Phoebe
Tuesday, March 3
Emma, the queen of punctuality, is late.
I’ve been standing at her locker for five minutes after last bell, and there’s no sign of her. We’re supposed to go to Owen’s spelling bee together—presenting a united front so Mom can stay clueless about the fact that we’re not speaking—but I’m starting to get the uneasy feeling that my sister has ditched me.
Two more minutes, I decide. Then I’ll call it, and walk.
I shift a few feet to my right to scan the hallway bulletin board while I wait. BE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO MAKES EVERYBODY FEEL LIKE SOMEBODY, a rainbow-lettered poster tells me, except someone’s crossed out SOMEBODY and written SHIT under it.
Oh, Bayview High. You are nothing if not consistent.
A shoulder bumps mine, and I half turn. “Sorry!” Monica Hill says breezily. She’s in her basketball cheerleading uniform, her platinum hair pulled back with a purple-and-white ribbon. “Checking out your ad? It’s so nice that you and Emma are going into business together.”
“We’re not,” I say curtly. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter. Monica is tight with Sean and Brandon, so her fake-friendly act doesn’t fool me. Besides, she’s been trying to steal my best friend for weeks. And succeeding, I guess, considering Jules told her about the Dare instead of me.
Monica’s lips curl into a small smile. “Your flyer says different.” She reaches across me and taps a familiar pale-blue sheet of paper that says Emma Lawton Tutoring across the top. My sister puts them up all over school, with her phone number and a list of subjects: mathematics, chemistry/biology, Spanish. But this particular ad says more than that, in a Sharpie scrawl beneath Emma’s neat printing:
Threesomes (special offer with Phoebe Lawton)
Contact us on Instagram!
I swallow against the lump in my throat as I stare silently at my Instagram handle written across the bottom of the page. Payback from Brandon, I guess, for me throwing him out of the apartment last week. That asshole.
There’s no way I’m giving Monica the satisfaction of a reaction, though. Whatever I do or say right now is going straight back to Brandon. “Don’t you have a game to go to?” I ask. Then a hand reaches over my shoulder, catching the blue sheet by one corner and yanking it off the bulletin board.
I turn to see Emma in her usual headband and oxford shirt, her face a smooth mask as she crumples the ad in one palm. “Excuse me,” she says to a smirking Monica. “You’re trash. I mean, you’re blocking the trash.” Emma reaches around Monica to toss the paper ball into a recycling bin, then tilts her head toward me, still perfectly calm. “Sorry I was late. I had a few questions for Mr. Bose after history. Ready to leave?”
“Ready.”
I follow her long strides down the hallway, almost running to keep up. My mind is churning as we go. Does this mean Emma forgives me? Or at least doesn’t hate me anymore? “Thanks for that,” I say, my voice low as we push through the doors leading to the parking lot.
Emma slides me a sideways glance that’s not friendly, exactly, but it’s not angry, either. “Some people take things too far,” she says. “There are limits. There have to be limits.”
The auditorium at Granger Middle School is exactly like I remember: stuffy, overly bright, and smelling like musty fabric and pencil shavings. The front half of the room is filled with folding chairs, and I spot Mom waving energetically from the third row as soon as Emma and I enter. A heavy curtain is pulled across the stage, and a middle-aged woman in a baggy cardigan and knee-length skirt steps through it. “We’ll be starting in just a few minutes,” she calls, but nobody pays attention. Mom keeps waving until we’re practically on top of her, then pulls her bag and her coat from the two seats beside her, shifting her knees to one side so we can get past her and take our seats.
“Perfect timing,” she says. My mother looks pretty today, her dark hair spilling around an autumn-toned scarf that makes her olive skin glow. The sight of it cheers me up, because it reminds me of what my mother was like when I went to Granger Middle School—always the best-dressed parent at every school event. Mom has a lot of natural style, but she hasn’t made much of an effort since Dad died. Working on Ashton and Eli’s wedding has definitely been good for her state of mind. She plucks lightly at Emma’s sleeve and adds, “I could use your help with a couple of wedding tasks.”
Emma and Mom put their heads together, and I surreptitiously take out my phone. Emma actually talked to me on the ride over, and I didn’t want to spoil our fragile truce by checking Instagram. But I need to know how much shit I’m getting.
Notifications flood my screen as soon as I pull up my account. So, a lot.
My last post was a work selfie that got twenty comments. Now it has more than a hundred. I read the first one—yes hi sign me up for threesomes 101 please—and immediately click away.
“Welcome, families, to Granger Middle School’s annual spelling bee!” My heart is already thudding against my rib cage, and the loud voice booming through a microphone ratchets it up another notch. It’s the same woman who spoke before, standing behind a lectern on one corner of the auditorium stage. Ten kids, Owen included, are arranged in a line beside her. “Let me introduce the scholars who will be dazzling you with their spelling prowess today. First up is our only sixth-grader in the contest, Owen Lawton!”
I clap loudly until the principal moves on to the next kid, then return my attention to my phone. It’s like I just yanked off a bandage, and now I can’t help but poke the wound beneath. I set my Instagram account to private, which I obviously should have done a week ago, and scroll to my message requests. They’re full of guys I don’t know begging me to “tutor” them. One of them just puts a phone number. Does that ever work? Has any girl in the history of the world texted a stranger because he slid his digits into her DMs? I’m about to hit Decline All and erase them from my account forever when a name at the bottom of the screen catches my eye.
Derekculpepper01 Hi, it’s Derek. I was
That’s all I can see without opening the message. Ugh, what does Emma’s ex want? We haven’t spoken since the night in Jules’s laundry room. We never exchanged numbers, obviously, or he wouldn’t be going through Instagram now. If he’s going to apologize for telling someone about us, I don’t care. Too late.
I eye Decline All again, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Hi, it’s Derek. I was hoping we could talk sometime. Can you text me? With a phone number.
Well, that raises more questions than it answers.
I cup my hand around my phone so it blocks the screen from Emma’s line of sight and navigate to Derek’s profile. He has literally no selfies. His entire Instagram feed is pictures of food or his dog. Who does that? It’s not as if he’s terrible-looking. Just sort of unmemorable.
Emma coughs lightly, and I sneak another look at her. I would rather chop my own arm off and beat myself senseless with it than talk to Derek Culpepper again, and I’m pretty sure Emma feels the same way. That leaves Derek as the only person in our twisted triangle who’s interested in reopening the channels of communication, and nobody cares about him.
“And now let’s begin with our first word of the day, for Owen Lawton. Owen, can you spell bizarre for us, please?”
I look up just in time to catch Owen’s eye as he grins and gives me what he thinks is a stealthy thumbs-up. I put my phone away and try to smile back.
A couple of hours later, Mom is at a Golden Rings wedding planner meeting and Emma and I are in our room. I’m stretched out on my bed with a textbook on my lap, and Emma is at her desk with headphones on, her head bobbing silently to whatever music she’s playing. We’re not being social, exactly, but everything feels less tense than it has for a while.
A knock sounds on our door, and Owen pokes his head in. “Hey,” I say, sitting up. “Congratulations again, brainiac.”
“Thanks,” Owen says modestly as Emma pulls her headphones off. “It wasn’t really a contest, though. Nobody else at that school can spell.”
“Alex Chen made a solid showing,” Emma points out.
Owen looks unconvinced. “You’d think an eighth-grader would know how to spell parallel, though.” He perches on the edge of my bed and angles toward me. “Phoebe, I forgot to tell you.” His glasses are a mess of smudges, so I pull them off and wipe the lenses with the hem of my T-shirt. His eyes look unfinished without them. “You have to invite your friend over. Knox something?”
“I have to—what?” I blink in surprise as I hand his glasses back. He settles them unevenly on his nose. “How do you know Knox?”
“I met him at Café Contigo. He plays Bounty Wars,” Owen says, like that’s all the explanation I should require.
Emma wrinkles her brow at me. “You and Knox Myers are friends?”
“We’re friend-adjacent,” I say.
She nods approvingly. “He seems like a good guy.”
“He is,” I say, and turn back to Owen. “Why do you want me to invite Knox over?”
“So we can play Bounty Wars. We talked about it at Café Contigo,” Owen explains, and now all of this is starting to make sense. My brother misreads social cues a lot. Knox was probably being nice, asking about Owen’s favorite game while he waited for our food to be ready. I don’t know Knox well, but he seems that type: the sort of boy parents love because he’s friendly to kids and old people. Polite, clean-cut, and completely nonthreatening.
It confused me when I realized he and Maeve were going out a while back, because they made such an odd couple. She’s the subtle kind of pretty that slides under the radar, but once you start noticing her you wonder how you missed it. Maybe it’s the eyes; I’ve never seen that dark-honey color on anyone else. Or the way she sort of glides around Bayview High like she’s just passing through and doesn’t worry about the same kind of stuff the rest of us do. No wonder Luis Santos can’t take his eyes off her. Them I can see together. They match.
It’s a shallow way to look at things, but that doesn’t make it less true.
Knox has potential, though. Add a few pounds, get a better haircut, amp up the confidence, and—wham. Knox Myers could be a heartbreaker, someday. Just not yet.
Owen is still looking at me expectantly. “Knox and I aren’t really the kind of friends who go to each other’s houses,” I tell him.
His lower lip juts out in a pout. “Why not? You let Brandon come over.”
My chest constricts at the memory of Brandon’s slimy tongue trying to invade my mouth. “That’s not—”
“Brandon Weber?” Owen and I both jump as Emma’s voice spikes an octave. “That creep was in our apartment? Why?” I don’t answer, and her expression gradually morphs from horrified to thunderous. “Oh my God. Is that who you’ve been hooking up with lately?”
“Can we not do this right now?” I say, with a pointed glance toward Owen.
But Emma’s face has gone red and splotchy, which is always a bad sign. She yanks her headphones from around her neck and stands up, stalking toward me like she’s about to shove me across my bed and into the wall. I almost flinch before she stops a foot away, hands on her hips. “Jesus Christ, Phoebe. You are such an idiot. Brandon Weber is a piece of shit who doesn’t care about anyone except himself. You know that, right?”
I gape at her, hurt and confused. I thought we were finally getting past the Derek situation, and now she’s mad at me about Brandon? Did she…Oh God. Oh please no. “Were you involved with Brandon too?” I burst out.
Emma’s mouth drops open. “Are you for real? I would never. Can you honestly think—no, of course you can’t. That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t think. You just do. Whatever you want.” She goes back to her desk, piling her notebook on top of our laptop and hugging them both to her chest. “I’m going to the library. I can’t get anything done in this shithole.”
She leaves, slamming the door behind her, and Owen stares after her. “Are you guys ever gonna stop being mad at each other?” he asks.
I let my shoulders slump, too tired to pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Eventually. Probably.”
Owen kicks his legs back and forth so his sneakers scuff against the floor. “Everything’s ruined, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice so low it’s barely audible. “Our whole family. We have been since Dad died.”
“Owen, no!” I wrap an arm around his thin shoulders and pull him toward me, but he’s so stiff that he just leans uncomfortably against my side. Everything in me aches as it hits me, all of a sudden, how long it’s been since I hugged my brother. Or my sister. “Of course we’re not ruined. We’re fine. Emma and I are just going through a rough patch.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re too little, too late. I should’ve been comforting Owen for the past three years, not just the past three minutes.
Owen disentangles himself from my arm and gets to his feet. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Phoebe. I know when you’re lying.” He opens the door and slips through, shutting it more quietly than Emma did, but just as emphatically.
I flop down on my bed and stare at the clock on my wall. How is it only seven o’clock? This day has been going on forever.
A text tone chimes from somewhere in the depths of my tangled comforter. I don’t have the energy to sit up, so I just root around with one hand until I find my phone and drag it a few inches from my face.
Unknown: Tsk, no response from our latest player.
That means you forfeit, Maeve Rojas.
Now I get to reveal one of your secrets in true About That style.
My eyes go wide. Maeve didn’t tell me she’d been picked, even though we’ve been hanging out at school lately. That girl is either seriously reserved or has avoidance issues. Maybe both.
Still, there’s nothing to worry about. Maeve isn’t full of embarrassing secrets, like me. Unknown will probably just rehash that old story about her puking in some basketball player’s basement when she was a freshman. Or maybe it’ll be about her crush on Luis, although that’s so glaringly obvious that it doesn’t really qualify as a secret. Either way, I wish the text would come through so I can stop obsessing over this stupid game.
And then it does.
Unknown’s latest piece of gossip fills my screen. I blink five or six times, but I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. No. No way. Oh no. Oh hell no.
The omg what?!? messages start pouring in, so fast I can’t keep up with them. I bolt upright and scramble to press Maeve’s number, but she doesn’t pick up. I’m not surprised. Right now, there’s another call she’d better be making.
