust me.
Phoebe: I will when we meet. I promise.
Shane: What about Jessie and Emma? Did you see them?
She wondered why he was asking her, since she’d already told him she was going with a different group. Things are a little tense with Jessie.
Shane: Tense, huh? Why?
Phoebe knew she couldn’t tell Shane about Noah, so what should she say? She wrote: Oh, just stupid girl stuff. Drama. You know?
Shane: Not really, but then I’m not a girl. What happened?
Phoebe: It’s boring, you don’t want to know.
Shane: Sure I do. I won’t tell anyone. We’re not even at the same school, remember?
Phoebe wondered why he wanted to know these things, and even considered telling him, but it was far too complicated. To get onto another subject, she wrote: I’ll tell you another time about all that stuff. What do you like to do besides football?
Shane: I like golfing…and movies. Wanna go sometime?
She couldn’t believe he’d just asked her, though in the next instant she grew irritated because she couldn’t go. I’m grounded for another week or so, but after that I’d love to.
Shane: Grounded, huh?
Phoebe: Another long story, but basically I sort of lied to my mom.
Shane: Sort of?
Phoebe: I didn’t tell her where I’d been. Mainly because I was in Adams Morgan where I wasn’t supposed to be. So it was more like she assumed something and I let her. You know what I mean? She wanted to be honest, but was afraid the truth might make him think poorly of her.
Shane: She grounded you for a month? Except she let you go to the dance?
Phoebe: Yeah. She’s a little crazy. It’s a long story…let’s save it for when I meet you!
Shane: Your mom does sound crazy…maybe more like she is a…rhymes with witch?
Phoebe stared at what he’d just written, then wrote: Totally. Tell me about the game. She went back and erased the word “totally” and replaced it with “I guess,” just in case her mom checked her Facebook private chats, though she hadn’t done this in a while, at least not that she knew of. And the agreement was t
hat she’d do it in front of her. Only then did she notice she’d said her mom was crazy. Oh well, hopefully she wouldn’t check.
Shane: It was great. Too bad we don’t play you guys! Send me a picture. Love your Facebook pics. Gotta do some homework.
Phoebe: Yeah, me too. I will. Send me one of you? In your football uniform?
Shane: Sure. Bye.
Phoebe dropped back onto her pillows and stared up at the clouds painted on the blue ceiling. She was in love. Her first thought was to text Jessie, then she remembered they were barely talking. Although if Jessie wrote to her, she’d respond. She would. She returned to daydreaming about Shane. That’s when it struck her. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? She Googled Walter J High School and looked for the football team. Shane wasn’t in the team photo. She wondered why. A while later, she printed out another of his Facebook photos and pinned it alongside the one already on her bulletin board. She loved the idea of him observing everything she did.
Glancing back at the computer, she saw a note from Dylan: Hey Feebs, can you come over after school tomorrow? Help us figure out cool outfits for our band.
She hesitated, wondering what Jessie would think, then decided to say yes, though she’d have to clear it with her mother. But she felt fairly certain she’d let her go since she “adored” Mrs. Thomas, who lived in Georgetown not in evil Adams Morgan.
Chapter Five
Monday, October 20, 2008
“Sure, honey,” Phoebe’s mother said in response to her question about going to Dylan’s. Though she added, “If only you could be as enthusiastic about other things as you are about sewing. My God, there’d be no stopping you.” When her mother made comments like this, Phoebe wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or offended.
“By the way, I’ve been thinking about you doing some volunteering next weekend.”
“Volunteering? Where?” She frowned at her mother.
“Well, we do live in a political town, and there is an amazing presidential race underway – as you know, we might elect the first African American president! – and I do have lots of contacts on the Hill.” She gave Phoebe a searching look.