by Herta Feely
“But, Mawm, I hate politics.”
“Well, you owe me some time and it’s never too soon to do something good for the world,” she paused, “and something that’ll look good on your resumé.”
“My resumé?”
“For college.”
“I’m a freshman!”
“It’s never too early to start.”
Phoebe was about to argue the point when she remembered it would probably lead to a lecture. “Oh, joy! See you tonight,” she said as she walked out the door to catch the bus.
“I almost forgot,” her mother called after her. “Mrs. VanDorn and Skyla are coming over this week to talk about the birthday party.”
Ron opened his email and almost instantly his eyes were drawn to two messages. Or rather the senders of those two messages. One was from Gil at the Washington Post and the other from Sandy.
The latter would contain a pleasant surprise, he hoped. As for the Post email, it would bring either good news or bad. Gil’s previous email hadn’t sounded particularly promising. Which one to open first.
Finally he double-clicked on the Post message.
Dear Ron,
We’d like to talk to you. Give us a call and let us know when it’s convenient. My assistant, Sarah, can be reached at the number below. Hope you can make it today or tomorrow.
Best, Gil
He read it twice before thinking, shit, they’re gonna offer me a job. His next thought was to call Isabel.
He dialed her cell. It rang but she didn’t answer. He left her a hurried message, then returned to Gil’s email and read it again. He glanced at his watch. It was a little past nine. Best not to be too eager. He decided to call Gil’s assistant after he’d gone through the rest of the day’s emails. Though Sandy’s roused a certain curiosity in him, he also felt a little dread. He hated it when people left the subject line empty, which she’d done. Maybe he should just delete it.
Good God, man, he said to himself, just open the damn thing. He clicked on it.
Hi Ron,
Just thinking about the girls and, you know, what I mentioned the other day. Just wonder if I could take a little of your time over lunch to talk about it? This week I’m free just about any day except Thursday…so let me know.
xox, S
Those three letters before her signature – xox – caught his attention, and his imagination. Either they meant nothing, or everything. With Sandy he figured there was no telling. Isabel would most certainly say she hadn’t signed her note that way by accident. Of course, she’d never know about this. Just as she’d never known about the two one-night stands he’d had while on the road as a young reporter. Yes, she’d found out about a third one, but that’s because he’d been cocky and careless. Not that he was about to have a one-night stand with Sandy.
He was struggling with his answer, when he decided to put Sandy off by saying that this week was insane, and the only day he could even think about having lunch was Thursday, the day she couldn’t. Just as he finished writing, the phone rang. It was Isabel calling him back.
A savage look crossed Skyla’s face. “Well, how do you expect me to do anything if you won’t tell me what happened?” The other girls at the lunch table – Molly, Cara, Sophia and Daisy – hunched in eagerly awaiting Phoebe’s answer.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” Phoebe whispered. “Michael was drunk and really, well, really—” she hesitated, trying to find the right word to placate Skyla without blurting out the whole sordid ordeal, “—he got really pushy. All right? That’s it, it’s over.”
Skyla gave Phoebe an intense stare. “Fine with me,” she said, though Phoebe could tell it wasn’t. “It’s all Jessie’s fault, you know. If she hadn’t asked Noah, then none of this would have happened! Right?”
Phoebe hadn’t thought of it that way and was now eager to change the topic. She glanced around the table and asked if the girls knew that Dylan was forming a band, one that lacked a name and a backup singer.
Skyla’s eyes widened with interest. “I’m a pretty good singer, you know.”
“Really? I didn’t know that,” Cara laughed. “Let’s hear it.”
“Yeah, come on,” several others joined in.
It surprised Phoebe that Skyla was letting her minions get away with that sort of talk, though she’d noticed the same thing at her house after the dance. Not always, but often she seemed like a new Skyla.
“Well, not here,” Skyla said with an offended pout, “but I am in the a capella group.” Then quietly she asked Phoebe to put in a good word for her. “Ask Dylan if I can try out; I’m really good. Do you think they’ll have tryouts?”
“Sure,” Phoebe said, noting the change in Skyla’s tone and demeanor, and intrigued by her mercurial shifts. She didn’t tell Skyla that Dylan was not a big fan of hers – “the pink girl,” he’d called her on more than one occasion.
“We can talk about it at your house. You know my mom and I are coming over on Wednesday, right?” Skyla said. “We should probably figure out who we’re inviting, what kind of food to have, a band or a DJ, all that stuff, you know?”
“Yeah, sure,” was all that Phoebe said, then sat there listening to Skyla reel off ideas and eyeing her overly ornate cursive as she made lists of food and people in her notebook.
In Phoebe’s last class of the day, once more facing a question about her date with Michael, this time from Jessie during lab, Phoebe said, “You don’t wanna know.”
“That bad, huh?”
Phoebe nodded, happy that Jess seemed to care, but refused to elaborate, nor did she ask about Jessie’s evening. She wondered if Jessie had been the one to help her in the bathroom, but felt too embarrassed to ask. Since Jessie didn’t mention going to Dylan’s, Phoebe didn’t either. If Jessie found out Dylan had invited Phoebe and not her it would probably erase any progress they’d made. By day’s end, she felt a thaw between her and Jessie. It would have been a stretch though to say they’d resumed their best buds’ status.
When Ron spoke to Sarah, Gil’s assistant, he made an appointment for the following day, Tuesday. That would give him time to discuss his strategy with Isabel. And it gave him an ounce of control, the sense that he wasn’t groveling. That he wasn’t just going to drop everything and run over to the Post’s offices on 15th Street.
He sat at his desk tapping out a story on the computer, trying to concentrate, but his mind wandered.
While he wanted to continue to cover the White House for the Post – after all, he was good at it, and as far as he knew that’s what they were looking for – what he really hoped was to get on board the media bus, now, and follow the Democratic presidential candidate in the final weeks of the race. What Barack Obama had put in place was the most exciting campaign since John F. Kennedy’s, one he’d read volumes about.
While many of his colleagues had been traveling around the country tailing McCain, Palin, Obama or Biden, he’d spent most of the campaign in White House briefings on the economy with Bush – a lame duck President if he ever saw one – and his staff. He was dying to get in on the action. Even if it was only at the end. What he needed were some new angles on the campaign, stories no one had yet done. He’d come up with something, and tomorrow, as part of his discussion with the Post, he’d offer to write a feature or two for the paper, even as he wrapped things up at AP. He vibrated with excitement. He could see an entirely new future. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
Just then another email arrived from Sandy. He opened it, surprised yet again to see what she’d written.
Hi Ron, well, I changed my appt on Thursday to see you.
So where should we meet and what time? xox, Sandy
Oh, Christ, he thought. He stared at her message – what should he do? – then he struck the delete button. He’d deal with her later.
At Dylan’s, Phoebe helped collect chips, Gatorade and sodas to take to the studio apartment above the Thomas’s three-car garage. Beneath a bright blue s
ky, they walked across the courtyard behind the main house and climbed the stairs to the studio. Here, where the guys would practice, drums had already been set up, along with speakers, an electric keyboard and two guitars – a bass and a lead. Dylan told her that Eric Clapton used the same type of guitar he’d gotten on his birthday. He plucked its strings in a way that produced a pleasing melody.
“Come here,” Dylan said. “Let me show you something.”
She went over to him. “Hold the guitar as if you were about to play it,” he said, handing her the instrument. He was close to her. She could feel his breath on her face as he pulled the guitar strap over her head. “Go ahead, play a few notes.”
She felt awkward, but did as she was told. Despite the randomness of the notes the melodic sound that erupted from the speakers amazed her. Though she’d tried playing the piano, she hadn’t been very good and didn’t consider herself the least bit musical. “Wow, that’s sick,” she said, pleased and smiling.
“You like it?”
“Yeah.” She played a few more notes before he relieved her of the guitar. In one smooth motion he drew the strap over her head and leaned in to kiss her. Shane’s image, and then Jessie’s, popped into her head, the ghosts of her conscience. Before she could push him away though, his lips brushed hers. In the next instant the sound of the door below opening then slamming shut rescued her. Phoebe dropped to the floor in a squat and busied herself poking through her backpack. Footsteps bounded up the stairs.
A moment later, Sam and Nick burst into the room. They fist-bumped Dylan and gave Phoebe a hug, then sprawled long-legged on beanbags, grabbing chips and chugging sodas. As Phoebe took a few sips of a Pepsi Dylan’s kiss lingered in her mind. Though she wouldn’t let things go any further because of Jessie, she could imagine falling for him. He was adorable with that bleached surfer-boy hair.
Once more the hollow echo of footsteps sounded on the stairwell. Then girls’ voices. Jessie and Emma popped their heads inside. “Hey, guys. Sorry we’re late.” Jessie’s eyes briefly rested on Phoebe, a questioning look skittering across her face.
If only Dylan had mentioned that not only Sam and Nick were coming, but also Jessie and Emma. Now Phoebe felt a little weird, wondering what Jessie might be thinking, especially since neither she nor Jessie had discussed it earlier. With the exception of Noah, who couldn’t make it, this was the first time they’d all been together since that awful Friday in Adams Morgan. The irony of the gathering wasn’t lost on her. The gang her mother didn’t want her hanging out with was assembled here. If only she could send a photo to her mom’s phone.
Determined to hang on to the good feeling she’d had much of the day, she joined in the banter as they kicked around names. The Argyles—“Oh yeah, one for preppy socks,” someone shouted, “NO f’n way!” Iron Majesty – a take off on Iron Butterfly – got a drum roll, and Simply George actually got a few claps, but Phoebe was surprised when the one she offered – Guys in Black Suits – got everybody’s vote. Including Jessie’s, if a bit grudgingly.
Already she imagined the band dressed in dark suits with narrow lapels, thin black ties, and white t-shirts. Maybe a couple could wear fedoras. She announced that she’d go on a quest for old suits and accessories – “ties, hats, that sort of thing” – maybe over the weekend.
When Dylan offered to go with her, Jessie jumped in with an edgy, “I thought you were grounded,” words aimed at Phoebe. A taut silence followed.
Phoebe was about to answer when Sam stepped in. “Chill out, Jess.” Everyone except maybe Dylan understood that she was jealous.
Jessie shot back, “So who asked you?”
The intensity of her narrowed gaze seemed to startle Sam. For once he was at a loss for words. Jessie burst out laughing. “Gotcha’!” The others joined in, nervous titters breaking the awkwardness of the moment.
Nick had risen to pick up one of the guitars and began strumming it. Sam swung his leg around the drummer’s stool, and with his foot on the pedal tapped a steady beat on the bass drum, while he struck the cymbals lightly with the sticks. Noah was supposed to be the group’s drummer, causing Phoebe to wonder what would happen now that he wasn’t supposed to hang out with Nick and Sam.
Phoebe exchanged a glance with Emma, who mouthed the words “Dylan” and “later.” Making sure Jessie’s gaze was fixed elsewhere, Phoebe mouthed back, “I know.” For the remainder of the time they spent together, Phoebe kept an eye on Jessie, hoping to resurrect their friendship, and hoping to disabuse her of any concern regarding Dylan. Now that the fall dance was behind them she also wanted to tell Jessie about Shane, and to say she’d moved on. Noah was a thing of the past. “I’m sooo over him,” she imagined saying, though she would still like him as a friend.
Talk turned to tryouts for a female singer. And once again, when Phoebe spoke, mentioning Skyla’s claim to excellent vocal chords, Jessie appeared disgruntled. Phoebe was about to apologize with something like: “I didn’t mean she should be the one, I was just…” but such defensive gestures were lame. Moreover, Phoebe knew the problem wasn’t in what she was saying—friends didn’t take to heart every little remark; no, it was everything else that had passed between them. And Dylan’s ambivalence toward Jessie didn’t help.
Phoebe left then, not wanting to be the source of Jessie’s annoyance, and not wanting to subject herself to her reactions. That was something her mother had tried to instill in her last year, when she’d had so many problems with Skyla. “Why hang around where you’re not wanted?” her mother would say. “You can make other friends.” And she had. She’d found Jessie.
On the way home, she kicked the leaves on the sidewalk, watching them scatter. She noticed too that where it had been sunny earlier, now a wall of grey-bellied clouds hung overhead. Her mood had changed accordingly.
She vowed to tell Dylan that she really liked Shane. Well, maybe, but she would definitely tell him that she was Jessie’s friend and he shouldn’t try to kiss her again.
By the time she arrived at her house, darkness had set in despite the early hour – it was only a little past six o’clock. She hated that about fall. She also hated coming home to a dark, empty home. It was creepy. She ran inside and began flipping on all the lights. Why was nobody home? She suddenly felt like collapsing in a heap and crying.
Chapter Six
As Isabel stepped foot in the kitchen, she heard Phoebe bark, “Why do you have to work all the time?” Her daughter’s opening gambit was followed by: “Why can’t you just be a stay-at-home mom like all the other moms?”
Though startled, Isabel mustered an even-toned response. “Honey, we’ve been over this. First of all, you and Jackson have what you have because Daddy and I both work hard. And, second, you know, as well as I do, that plenty of moms work.”
Often enough Isabel wished for more time off and shorter hours, but the truth was she loved her work. She couldn’t understand how women who stayed at home felt satisfied. Endless volunteering? Baking cookies? Going out to lunch with friends? Tennis, golf? How could any of that compare to winning a tough legal case in court? Did she want more time with her children? Of course, but no way would she trade places with all those women who’d forsaken their careers.
Phoebe glared at her. “Like I care about all that stuff. I’d rather you stayed home.” Then her voice softened. “Why won’t you?”
“You’ll understand when you have a career of your own.” Isabel began pulling leftovers out of the fridge.
“No, I won’t, because I won’t have a career.” She spat the word. “I’ll be designing clothes and working from home like Jessie’s mom! She’s always there after school. And she actually cares what happens to Jessie!”
Phoebe’s comment stabbed her. Little else that her daughter could say would have a more damning effect. But Isabel tried to remember that this was a young girl talking, a girl who knew little about the world but her own selfish needs and desires. Desires which, by the way, were volatile and all ov
er the map.
She wanted to say something, but what? “Honey, tell me what happened at Dylan’s? Are you still designing the band’s outfits?”
“Yes, but what do you care?”
“I care a lot. Maybe you and I can do something this weekend?” She poured the contents of a stew that Milly had made into a pot and placed it on the stove.
Then, as though a magician had snapped his fingers, Phoebe transformed into a well-adjusted teen who began telling her mother with great zeal about the band’s name and how she planned to scour used clothing stores for dark suits and how she would make some sketches of guys wearing thin ties and vintage-style fedoras, just like ones she’d recently seen on a few celebrities. “And maybe you’d like to go with me?” she concluded.
Isabel stopped stirring the stew and looked up. “There’s nothing I’d love more than that, Phoebe.”
It took Phoebe a moment to register her comment. “Oh, Mom, I know that’s not true!”
And they both began laughing.
Sandy observed her daughter slouching into the kitchen, a downcast expression on her face. “What’s up, honey?”
“Nothin’,” Jessie said, her backpack landing on the floor beside the table. She pulled out a chair, the legs scraping the pale wood, and dropped into it.
“Doesn’t look like nothin’ to me. Want a celery stick?”
“No, I don’t want a celery stick!” She gave her mother a look of disgust. “Chips and a soda.”
“Okay, but I thought—”
“Well, you thought wrong. Do you want to know what happened or not?”
“Of course, I do. One soda coming up.” Sandy crossed the room to the fridge, pulled out a diet Coke and deposited it on the counter. “Here you go, sweets.”
Jessie briefly glowered at it before popping the tab and taking a sip. “Unbelievable. Phoebe at Dylan’s alone,” she looked at her mother to make sure she was listening, “alone with him! They pick the band’s name, the one she suggests, and when she talks about going to used clothing stores, Dylan’s all over it. She knows I like Dylan,” she said plaintively, her eyes widening, “I told her so, and now she’s trying to steal him—” She glanced at her mom. “I think she’s still mad at me for asking Noah to the dance.”
