I guess I'd say we're becoming friends. It's strange. We haven't exchanged phone numbers and I still don't even know her last name. And it's not like we make plans to meet; we both just show up at the dog run at nine, an unspoken agreement. In a way, the fact that we're completely unattached allows us to talk about things you ordinarily don't when you've just met someone.
Like on Friday afternoon, as we were walking around the reservoir, Phoebe told me that after her release from tennis captivity, she'd assumed it was going to be a lonely summer. Most of her friends were counselors at sleep-away camps, or with their families out in the Hamptons, which she described as these swank beach towns near the eastern tip of Long Island.
“If you can call them friends,” she added, scuffing her sneakers in the pebbles.
“What do you mean?”
And that's when Phoebe told me about her stuffy private school, where the kids believe that a hefty allowance + designer clothes + a country home = high status. Phoebe's parents often forgo vacations to cover tuition because they believe that education equals enlightenment. What they don't understand is that all the teachers talk about is how education equals good college applications.
“Can't you tell them you want to transfer somewhere else?” I asked.
And that's when Phoebe told me how her older siblings, both in their midtwenties, had gone there too. And how her sister had excelled at Cornell; her brother was a nuclear physicist “with more degrees than a thermometer.” And how her parents pressure her to live up to that precedent, not realizing that to the rest of the world these wunderkinder aren't exactly normal.
The next morning, while we were sitting on a pier in Riverside Park, I told Phoebe that I understand what it's like to live in someone else's shadow.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
And that's when I described Kitty. How she has the brains and the beauty and the boys. How I once compiled a list of all of Kitty's assets (seventeen) and all of mine (two), which I then shredded into pieces and stuffed in the trash. And how, next to Kitty, I often wind up feeling second-tier.
Phoebe's eyes had been closed as she aimed her face toward the sun. I think she was trying to dry up her acne, which has gotten worse over the past few weeks.
“Sammie.” She sat up abruptly and looked at me. “You are anything but second-tier.”
It could have just been the sun making its way over the Manhattan skyline, but I was suddenly overcome with a warm sensation inside. I knew that, whether or not it was actually true, Phoebe meant what she said.
I got a similar feeling a few days later, when I showed up at the dog run racked with a lousy, crampy, moody case of PMS.
“You need chocolate,” Phoebe said matter-of-factly.
But when we scavenged around in our pockets, we didn't have enough collectively to buy a Hershey's Kiss. I was about to succumb to premenstrual funk when Phoebe marched me down the street to this chichifroufrou chocolate shop, where truffles are worth their weight in gold. After tying Moxie and Dogma to a parking meter, Phoebe dragged me past displays of delicately wrapped gourmet chocolates, ignoring my hushed reminders of our penniless state.
“My friend and I are regular customers here”— Phoebe smiled at the person behind the counter, a petite woman with closely set dark eyes and cascades of long reddish hair framing her fragile face—“and we wanted to see what you're sampling today.”
Regular customers here? What if she takes one look and says she's never seen us before in her life? I was debating whether I should flee the scene of the crime or defend Phoebe on grounds of PMS prevention when the saleswoman said, “We're sampling our new line of milk chocolate hazelnuts. Does that sound okay to you?”
Okay to us? I considered asking her if she'd ever heard the expression “Beggars can't be choosers,” when she selected two morsels from a nearby tray. She was even shorter than Phoebe, who is exactly five feet tall, so she had to stand on her tippy-toes to pass them over the high counter.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, tearing off the crinkly brown foil. It was creamy and delicious and vanished in one pop.
“Mmm,” Phoebe said, “thank you.”
Once we were out on the street, Phoebe opened her fist and revealed her chocolate, still in its wrapping.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” she pronounced, handing it to me.
“No.” I attempted to give the chocolate back to her. “It's yours.”
But Phoebe held both her hands in the air, refusing to take it. Then she paused, deliberately scratched her temple and giggled. “A shih tzu, don't you think?”
“What?”
Phoebe gestured toward the woman in the shop. “Those little dogs with the long, long fur.”
“Oh,” I tried to say, but my mouth was full of milk chocolate hazelnut. Even though they came from the exact same tray, I could swear this one tasted even better than the first.
There are things I didn't tell Phoebe. I didn't tell her that my parents had separated so recently. And I didn't tell her that Dad had suddenly decided I was no longer his Number One Daughter, like he always used to joke, pshawing away my reminder that I was his Number Only Daughter. And I didn't tell her how many hours Mom sits at the kitchen table playing solitaire or flipping through her selection of self-help books. And I definitely didn't tell her about Dad's phone call the following week.
It had caught me off guard, in a rare moment when I was home alone. I'd just finished washing Moxie with a dog shampoo that Phoebe's sister, Charlotte, had recommended to reduce itching. Phoebe had e-mailed her in Tucson, after the patch on Moxie's back grew raw and flaky.
I tossed a towel over Moxie's damp fur, closed her in the bathroom and dove toward the receiver, answering on the third ring. My T-shirt was sopping wet and my arms felt slimy from the suds.
It turned out to be Dad, with his usual How are you? How's Mom? Are you sure? and me with my Fine, Fine, Yes, I'm sure. I examined a blunt scratch on my thigh, most likely from Moxie's attempted escape during the rinse-off. I couldn't believe how calm I felt. I could almost get used to this.
“In case you try to reach me,” Dad said right before we hung up, “Aunt Jayne and I are taking a cycling trip down the coast in two weeks.”
I sank onto the futon, even though my shorts were relatively damp. That was my plan with Dad, before all the trial separation business! I was going to bring Mariposa to Palo Alto, and if we were in good enough shape by the end of the summer, we were going to cycle as far as Los Angeles and then fly back with our bikes.
I hadn't realized I was so replaceable, I thought about saying. But I didn't. I barely said another word until we got off the phone a few minutes later.
After we hung up, I thought of that Dr. Seuss book, Horton Hatches the Egg. It's about how Mayzie the Lazy Bird convinces an elephant to tend to her egg while she flits off to Palm Beach, and then demands it back once it's about to hatch. When I was four, I used to make Dad read it to me every night, even though I'd memorized it so completely I would stop him if he altered even a word.
I scratched my arm. The soap was beginning to irritate my skin. I could hear Moxie whimpering from behind the door. As I headed toward the bathroom, I wondered what would happen if Dad ever stopped his lazy-bird act and decided to become a father again. I couldn't say whether I let him back into the nest again. After all, Horton ends up gaining custody of the offspring, not Mayzie the Lazy Bird.
I did tell Phoebe about Kitty's panicky phone call two days later. Well, I tried to, at least. Because I hadn't even gotten to the part where Kitty discovered condoms in the glove compartment of Jack's Jeep even though she'd gone on the Pill two months ago, when Phoebe sucked in her breath.
“Your best friend has had SEX?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, glancing around the dog run. Phoebe had said that so loudly I wouldn't be surprised if the people walking down Columbus had heard it. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Kitty had heard it all the way in Ithaca. I wonder how she'd feel i
f she knew I told Phoebe about her, about Jack. For some reason, I'd rather not think about that.
I should have guessed Phoebe's next question.
“Have you?”
I shook my head. “Not even close.”
Phoebe exhaled, her shoulders sagging. “Me neither.”
We were quiet for a minute. I have to admit, I'm glad Phoebe is still a virgin. It makes me feel more normal somehow. I wonder if she's done other things, like second base or even third.
“Have you done anything else?” she asked.
I began to describe the Big Slobbery Makeout at sailing camp last summer. I told her how his tongue felt like a giant wet worm invading my mouth. And how strange it was, when you can barely swap chewing gum with your closest friend, to have a stranger's spit sliding down your chin. It wasn't until I recounted how he pushed his pointy bulge against my thigh that I realized Phoebe had been digging her fingernails into my wrist.
“You're so lucky,” she sighed as soon as I'd finished.
And that's when she confessed that she hasn't done anything yet, not even a peck. That the closest she's come is a cyber-boyfriend she met in a teen chat room. His screen name is Mountainking. They e-mail every day and have even scanned photos back and forth, but it's a long way from New York to Denver.
“And it's not for lack of knowledge,” Phoebe added wistfully.
“What do you mean?”
“I know everything there is to know about sex … without having done a thing.”
“How?”
“I've read tons of books on human sexuality and my sister, Charlotte, is my direct pipeline to the practical side.”
“The hands-on,” I cut in.
“Good one,” Phoebe giggled, and then began describing an online sex advice column she wants to write someday. She'd call it “Frank Talk,” since her last name is Frank.
I was about to tell her that I hadn't known her last name was Frank, that it was perfectly suited to her, when she gripped my wrist, this time with both her hands.
“Sammie?” she asked, a grin creeping over her face.
“Yeah?”
“Will you tell me about the Big Slobbery Makeout one more time?”
Maybe it was all the sex talk, but good karma descended around noon, as I was on my way home. I almost missed it altogether because as I rounded our corner, I'd been trying to decide whether to make a grilled cheese sandwich or a tuna melt for lunch.
It took me a minute to realize someone was honking their horn, trying to get my attention. I glanced over just in time to catch J.D. saluting as he revved up a silver Honda and peeled down the block.
Maybe we'll drive off like that together someday, on our way to a weekend retreat in the Hamptons. I'll buckle my seat belt as the tires screech when the car whips around the corner.
Sammie, you know you're safe with me, he'll murmur, squeezing my leg right above the knee.
Let's say I don't want to be safe anymore, I'll giggle as his hand wanders up my thigh.
Once we get to the ocean, we'll find a small deserted beach shaded by trees. I'll wear a two-piece bathing suit, and I won't obsess about the stretch marks on my thighs or my Grand Tetons. And as we slip into the warm, salty water, my mind will not be on Mom, Dad or alternate-side parking. No, all I'll think about will be the sun on my shoulders, the sand between my toes and J.D.'s fingers untying my bikini top.
The heat wave started on the last Tuesday of July. By eight in the morning, the sun was piercing the windows and radio broadcasters were warning that physical activity should be limited due to poor air quality. Phoebe and I had only been in the dog run for twenty minutes when Dogma flopped onto his side with his eyes drooping. She scooped him up and carried him home, exaggerating her limp as she turned onto Columbus. And as I headed in the other direction, the sun charring my shoulders, Moxie was panting so badly that a waiter at an outdoor café poured her a bowl of water.
The worst thing of all was our apartment. Mom had given me her credit card to buy another fan the week before, when the temperature hit ninety. But by noon, as the radio reported the heat index in the three-digit range, the fans were providing as much relief as a parakeet fluttering its wings in the Sahara Desert. As Mom stepped into her second cool shower, I collapsed on the futon, fully sympathizing with the cry of a lobster when chucked into a pot of boiling water. By late afternoon, Mom agreed to check with the super about an air conditioner. But I was running out the door to pick up Becca from gymnastics, so I didn't stick around to see if she'd follow through.
I've been watching Becca for the past three Tuesdays. Shira always insists I stay for dinner, which is fine. And she's never again pulled me aside to query my emotional state. Though last week, as I was scraping plates while she stacked them in the dishwasher, I considered saying something about feeling overwhelmed by Mom, by tending to our lives. I never even told anyone about my first-ever outbreak of hives. I'd just borrowed some of Mom's lotion and kept my mouth shut. But just as I was gearing up to talk to Shira, Becca teetered into the kitchen with an armload of dishes and the moment was gone.
Anyway, I have a hunch Shira already knows Mom's not doing that well. She calls every evening to check up on her and they meet for coffee at least once a week. Whenever Mom returns from spending time with Shira, she always seems a little less blue. Which is why I was surprised two nights ago when she set the receiver in its cradle and buried her head in her hands.
“What's wrong?” I asked warily.
“I just said yes when I should have said no.” Mom was staring at the phone like she wished it would disappear.
“Huh?”
“A few days ago, Shira was telling me how the only way to get a job in Manhattan is by knowing someone.”
“Because there are so many people, right?”
Mom nodded. “So Shira just called with good news. A friend of a friend is the vice principal of a junior high that's hiring an art teacher, and she can get me an interview.”
“That's great!” I exclaimed, so enthusiastically that my voice cracked.
“I don't know.” Mom shook her head. “Maybe I should call Shira back. I'm just not up for more rejection right now.”
“But how will you know unless you try?” I asked.
“Easier said than done,” Mom said as she began filling up a jug for the plants.
I guess she hadn't noticed that I'd already watered them that morning.
Eli has been eating dinner with people from the gardens every Tuesday, so I've only seen him once, in passing. Becca and I were stepping into the lobby, and there he was, head to toe in dirt, mumbling something about having forgotten his heavy-duty gardening gloves. As Becca explained that his responsibilities include digging and weeding, I couldn't stop thinking about the look of surprise on his face when he saw us. Or how blue his eyes appeared when surrounded by the smudges of soil on his cheeks and forehead.
A few minutes later, as Becca and I scooped vanilla ice cream onto chocolate chip cookies, I caught sight of a note thumbtacked to the corkboard next to the phone. I moved closer, pretending to be rinsing my fingers. E—Jenna called about tomorrow night. My fires of curiosity were stoked yet again. Who is this Jenna character? Eli's girlfriend? When Becca appeared next to me, I jumped guiltily, though I'm not quite sure why. I mean, should she care that I saw the message? And, while we're at it, should I care?
The Jenna mystery was finally solved on the first day of the heat wave. Becca and I had taken the crosstown bus home instead of walking across the park as usual. Mistake #1. We wound up waiting at the bus stop for twenty sweltering minutes before packing into a vehicle that crept so slowly I wouldn't have been surprised if the driver powered it with his feet, like on The Flintstones. By the time we hit the West Side, I was coated with sweat, especially my underarms, which were soaking through to my tank top.
It took a half hour of recuperating in their airconditioned living room before either of us could muster the energy to fetch lemonade from
the refrigerator. But after we'd downed two glasses each, Becca disappeared in search of a deck of cards to play spit.
Kitty and I were obsessed with spit in junior high, so much so that Dad jokingly warned us about carpal tunnel syndrome, like you can get from working long hours at a computer. Spit is this addictive game where you race to get rid of your cards before the other person. It never fails to get me completely wired. One time, I actually bit Kitty's queen of diamonds after I'd lost a round, leaving a full imprint of my teeth across the golden crown.
It's been a while since the spit years, so I was rusty at first, missing obvious plays. But after a few minutes I caught up to speed, walloping Becca in four consecutive rounds. Midway through a heated hand, I was slamming down cards while Becca howled because her ace was stuck to the hardwood floor, when I suddenly got this feeling that we weren't alone. I glanced up, only to see Eli, two other guys and a girl standing in the doorway of the living room, watching us.
“Spit!” Becca slapped the smaller pile.
I sat up, tucking strands of hair behind my ears. Eli was to the far left. Next to him was a stocky guy whose sandy hair hung shaggily over his eyes. The other guy, much taller with broad shoulders and orange-tinted sunglasses, had his arm slung around the neck of a girl who I knew, by some kind of instinct, was Jenna.
Jenna was skinny, with boy-short dark hair, winecolored lipstick and clunky black sandals. She reminded me of a coyote. I wondered if Phoebe would agree.
“What are you doing home so early?” Becca asked, dealing her hand for the next round. I still hadn't collected my cards from the last one.
“They canceled gardening because of the heat,” Eli mumbled, fidgeting with his bead-and-hemp necklace.
Eli remained in the doorway as the two guys, who introduced themselves as Shay and Alex, flopped onto the couch. Shay grabbed the remote control and switched on MTV. Alex grabbed Jenna, pulling her toward him.
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