by Herta Feely
“I’m going the speed limit,” Isabel replied.
Phoebe released a loud sigh.
Isabel still regretted letting Phoebe go to the party. Her consent, though, had come with two conditions. One: any alcohol and she was supposed to call home immediately; and two: curfew was at 11 o’clock. Isabel would arrive promptly, waiting outside to pick her up.
Despite what Phoebe had said a week earlier – that she didn’t care about staying past ten-thirty, the time when Shane had to leave – she’d put up a vociferous fight to make it later, worthy of any defense attorney’s final rebuttal in a trial. Turning a brilliant smile on her mother and hugging her, she’d begged, “Come on, Mom, make it eleven. Please.”
And Isabel had acquiesced, thinking about what Dr. Sharma had said. “I think you can trust Phoebe to do the right thing. And if you let her know you trust her, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
Now Phoebe grew chatty, happy even, talking to the three girls in the back seat – Skyla, Molly and Daisy. It was good to see her this way, and yet Isabel couldn’t entirely shake worrying about her, vulnerable as she was.
“Do you think I look okay?” Phoebe said, then added to the girls in back, “Can you believe I’m finally going to meet Shane?” A couple of days earlier, she’d marshaled the courage to tell Skyla and her troop of friends about his desire to go out with her, and to her relief discovered he hadn’t asked anyone else.
Don’t remind me, Isabel thought, and felt the need to interject. “That should be interesting, but you don’t know him, so be careful, honey.”
“Oh, Mawm, what can happen?” Phoebe asked impatiently. “Right, Skyla?”
“I’ll watch out for her, Ms. Winthrop. I promise,” Skyla said in her take-charge voice.
“Hmm,” Isabel said, glancing at Phoebe. How eager she is. She couldn’t help feeling as if she were sending her lamb to slaughter. All those hormonal boys, all those temptations, all that poor decision-making, and then there was the bigger issue: all at Jessie Littleton’s party. Isabel imagined boys and girls pairing off and drifting into dark rooms, drinking alcohol that had been smuggled in, kids guzzling beer and perhaps smoking pot, with no one to stop them, and all the while Phoebe saying, “What can happen?”
She wanted to lecture her. All four of the girls. To itemize all the things that could and often did happen, but she’d already done that and it would only alienate Phoebe, who was hopefully smart enough to avoid the myriad temptations, especially the kind that got you into trouble.
“Mom, you’ve got that look on your face!” Phoebe said, cutting into Isabel’s thoughts. Then her voice softened. “It’s gonna be all right. I promise.” Phoebe smiled at her, and Isabel smiled back, reveling in the sweetness of the moment like every other imperfect parent who loves her imperfect child.
“All right. Have a good time. I’ll text when I’m out front, okay? But don’t keep me waiting.” Glancing over her shoulder at the girls in back, she added, “You three have another ride, right?”
In response, Skyla articulated each word as if Isabel were hard of hearing. “Yes, Ms. Winthrop, my mom is going to pick us up.”
“Okay, there it is.” Phoebe pointed at a house that was big, really big, boastful and showy, but attractive too. She realized then that in the twelve months of Phoebe and Jessie’s friendship she’d never once been here. What did that say about her? That Bethesda, a nearby Maryland suburb, was an inconvenient drive from Cleveland Park? She suddenly felt terrible that Sandy had always driven them, and Isabel had let her. I suppose I should have been more grateful for that, she thought.
She drew up to the curb and the girls got out. She watched them giggle as they made their way to the front door. Waiting for someone to let them in, she drank in every inch of the well-lit place, which was just shy of a mansion. In fact, the mini-manse took up two lots and had the feel of a ski chalet, one you might find in Aspen or Vail. It was constructed of stone and wood shingles, an elaborate peaked archway over the front door, and a dark metal-roofed porch that ran the length of the house. A wide driveway led to a three-car garage located on one side of the house, and a perfectly manicured garden wrapped around the other. It looked twice the size of her own home.
The beep of a text. From Phoebe. You can go now. Bye!
She glanced up just in time to see one of the double doors open and swallow the girls. Despite craning her neck, she hadn’t been able to tell if it was an adult who’d let them in. She shifted the BMW into gear and rolled away from the curb. She hadn’t traveled fifty feet when in her rearview mirror she noticed the headlights of a car drawing to a halt in the spot she’d just vacated. She slowed the BMW enough to see who was getting out.
Several teens erupted noisily from the vehicle and slammed the doors. Halfway up the sidewalk to the Littletons, they stopped. And so did Isabel. She rolled down the window and observed the scene through her side and rearview mirrors. There was whispering, a bit of head bobbing, laughter and then movement – a multilegged, shape-shifting creature closing in on the front steps. Once more, the door opened and inhaled the group.
The temptation to circle the block and continue observing the house for a bit stirred inside her. She even wished she could go inside to assure herself there was no alcohol. A brief battle raged, but then she headed home. She wouldn’t be so worried, she told herself, if this party were anywhere but at Sandy’s.
Moths danced in Phoebe’s gut as she glanced about the room in search of Shane. She was downstairs, on the party level, in one of several large rooms filled with her classmates, most of them people she’d come to know over the past couple of months. When she spied a shock of hair that matched Shane’s photo her heart thumped loudly in her head. The boy turned. It was someone else. She needed to get a grip.
Just then Mrs. Littleton wound through the room, waving and welcoming everyone as if she were a celebrity. She wore a very huggy, green sweater with a plunging neckline and super-tight pants. Even though she didn’t mean for it to, the word slutty popped into Phoebe’s head. “There’s lots of food and drink. So don’t be shy, help yourselves.” She stopped briefly to speak with Dylan, then called out, “If anybody needs us, Bill and I will be upstairs, okay?” She brandished a smile then disappeared.
A few seconds later, Emma presented her with a beer. “You look like you could use this.”
Phoebe gave her a questioning look. “Really? You sure this is okay?”
“You kidding? We’re at the Littletons’, remember?”
Then without any more thinking, she grabbed the can and poured liquid down her throat. “Careful,” Emma said, “not too fast. Remember what happened at the dance?” Which is the first time Phoebe thought that perhaps it had been Emma who’d stroked her hair when she’d gotten sick that night.
In the corner the band was setting up its equipment. The two girls moved closer and watched. Noah looked up and waved Phoebe over. “You wanna come?” Phoebe asked Emma, but her friend urged her to go ahead. “I’ll go see what Nick’s up to.” She waggled her eyebrows like Groucho Marx and tapped a pretend cigar.
Still smiling from Emma’s antics, Phoebe offered Noah a sip of her beer. He took a slug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, approximating the gestures of a pro, when Phoebe knew he was an amateur drinker at best. She also wasn’t sure what to say. Between her wandering thoughts and questions – what would she say to Shane when he arrived, what would his voice sound like, would he like her once he actually met her? – she finally managed, “You look good, Noah. Good luck.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He sat down on the stool, pushed the sleeves of his jacket up to liberate his forearms, and took a few preliminary taps, grazing the top of each drum, then banged the bass with the foot pedal. Boom. Boom. Boom.
“Don’t worry, nobody’ll even be listening,” she said, followed immediately by an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, you know what I mean.”
He nodded. “I’ll look for you when we take a break
.”
“Okay,” Phoebe said, though she hoped he wouldn’t. How awkward if he found her with Shane. She took another sip of the beer then set it down and wandered off in search of Emma or Skyla or maybe even Jess. In the background, she could hear the band warming up.
A dozen kids, five of them girls, were scattered around a pingpong table, which had been prepped for a game of beer pong. Skyla was among them. Phoebe watched as the blonde tilted a plastic pong cup an inch above her mouth and allowed the beer to cascade into her mouth.
For a nanosecond, her mother’s admonition flashed through Phoebe’s mind – if there’s any alcohol, you call me, is that clear? – then she joined the others and took her chances, tossing the feather-light ping pong ball at one of the many cups lined up on the other side of the table and keeping a lookout for the adorable, inimitable Shane.
At home Isabel managed to distract herself by pouring a glass of her favorite white wine, then sat down with Jackson on the sofa in the family room, half an eye on the TV, where Spider-Man bounded from building to building, bringing some thug to justice without much ado. If only real life were so easy, she thought.
She’d spent half the day meeting with her new client, listening to all his lame excuses for misusing campaign funds. After a recitation of all the things he’d done for DC, he explained why he and his friends had flown first class to the Bahamas, why his wife had needed a new fur coat, and they’d both needed Rolex watches, never mind the thousands they’d spent on Michael Jackson memorabilia.
She’d listened patiently and then helped him to understand the likely consequences of his actions and how difficult it would be to keep him out of jail. “The best we can probably do will be to mitigate your sentence,” she had said. When he stared at her dully, she added, “For example, two years in jail, not four or five.” Perhaps this had been her subconscious way of hoping he’d leave and search for another attorney, she now thought.
It was already 8 o’clock and Ron still wasn’t home. She looked forward to telling him about the Littleton’s huge house, though perhaps she wouldn’t. It still bothered her that he’d again mentioned Sandy at the very moment they were snuggling and ready to have sex the other night. She lamented the Freudian implications then chided herself for thinking that way.
She reached for her wine and with her other arm cradled Jackson a little more tightly. It was something he still occasionally allowed, especially with no one else around. They both stared at the TV and watched Tobey Maguire in his admirable rendition of Peter Parker.
When Ron finally came home, she asked what story had kept him so late. “Or were you out celebrating your job at the Post again?” Several nights he’d called saying he was having drinks with some of his new colleagues. She hated the fact that she was beginning to wonder.
Ron studied her a moment, began to say one thing then seemed to change his mind. “You really interested, or you just want to know whether the story has a chance of winning your illustrious husband the next Pulitzer?” he said with his new air of confidence.
She shook her head at him. “Don’t be so cynical, of course I’m interested.”
He went to the fridge, pulled out a Stella, and said, “Believe it or not, I’m looking into how Obama’s campaign used social networking so effectively and how that’ll change all future political fundraising. Also, its need for regulation. You know, how people using social media might cross certain boundaries. How it might violate people’s privacy.” He flipped the cap off the bottle and tossed it toward his son. “Think fast, sport.”
Jackson’s hands shot out and captured the prize. “Got it, Dad.”
“Hmmm…sounds like it might have potential,” Isabel said, “to win the Pulitzer, I mean.” They both laughed. “Come, sit down.” Reassured by the exchange, she patted the cushion beside her, then took another sip of wine.
He trotted over, plopped down, and turned his attention to the TV. “What’s this? Your mother’s letting you watch Spider-Man?”
“Yup.”
“What’d you do right?” Ron said to Jackson as he placed his arm possessively around Isabel, and in turn she squeezed his thigh. Jackson snuggled against her other side, the three of them nestled comfortably on the couch, the very image of a Norman Rockwell painting.
After Phoebe had drained several more small cups of beer, which made her feel slightly woozy, she glanced past the ping-pong table around the room. Somebody was making out in the corner. Several somebodies. And still no sign of Shane, despite the fact that it was already 8:30.
The band, in full swing, could be heard throughout the lower level, an area so extensive that one could truly get lost. Phoebe heard Jessie’s voice singing backup on a couple of songs. For someone with trouble staying on key, she sounded pretty good and Phoebe felt glad for her.
Just then Skyla came toward her. Phoebe grabbed her arm and whispered into her ear, “If you see Shane, tell me, okay?”
“You’ll be the first to know,” she said, tossing back another miniature cup of cheap light beer. About to return back to the game, Skyla stopped. “Hey, have some fun. Don’t worry about that guy. After all, who the hell is he? I mean no one’s even met him.” Perhaps she noticed Phoebe’s distraught look, because she added, “He’ll show, Feebs! Anyway, if he doesn’t come he’s the one missing out. Haven’t you noticed all the guys checking you out?”
It was such a Skyla thing to say, though for a moment Phoebe wondered if it could be true. She was about to respond when Nick’s voice came through the loudspeaker announcing that anyone who wanted to sing could come and take a turn at the mike. Without another word, Skyla darted toward the makeshift stage in the other room. Phoebe was left considering whether guys, besides Noah and Dylan, really were looking at her?
After a few minutes, she squeezed her way into the room with the band and watched as Skyla readied herself to sing, tapping the microphone and adjusting it to her height. She leaned in close to Dylan and they exchanged a few words, probably about what to sing, and then in a flirty gesture she grabbed his fedora and placed it on her own head at a jaunty angle. Dylan gave her an appreciative nod, counted, “One, two, three,” and the music began. Phoebe was mesmerized by Skyla’s near perfect imitation of Taylor Swift’s deep country voice as she belted out the words to “Our Song,” with Dylan and Nick singing back-up.
With the ease and grace of a rock star, Skyla shimmied across the floor, then trained her eyes on Dylan and sang to him as if they were performing a duet. Phoebe glanced around hoping Jessie wasn’t around to see. The band sounded good. Really good, Phoebe thought. And there was an on-stage connection between Skyla and Dylan that made it fun to watch. Skyla even looked a little like Taylor Swift.
Out of her peripheral vision, Phoebe noticed Jessie maneuvering into the room, slipping between people and drawing closer to the stage, a scowl etched on her face. A chill ran through her when she saw Jessie’s eyes squinting and leering at Skyla. It was obvious she wished her away from Dylan and out of her house. Probably wished she’d never invited her.
As she continued to watch her angry stare, Phoebe felt as if Jessie was the new someone to watch out for. How could that have happened, she thought, as she began to make her exit. She’d loved Jessie, just as she’d loved Skyla before she’d turned on her. Why were girls so fickle? In some ways, it seemed easier being a guy; maybe she should stick to having mostly guy friends. Music cascaded around Phoebe, the noise dimming as she retreated from the room. She most definitely didn’t want to be there if words were exchanged between Skyla and Jessie.
She wandered upstairs to see if Shane had gotten stuck up there. Maybe he’d arrived late and had been waylaid by Mr. or Mrs. Littleton. Which brought her back to marveling at how casually they treated alcohol. It shocked her. Plus she knew her mother would have a total fit if she found out. Well, she wouldn’t. Besides, Phoebe had brought some mints to mask the smell, and would be sure to use them before getting into her mother’s car. God, she would fr
eak. But then Phoebe couldn’t blame her. After all, it was her mother’s job to make sure she didn’t drink or do other stupid stuff kids her age did. Standing alone in the hallway, a momentary feeling of warmth toward her mother washed over Phoebe.
She continued her search for Shane. She poked her head into the kitchen, where half a dozen kids were pulling beers and sodas out of the fridge to take downstairs, then entered and exited other rooms, eventually stumbling upon a few kids making out. She gazed at them longingly, but Shane was nowhere to be found. A pang of disappointment stabbed through her. He isn’t coming! She thought of checking her iPhone to see if he’d sent her a message on Facebook, but before she could a female voice sang out, “Looking for someone?”
As Phoebe pivoted she came face to face with Mrs. Littleton. A huge smile dimpled one of Mrs. Littleton’s cheeks. Her platinum blonde hair was piled loosely atop her head, with alluring loose strands framing her face. She was so different from her mother that Phoebe sometimes didn’t know what to make of her. She seemed fun, but something told Phoebe she might be someone to watch out for too. The way she was looking at her, so intently, her head tilted to the side, like a curious bird.
“I’m looking for a guy named Shane,” Phoebe said in her still small not quite 14-year-old voice. “He’s not from the Academy. He goes to public school,” she felt compelled to add.
“Oh. What does he look like?” Mrs. Littleton asked, with a strange little smile.
As best she could, Phoebe described him. With the odd way Mrs. Littleton continued to observe her, she felt increasingly uncomfortable.
“You like him, don’t you?” Mrs. Littleton said, a faint smile returning to her lips.
Phoebe’s cheeks flushed red and her ears grew hot. “Uh…I don’t really know him yet, but,” she was about to say she’d like to know him, instead she added, “he said he’d be here.” She began edging backward toward the stairs that led down to the party.
Sandy made a tsk-tsk sound. “Guys can be so unreliable.” Then under her breath, seemingly to herself, she added, “I should know.” Phoebe wondered if what Skyla had told her the other day was true. That Mrs. Littleton was or had been slutty. Sandy lifted a Bud Light out of a cooler on the floor and extended it to Phoebe, who stared at it in confusion. Just then an arm slipped around Phoebe’s waist. Shane!
