Phoebe

The guy was standing with a bunch of bulky football players. (I could tell that much by the letterman jackets already adorned upon their collective shoulders. It was burning up outside and so the jackets were definitely meant as a sort of football gang symbol.) He didn’t look like he really belonged with them, but his green and gold-sleeved jacket was donned nonetheless. His hair was brown, except not brown. It was more of a reddish color and it was long enough that it covered his ears. His eyes -- I could tell even from my distance -- were blue or some form thereof. I didn’t look at his body; I just saw his face -- his wonderfully handsome face. He laughed at some joke -- god, even his smile was enchanting -- I hadn’t heard, and then -- and then, well you can guess . . . the boy glanced over at me and our eyes met and connected.

We stared at each other without blinking for seconds but to me it felt like hours. And as soon as I thought to shut my figuratively open mouth, the guy’s eyes adverted and I was left feeling like a quickly deflated balloon. (I suppose me holding my breath had something to do with that.)

Since it was after school; and since the group of boys were leaning up against one of their people’s cars; and since I didn’t want to seem like a serial killer or stalker or something, I crowded into my tiny little blue Saturn car and left the school campus quickly.

Deciding that the only way to calm my fluttering heart and to assuage my rapid thoughts was to get some caffeine into my body and bloodstream, I drove to the local Starbucks and ordered a grande caramel frappacino. Never the one for coffee or its various forms, I sipped lightly on the straw. My car’s air conditioner was on full blast trying to beat the hot Georgia sun, and the general coldness from the frappacino chilled my shaking hands. Isn’t it something when a guy can make you tremble? I muttered into the empty space of Wiley, my maybe-I'll-work-today car. (What can I say? I'm a sucker for naming things.)

When I completed my tasty, semi-bitter drink, I went home. My father was busy at work on the computer in his "study" doing whatever it was that he did for a living.

"Hey Alfster. What's up?" I said, throwing my book bag down the hallway to the floor by the attic door. It landed just against the white wall with a soft THUD. I leaned against the doorway.

"Not much," he said, looking up from the computer screen. "How was school?"

"Same old. Introductory stuff. I think the school systems here are simplistic, so I should have a free ride this year."

Alfie frowned. "Well that's not good."

I shrugged. "Sorry but that's just the way things go, ya know? In any case, you know my grades would be perfect anyway."

"Yes, I know. Your mother's brain," he sighed sadly. "And mother's looks. . ."

I didn't want him to get into one of his dazed, depressed stupors again so I said, "What? Is my brain a bit too normal for your taste?"

Alfie laughed then and all the tension and melancholy dissipated from the room. It was almost as if it was never there. My father always did have that ability though -- to practically fill a room with his own emotions. There was never a doubt about what Frederick Michael Whitaker, Jr. was feeling, that was for sure.

"I guess so; although I don't think you can honestly say your brain is normal. You're too smart to be just average." He tapped his fingers on the desk three times before adding, "Hey, I was thinking Chinese tonight. That okay?"

"They deliver in this town?" was my question. Alfie nodded. Of course. I never knew exactly why but we always ordered in for dinner. Oh, don't get me wrong, we have groceries; we -- or more precisely I -- go to the grocery store every week for fresh fruits and other nutritional foods. (Truthfully however our cabinets are usually full of cans of corn and beans that no one will eat, a ketchup bottle that hasn't been opened since I was twelve but we never got around to throwing out, and a month's supply of Ramen noodles. Got to love those Ramen noodles. And the ketchup? Well I'm sure it would be delicious if anyone ever bothered to use it.) It's just that my father isn't the greatest cook in the world. I'm not really all that much better but for the most part I'm just too lazy to cook. Anyway, I'm sure we could have cooked at home but we just thought it was easier -- less painful -- to just order out.

As I was leaving the study, my dad called after me, asking if I had any homework. I answered no even though I did have two books to read for U.S. History and even though I had half a math sheet to complete. I'd get it done eventually, after all, so no need to worry. I went up the attic stairs -- all seven of them -- to my room and collapsed on my bed. I covered my face with my pillow tiredly and breathed in the smooth scent of vanilla. Sooner than I considered possible, my eclectic thoughts crowded my mind and I fell asleep soundly -- sleep always came easiest to me when my brain was in a state of overwork -- and into the realm where dreams can come true and the horrors of everyday life seize to exist.

In my dream, a blonde girl in a yellow sundress twirled about the room happily. She was laughing and I was laughing -- my laughter mainly being a result of hers.

"Phee, we'll always be friends, right?" Her smile was contagious, wide, and true to the emotions in her heart. My features never gave hint to anything I was thinking or feeling, but hers did and she was all the more beautiful for it.

"Yes, forever, Twila, you know that," I laughed.

"I don't know it though," Twila said very seriously. Her lips poked out and her forehead crinkled; I smiled.

I held out my eight-year-old small finger. "Friends and sisters forever?"

Twila beamed and accepted my pinky finger. "Friends and sisters forever."

When I heard my father on the steps, I woke up from my light sleep. It must be time for dinner, and since there was no music blaring from my room or any sort of noise coming from the attic, my dad had taken it upon himself to see what was up.

"Oh, sorry, Dad. I fell asleep. I'll be down in a sec, okay?"

"Phoebe?" called a soft voice from the stairway. And then the figure I had taken to be Alfie stepped out from the darkened way. No, most certainly not my father, but someone I had just dreamed about.

"Twila?" I asked uncertainly, sure it wasn't her as I was positive I was a clarinet player.