by Herta Feely
Sandy looked at her daughter protectively. With each image of Phoebe – cunningly smart, curvaceously sexy, and deceptively devious – her insides heated up, and she barely heard what Jessie said about Noah or Dylan. Her mind had jumped ahead to how she would quiz Phoebe, how she’d get her to tell Shane the truth. But would she tell Shane about Dylan?
Then she noticed Jessie looking at her, anticipating a response. What had she been saying? Snapping back to the present, she forced calm on her rampant mind. “What was that, honey? Something about Noah?”
“I think she’s still mad at me for asking him to the dance.” Jessie’s brow arched in an accusatory fashion. “Remember? That brilliant idea of yours, the one that would make Phoebe so happy?”
Sandy hadn’t anticipated this glitch. Actually, she hadn’t thought much about it at all. So, things had backfired. Well, hell, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Now what advice to offer?
Before she’d had time to fully formulate the thought, the words tumbled out, “We’ll have a party, and you’ll invite Dylan. Tell him we’ll hire his band. Of course he’ll have to come over and check out the space and discuss money. I can pick you guys up at school—”
She hadn’t finished speaking before Jessie shouted, “Oh, Mom, you’re brilliant! Did I ever tell you that?” She skipped out of the room, her mother feeling relief and redemption. A solution to every problem – that was her motto. You just had to think about it.
One thing seemed to elude her though, no matter how hard she thought. And that was making Jessie popular. Getting lots of boys to like her. Girls too. She didn’t know why, it just seemed important. Like something that spelled success in life. Besides, it couldn’t hurt. Having parties couldn’t hurt either.
After finishing a Chinese carry-out meal with Jessie and Bill, she left them sitting in the family room watching TV. Up in her office she scrolled through her e-mails to see if she’d heard from Ron – not yet. Then she looked for new Slenderella orders. Nope, none. Damn that Isabel. Sandy routinely cursed her for all sorts of reasons, but even more so since the e-mail that banned use of the school directory “to solicit business.” More than once she’d fretted over the nasty chit-chat that must have ensued among the snitty moms.
Memories of real and imagined slights, along with Phoebe’s most recent betrayal, tumbled through her mind in a chaotic stew. She studied Shane’s Facebook page.
Hope you like my picture. I didn’t get yours? Looked up Walter J, but you weren’t in the team photo.
Sandy blanched. She’d hoped Phoebe would forget her request. A moment’s thought and her devious brain found a solution. I arrived after they’d taken the shots. But it also brought to mind the need for greater caution; she ought to check the website for wins and losses, which she hadn’t done. She began to wonder if Shane was worth all the trouble.
A few seconds later, Phoebe wrote: Do you want to get together?
A smirk played on Sandy’s lips. The message from Phoebe, God bless her, was perfect. She felt absolutely giddy. Now to stir the pot and gather some intel. Love your pic. How about this weekend? she wrote back, fairly certain Phoebe was still grounded. But perhaps she’d shed some light on her upcoming shopping date with Dylan.
Phoebe: I’m still grounded on weekends, but maybe I could meet you one day after school?
Little liar, thought Sandy. Now, how to flush her out about Dylan. But first, in response to Phoebe’s question, Sandy’s fingers skipped lightly over the keys: Can’t, football practice. The answer had come easily. How many times had she watched Shane Barnett on the football field? Of course that had been in the fall before she knew she loved him. All the girls had watched Shane; he’d been Mr. Popularity. And then in April she’d imagined marrying him, to spite Les, but mostly because she’d truly fallen for him. Countless afternoons in the spring she’d sat in the bleachers watching him on the baseball team, waiting to steal a kiss, to make out with him until her chin was raw. To let him feel her up. To let him fuck her. Which he had, in more ways than one. How was it that memories of Shane always created such emotional turmoil?
She shook him from her head and read Phoebe’s response: Right. Oh, well, guess we’ll have to wait until I’m un-grounded.
Shane: Hey, your friend Jessie’s having a party. Maybe we can meet then?
Phoebe: She invited you?
Sandy again panicked. Was Jessie so mad that she hadn’t invited Phoebe? She’d been so sure Jessie would post a blanket invitation on her Facebook page that she hadn’t even checked. Something she quickly remedied. And sure enough her predictable daughter had announced it online. Invited the whole damn grade! Party at my house. Save the date.
Good girl, Jessie.
Shane: She posted it on Facebook.
Phoebe: I don’t know. I have to ask my mom.
Shane: Oh, come on, your mom can’t be that big of a…you know what!
Phoebe: Maybe she’ll let me go.
Shane: Promise to ask her? Hope you can’t come, Sandy thought.
Phoebe: Okay.
Shane: Can I tell you a secret?
Phoebe: Sure…what?
Shane: Of all the girls at your school, you’re the only one I want to go out with.
Phoebe: Well, I really want to go out with you too.
With a come-on like that Sandy figured she could pry just about any info out of Phoebe, including what she was doing with Dylan. Who are your favorite guy friends, though, failed to elicit the answer she was looking for. Of course, the girl wasn’t stupid. No, she was cunningly smart. When Sandy asked what was on tap for the weekend, Phoebe claimed to be going shopping with her mother. Fucking liar! You’re going with Dylan, admit it!
Ron loved Isabel’s white silk pajamas. The way they outlined her breasts and accentuated her legs always put him in the mood for sex. He figured she wore them because the thought of him working at the Post turned her on. Fact was, though, he didn’t actually have the job yet. Gil hadn’t mentioned an offer, just that they wanted to see him. Yet why else would they want a meeting?
“You’ve got the jitters, I can tell,” Isabel said.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Mmm…hmm. Come to bed, honey, it’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
He’d drummed up a couple of story ideas. Like tailing Sarah Palin. Getting a real inside look. She seemed like such a ball-busting ice maiden. He wanted to see if he could make her defrost. A charming come-on. He mentioned the idea to Isabel, who laughed. “You are incorrigible.”
They spent a few minutes devising a strategy for his meeting, nothing spectacular – she predicted the Post would make him an offer, he’d push for a little more money or stock in the company, maybe a higher-level title, then he’d take it – after all, writing for the prestigious paper was what he wanted, so what would be the point of playing hard to get?
He gazed admiringly at his wife. In situations like this, Isabel was so logical, so reassuring. She’s definitely the brain in the family, he thought.
He eased back against the pillow and reached for Isabel’s hand. “Craziest thing,” he said. “I got an email from Sandy today. She wants to go to lunch to talk about the girls. Of course I’m not going, but I was thinking maybe you could reach out to her?” When he turned and saw the look on Isabel’s face, he realized the ill timing of his remark.
“Really? That’s what you think?” she said.
He watched as she rolled over, her silky back now facing him. “Come on, Iz.” He touched her shoulder but she shrugged him off. She’d been all ready for sex. Why in the hell had Sandy popped into his head? He felt like getting up and going into the other room to masturbate, but suddenly he was too tired, and his cock, which had sprung to life a moment ago, now simply withered in his hand. Goddamn it.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
As Ron left the Washington Post building, he had to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face. He wondered if passersby noticed that his feet weren’t e
ven touching the ground. He’d done it! A new job, start as soon as you like, sure a story on Palin would be great, a little more money why not, though he’d have to oversee a few interns hell-bent on doing political stories. To follow in the footsteps of Woodward and Bernstein, the famous Watergate reporters. No problem, he thought, already savoring his new status.
He stopped off at Starbucks to grab some coffee before going back to the AP office, where he now had the unpleasant task of giving management notice. Of course, he’d offer to stay the requisite amount of time, but would request early departure. He knew they could survive without him. They might even be happy, given that they could replace him with someone younger, someone for far less pay.
In line ahead of him, he saw the back of a woman. Her ass-hugging jeans, her curvy figure, and the way she stood with a hand on one hip all reminded him of Sandy. He stared at her streaked hair, almost thinking it might be her. He willed her to turn, though when she did she looked nothing like Sandy, nor was she dressed in a cleavage-revealing top. He tugged his phone out of his pocket and called up her name in an email, then began to type. Thursday looks good, he wrote. I don’t have long, but meet me at the Quill in the Jefferson Hotel on 16th St at noon. Satisfied, he tapped the word “send.”
Already he imagined how impressed she would be when she heard his news.
Today, when Phoebe opened her locker, hanging inside she found two images taped onto one piece of paper smiling at each other. One half was of Noah at the fall dance and the other of herself. The torn edges met in the middle. She knew it was Emma’s work. The two routinely rendezvoused at their neighboring lockers, and each time they did, it boosted Phoebe’s spirits. She realized how much she truly appreciated her willowy friend.
The images made her smile. Instead of showing her and Noah as they more often appeared – with shy grins or reticent smiles – they were laughing and dancing, not with each other, of course, though Emma had made it appear that way.
Underneath she’d written the caption: What shoulda coulda woulda been! Maybe next time?!!
Phoebe thought about this, then decided she’d eventually reply by using images of herself and Shane. She neatly placed Emma’s note between a stack of books, wrote a quick message back, and shoved it through a crack in Emma’s locker.
It surprised Ron that he felt slightly nervous as the day for his lunch with Sandy approached. Now that he’d made a reservation at the Jefferson, he wished he’d invited her for a drink later in the day. Though he swallowed the crazy thought that surfaced briefly – making a hotel reservation and ordering room service – he understood his urges and knew he’d have to tame them. Nevertheless, as he sat at his desk, he couldn’t help the wave of images that arose: first, Sandy slowly and teasingly stripping, revealing her large beautiful breasts, then kissing him with her slick tongue, sitting down on his lap and finally letting his thick cock slide in. In his imagination she was a perfect piece of ass, talented in the art of sex, waiting to devour him.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Isabel navigated the narrow, sun-drenched streets of Cleveland Park as she and Phoebe headed out to do some shopping. They’d decided to go to Westfield Mall on Democracy Boulevard, then head off to Georgetown, first to a thrift store and then to Dylan’s. In an effort to conserve driving time, Isabel had set up an afternoon appointment with Amanda to review room parent tasks, while Dylan and Phoebe browsed more secondhand clothing stores.
While shopping with Phoebe, Isabel hoped to ask how things were going with Dr. Sharma. She had to wait for the right moment, but when it came she’d ease into the conversation. How are you feeling about things, honey? What did Dr. Sharma say? And so on.
She’d ask her, too, how she felt things had gone with Skyla and Liz a couple of days ago. Maybe that was the better place to start.
“Are you looking forward to your birthday party with Skyla?” she asked once they entered the mall, which literally vibrated with activity.
“Yeah, sure.”
Her answer seemed awfully lukewarm, Isabel thought. Hmm…how to probe without prying? “That doesn’t sound entirely convincing. Are you sure you want to go through with it?”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
Clearly something else was on her mind.
“Anything you want to share with your mom?” Isabel poked her playfully.
“Well, as a matter of fact, there is,” she said quite seriously. “There’s this guy I’ve met and I’d like to invite him.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?” Isabel asked. “Is Skyla objecting?” She’d noticed how much Skyla controlled the planning while chatting with her and Liz. Not to mention how clearly Liz was using the party as another means of currying favor with her and Ron. Another attempt at gaining entry to the Chevy Chase Club was underway.
“No, though I haven’t mentioned it to her. He goes to another school,” Phoebe said.
“Oh? How do you know him?”
“He friended me on Facebook.”
“Oh,” Isabel said again, feeling some anxiety about this. “So you don’t actually know him?”
“Well, not yet.”
Their conversation was cut short when Phoebe ran over to the cosmetic counter to test a new shade of lip gloss. Next they bought a pair of leggings for her at J. Crew. Twice she entered a dressing room and allowed her mother to join her. Neither time seemed quite right to dive into the sacred realm of cutting. Somehow, the intimacy of the situation – Phoebe was letting her see her scarred arms and legs – precluded any of the conversations Isabel had imagined. It relieved her that Phoebe hadn’t further inflicted injury on herself. And, really, wasn’t that enough?
Isabel purchased a pair of slacks at Nordstrom’s and a sale shirt for Ron. They looked for a new video game for Jackson, discovered the store was awaiting a shipment, then left for a thrift shop Phoebe had discovered on the Internet.
Unwittingly, the route Isabel had chosen took them past Walter Johnson High School. Right past the chain link fence that surrounds the football field, where a raucous football game was underway, the bleachers crammed with students and parents. Cheers, shrill whistles and all the sounds that accompany a high school football game rose above the traffic noise.
“Go, Wildcats, go!!”
“Oh, my gosh, Mom, could we stop?” Phoebe said, craning her neck as she looked outside.
“What on earth for?” Isabel said.
“This is where Shane goes. He plays for Walter Johnson,” Phoebe said, as if Isabel should know.
“I take it Shane’s the guy you mentioned earlier?” Phoebe nodded. Isabel added, “But, we have things to do, honey.”
“Fine!” Phoebe crossed her arms and stared out the window. “We can never do anything! You’re always on a schedule. God, Mom, you are sooo not fun!”
Isabel stared at her daughter. How had they gone from having a perfectly lovely day to this? As much as she loved Phoebe, she couldn’t wait until they could look back on these moments and laugh. One thing she was sure of: it couldn’t happen soon enough. She sighed. “I don’t think I deserved that, Phoebe. But if you really want to stop here, then fine. We can always go to the secondhand store another time.”
A wide grin replaced the scowl. “Really, Mom? Thank you. Thank you. You’re the best.”
Isabel had to stop herself from rolling her eyes, shaking her head and heaving another sigh as she maneuvered the car into the jammed parking lot. “Now, can you tell me a little more about all this? Who is this boy?”
Phoebe’s face transformed yet again – a bashful smile replacing her enthusiasm. “Well, a few weeks ago Shane friended me. He’s new to the area and,” she glanced at Isabel sheepishly, “and he, well, he really wants to meet me.”
Though having Phoebe “meet” some stranger through the Internet conjured all the worst images, she was now glad she might actually lay eyes on him. It was this that allowed her to keep the alarm out of her v
oice. “Oh. Who else has he friended?” This was a call for caution and a return to Facebook ground rules. Isabel would discuss it with Ron; they’d set up new guidelines for the use of Facebook, and computer use in general (for both kids); they had set up controls, but she now realized their standards had relaxed at the very time when they ought to have become more vigilant.
“Pretty much all my friends,” Phoebe said.
“Skyla? Jessie? Emma?”
“Jessie, Emma, yes.” Then she added, “All of Skyla’s friends. They all think he’s adorable, Mom. He is sooo cute. Wait till you meet him.”
“Okay, but what about Skyla?”
“No…and I’m not sure why. I’ll ask him.”
“Which is why you’re worried that Skyla might not want to invite him?”
“A little.” But then excitedly she added, “He asked to see me.”
“You, and no one else?” She hoped Phoebe couldn’t hear the distress in her tone.
“Well, I don’t know for sure. He asked if I could meet up with him this weekend.” She sounded so full of eagerness, full of innocent desire, until she added, “But I told him I was grounded.” She released a disgruntled snort, which Isabel ignored.
Isabel found a narrow parking spot and pulled in. “I guess we’re okay here for a few minutes. Be careful getting out.”
Phoebe nodded. “We don’t have to stay long. I just want to be able to tell him later that I watched some of the game.” She turned to Isabel, her eyes alit like amber jewels. “Maybe I’ll even see him!” Isabel nodded.