[Phoebe Pope 01.0] The Year of Four

by Nya Jade

  “Why? I don’t want Dish Mobile.”

  “Just give it to me.”

  Phoebe fished her phone from her bag, tossed it to Hayley, all the while eyeing her suspiciously. Hayley began punching away at Phoebe’s keypad with one hand and raised the other, stopping Phoebe from releasing any words from her open mouth. A second later, Phoebe’s phone vibrated and Hayley stuck out her tongue and said, “You’re all set for the premiere.”

  Phoebe’s eyes narrowed and Hayley tossed her phone back to her. Hayley giggled, “Colten says he’s glad it worked out.”

  Phoebe gazed at Hayley, disbelievingly. She glanced down at her phone, read the message, and looked back at Hayley. Then laughter bubbled from her chest and before she knew it, it had claimed her breath.

  Hayley laughed too, but clearly out of relief.

  “I thought you were going to kill me!” she said mock-gritting her teeth.

  Phoebe had seriously considered it. But then she’d been struck by the realization that less than thirty words had saved her from hours of agonizing. Phoebe had been contemplating a variety of ways to approach Colten, what tone to take, a clever way to come off playful and inviting without it seeming like a total departure from their last interaction.

  Instead, Phoebe stared down at her phone again and read:

  Phoebe: “Hey. Turns out I can go to the premiere after all. Still need a date?”

  Colten: “Yes. Glad it works out. Thank your grandfather. See U soon.”

  Four or five reads later, Phoebe still couldn’t figure out how his incredibly simple response could elicit such butterflies in her stomach. A black town car pulled up, looking as if it transported somebody important. Phoebe jumped to her feet and smoothed her uniform.

  Hayley sat up, tilting her head with curiosity. “By the way,” she said. “What did he mean by ‘Thank your grandfather’?”

  “Long story,” Phoebe said. As she hoisted her backpack on her shoulder, her phone buzzed again. Phoebe glanced down at it. A wide grin took over her face.

  “Ooh is that him again?” Hayley asked, standing. “What’s he saying now?”

  Phoebe showed her the text.

  “He’s offering to cook you dinner as a thank you?” Hayley said, snatching the phone to read the message again. “Unbelievable!”

  Phoebe peeled her phone out of Hayley’s hands. “You’re assuming he’s any good.”

  “Whatever. While I’m stuck with caf’ food you’ll be dining à la Chase,” Hayley said with a dramatic huff. “You so owe me!”

  Phoebe held up a hand to wave away Hayley’s comment. “Let’s call it even since I didn’t kill you for that stunt you pulled.” She ran to greet the ginger-blond woman exiting the car and held out her hand, biting back a giddy rush of exhilaration. “Mission” or not, she was going to a movie premiere with a guy she was completely crazy about—a guy who wanted to cook for her—and he just happened to be Colten Chase.

  TWENTY

  Phoebe could feel the unease coiling through the room as she and her cadetmates watched the broad, bushy blond-haired boy up front change his slides. It was the start of Presentation Week, and true to her word, Montclaire had slated Phoebe to present on day one. She tried to calm her mounting nerves as she listened to the boy who had volunteered to go first. Phoebe knew his eagerness had spared her from that fate.

  “The Vigo tongue,” the boy was saying, moving his laser pointer along the purple-pink organ pictured on his slide, “can extend to a length that allows it to wrap around a grown man’s neck. It has hundreds of tiny harpoon-like needles embedded in each taste bud. When feeding, these needles are triggered”—he changed slides—“to pierce the skin so that toxins flow into the victim’s bloodstream. The toxin rips mitochondria from human cells allowing the Vigo to absorb it into its body.”

  “How exactly is it absorbed?” Montclaire asked crisply from her seat upfront.

  The boy smiled and moved to his next slide. “Through these pock-like receptors found both on the tip and the back of the tongue.”

  “Brings new meaning to getting tongue, huh?” Scott whispered, playfully poking Phoebe in the side.

  Phoebe gave him a quick smile, but continued to clench her chair as the boy reached the end of his twenty minute presentation.

  “A job well done, Cadet Bane,” Montclaire said. She rose to her feet and turned on the overhead lights. “You’ve certainly set the bar for Cadet Pope.”

  Phoebe understood her cue. As she walked to the front of the class, she could feel her throat closing and sweat gathering in her armpits. Not only did she fear public speaking, but she hadn’t prepared any slides. Her effort already felt painfully below the bar.

  When Phoebe arrived at the lectern, she scanned the faces of her classmates; some were amused, but most, like Scott, smiled encouragingly, trying to ease her discomfort. Before she’d even assembled her notes, an impatient Montclaire prompted her.

  “Sometime this moonester, Cadet Pope. I’m sure the class is eager to have you tell us about the Mark Day,” Montclaire said with a smile that cut. She returned to her seat and crossed her arms.

  Phoebe cleared her throat. “Newly made Vigos—cubs—are housed in crèches, which is a fancy way of saying nurseries.”

  A few students snickered at that.

  “Next person to even hiccup will take Cadet Pope’s place,” Montclaire said, waving a hand at Phoebe to continue.

  Phoebe nodded appreciatively, and swallowed. “The cubs,” she said shakily, “are watched over to make sure they make the transition from human to Vigo. The ones that don’t are killed. Those that do transition are taught to control the beast.”

  “Please clarify what you mean by ‘control the beast’,” Montclaire said.

  Phoebe cleared her throat. “New cubs are unstable and prone to spontaneous morphing,” she said. “Controlling the beast means learning to only morph at will.” Phoebe paused, waiting for a follow up question from Montclaire. When none came, she said, “During that time, the cubs learn all things Vigo: politics, law, and hunting. At the end of two years, they receive a tattoo on the right side of their necks to signify becoming fully Vigo—almost like a graduation.”

  “What is this tattoo of?” Montclaire asked.

  “The Mark of Wang,” Phoebe replied confidently.

  “And it’s symbolic to Vigos because?”

  Phoebe stared at Montclaire blankly. She then glanced down at her notes. She’d forgotten the significance of the Mark of Wang. She only remembered that when written, the Chinese character looked like three horizontal lines stacked one on top of each other with a vertical line running through the middle.

  “Anyone?” Montclaire asked, twisting around in her seat to look at the class. A girl’s hand shot up in the back. “Go ahead, Cadet Ramirez.”

  “Wang means ‘king’ in Chinese,” the athletically built girl said. “It’s symbolic because the stripe pattern on the forehead of Tigers looks just like the Chinese character Wang.”

  “Correct,” Montclaire said, satisfied.

  “I know this because I can speak Chinese,” the girl quickly added.

  “Thank you for verifying this,” Montclaire said, not hiding her annoyance. Still facing the class, she added, “The tiger has been revered in Chinese culture for centuries. In fact, they consider it to be the king of all animals. Vigos take this as a sign of their superiority and feel that their human form should also bear the Mark of Wang, hence the tattoo.”

  For ten minutes, Montclaire continued to pepper Phoebe with questions, stopping her presentation now and then for fine detail clarifications on Beta and Alpha marks. And as Phoebe noticed the expressions on her classmates’ faces slowly slide from mildly entertained to eyebrows furrowed with sympathy, Phoebe knew that she wasn’t the only one in the room who thought Montclaire was being tremendously unfair. Finally, the bell rang and Phoebe made no attempt to conceal her immediate dash for the door, wishing with all of her hearts for Professor Jones’
return so that Montclaire’s substitute teaching stint would come to a speedy end.

  “Was it really that bad?” Hayley said as she zipped Phoebe into a hunter green, tea-length dress with a sweetheart neckline that she’d ordered online from Macy’s.

  “It was awful,” Phoebe said. “Just a heads up for your presentation,”—she looked over her shoulder at Hayley—“go with slides ’cause—”

  “This is definitely the dress!” Hayley squealed, clapping her hands as she took a step back, admiring.

  Phoebe looked into her mirror, relieved. She liked it too. “So.” She turned to face her bed; it held the two other dresses she’d ordered. “This one over the powder-blue?”

  “No question.” Hayley came to stand by Phoebe. “At first I thought the whole redhead-in-a- green-dress was going to be cliché, but this one’s so dark it’s almost black.” She bumped Phoebe with her jean clad hip. “Besides, the ruching at the waist is flattering.”

  Phoebe moved her hips from side to side. “And you don’t think it’ll be a big deal that it’s not designer?”

  Hayley shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. These days, lots of celebs like to gush about shopping for vintage clothes and secondhand stuff like that. Besides, the photographers will be so focused on how hot you look in that dress no one’s going to care about who made it.”

  The door opened and closed behind them and Cyn’s voice said, “Seriously, mom. Let this one go. I will out scoop you.” She paused when she noticed Phoebe and Hayley. “Yes, but—” she continued. “Yes, but you forget that I have direct access!” Cyn snapped her phone shut and stripped out of her blue pea coat. “So what’s the occasion, ladies?” She sat on the sofa and crossed her legs.

  Hayley’s lips twisted into a grin. “Didn’t Phoebe tell you she got—” she started.

  “Invited to the Fall Enviroball,” Phoebe said, speaking over Hayley and giving her a meaningful look.

  Cyn squinted at them, forehead creased with suspicion. “Who are you going with? Colten?” she asked in a tone that bordered on a sneer. When Phoebe said, “No,” Cyn shot forward in her seat.

  “No?” she echoed, genuinely shocked.

  “No,” Phoebe said, running her fingers along the ruching in her dress.

  Cyn, disbelief still ruling her face, said, “So he didn’t ask—I mean—” She censored herself and grabbed her coat. Then, muttering something about an editorial deadline, she bustled out of the room.

  “Editorial deadline my ass,” Phoebe mumbled when the door had snapped shut. “She’s off to report to Karli.”

  “My bad,” Hayley said. “Didn’t mean to almost blab there.”

  “It’s all good,” Phoebe said. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s okay. And I respect how passionate she is about the Gazette. But I can’t get past her friendship with Karli—”

  Phoebe’s phone buzzed and she darted for her desk.

  “What’s lover boy saying today?” Hayley said, reading the glowing expression on Phoebe’s face.”

  “He can’t wait for dinner tonight,” she said, not bothering to mask her excitement. She and Colten had been exchanging text messages during his absence. It had reduced Phoebe’s post study date anxiety. Ignoring the kissing noises Hayley was making, Phoebe scrolled through her phone and reread a few of her favorite messages.

  Colten: “Help. Being stalked by a seven-year-old.”

  Colten: “Guy interviewing me must have had onions and tuna for lunch. Can’t breathe!”

  Colten: “80-year-old woman just gave me her underwear to sign. No joke. See pic.”

  Phoebe ended with today’s text.

  Colten: “Looking forward to dinner.”

  She wrote back: “Me too.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Ican’t just do nothing!” Phoebe protested. Steam infused with tantalizing aromas of pepper and garlic rose from a sizzling frying pan and spiced the air.

  From behind her, Colten tugged the spatula out of her hand. He lowered his head to her ear, his breath warming her neck. “This kitchen isn’t big enough for the two of us,” he said, before placing his free hand on Phoebe’s hip and sliding her body to the side. “Now, sit!”

  “Fine,” Phoebe scowled, secretly memorizing the thrill she’d felt from having Colten’s hand on her hip.

  “It’s almost done, anyway,” he said

  “What’s on the menu?” Phoebe sat on his bed and grabbed one of several text books that lay on it. She had a sudden need to keep her hands occupied.

  “Pad Thai and papaya salad,” Colten said.

  “Wow,” Phoebe said, impressed. “Thai food.”

  “It’s a great option in a gluten-free diet,” he explained. He returned his attention to the frying pan.

  “If you’re not going to let me do anything,” Phoebe said playfully. “At least let me ask you some questions.”

  Colten looked over his shoulder. “May I remind you of what happened the last time we went down this road?”

  Phoebe scowled and Colten laughed. “Okay, shoot,” he said. He removed a square plastic container from the refrigerator.

  “Favorite band?” Phoebe said, running a finger along the spine of the book.

  “Arcade Fire,” he said.

  “Cool. Favorite board game?”

  “Chess. It’s a thinking man’s game.”

  “Favorite color?”

  “Gray.”

  Phoebe said, “Really? Gray’s so drab.”

  “Not when it’s the color of your eyes,” Colten said softly, turning to look at her. His gaze was almost indulgent. Phoebe swallowed. Every now and then the intensity of Colten’s green eyes stunned her.

  After a moment, when only the crackling sound from the frying pan filled the air, Phoebe said, “What’s ‘Project Cuddle’?” Her eyes had settled on the words embroidered in the black apron he was wearing over a gray henley shirt and sweatpants.

  “They rescue abandoned babies,” he said, resting his elbows on the small counter, “and provide women safe options for giving up newborns.”

  Phoebe looked up at him, stunned. “That’s not what I was expecting,” she admitted.

  Colten smiled slowly. “What were you expecting?”

  Phoebe shook her head, averting her gaze.

  “No judgment,” Colten said. “I swear.”

  “I was expecting some cute remark about some fan club of yours. . . . But,” she said, looking over at the apron, “what you’re talking about is intense.” Phoebe eyed him closely, waiting for judgment to creep into his eyes. His expression remained even.

  “It is intense,” he murmured. “That’s why I volunteer when I can.”

  That was it: the chains around Phoebe’s skeptical hearts loosened, the links breaking off one by one, until there was nothing left to restrain her feelings for Colten.

  “Looks like we’re all set!” He turned the stove off and began to rummage through the kitchen cabinets. He swore under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Small technical difficulty.” Colten looked almost embarrassed. “Be right back.” And before Phoebe could ask if there was something she could help him with, Colten had left the room.

  Phoebe found herself taking a few deep breaths. She couldn’t believe all that she was feeling; a new sense of ease flowed through her. She’d been keeping herself guarded from Colten. But that seemed to be changing. He seemed to be changing around her, giving her guided access to private areas of his life. For the first time, she allowed herself to believe that Colten had a sincere interest in her. Phoebe stared down at her hands that were beginning to feel clammy. She noticed suddenly that she’d been holding an Ancient Civilization text book.

  “Okay, we’re back in business,” Colten said, returning. He had plates and forks in his hand.

  “Hey,” Phoebe said, raising the book. “Is this class any good?”

  “Boring as hell,” he said, glimpsing the title. “But take it if you need an easy A. The prof reuses old tests.”<
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  “Nice tip,” Phoebe said. She flipped to the front of the book. Pompeii was listed in the table of contents. Of course, she thought. Humans had varying accounts of what happened the morning of August 25, A.D. 79, and they were all wrong. An earthquake did not trigger the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Members of the exiled Tiger clan did. A suicide mission sent thirty Tigers into the mouth of the volcano and caused the deaths of 8,000 Shapers unable to flee the volcanic ash that rained down on Pompeii. The clan, who called themselves Vigos in honor of their slain king, vowed to continue killing Shapers.

  “Time to eat,” Colten declared, returning Phoebe to the present. She quickly slid off the bed and went to join him in the kitchen.

  Colten set a stack of paper plates on the counter and removed his apron. “I hope you don’t mind sitting on the floor,” he said, pointing to the coffee table, embarrassed. “I didn’t plan too well.”

  “What?” Phoebe said, feigning elitist disgust. “No pedestal dining table set with linen and fine china?”

  “You’re my kind of gal,” Colten laughed, relief plain in his voice.

  When he reached up to hang his apron on a high wall hook, Phoebe’s eyes immediately went to the bare strip of skin exposed between the edge of his shirt and the top of his sweat pants. A crazy desire to run a hand across the nicely defined contours of his abdomen hit her unexpectedly. For a moment, Phoebe let her imagination run with that thought. When she looked up, Colten was studying her. Phoebe shivered from the force of his stare.

  “So . . . ready for a taste?” he said, huskily, his expression both teasing and curious. Phoebe nodded and tried to ignore the double meaning she’d heard in Colten’s tone. It was all she could do to keep breathing. They both knew she’d been caught lusting.

  Colten filled two plates with food and handed one to Phoebe. They settled around the coffee table, and starving, Phoebe took a bite of noodles. “Oh my God,” she said, rich flavor exploding in her mouth. “This is amazing.”