Phoebe

The next morning, Ivy crowded into Wiley with me and we continued on to school to get her registered or whatever.

I was in sort of a bad mood, mainly because Ivy had told me very plainly that I was not the best looking girl in the world and in no way, shape, form, or fashion was I ever to date or be married if I didn't at least try to improve my looks with makeup. To which I responded with a "Humph. I don't care if I'm ever married. Love is overrated and should be kept to fictional characters." Nonetheless, I allowed my sister to brush and blow-dry my mass of curls and I permitted her to let me borrow her eyeliner. She tried to force me to borrow some of her clothes; I refused seeing as tight clothes really weren't my thing.

It was for this reason that I was not watching where I was going. I do that when I'm angry and fuming and wishing someone was dead. This, combined with my watery eyes from the eyeliner, was why I did not see until it was too late. I crashed into somebody and our books went flying everywhere. I flew backwards and hit my elbow on the cold, hard tile floor. I cursed in pain. Funny bone my ass.

"Oh God, you killed her," declared a deep, brazen voice. I opened my eyes wider and saw a hand extended. Apparently, the person I ran into was a brick wall and had not toppled in the slightest after our collision. My eyes watered again and this time tears brimmed over and streamed down my cheeks. Damn eyeliner. This is why I never wore it.

"Aw look, Kev. Don't you feel like shit now? You made her cry."

I stood without the proffered hand and shouted; all thoughts of lying low and being accepted quietly here evaporated and I wanted nothing more to be rid of my anger. (Rage vexed me and I didn't like the heavy feeling on my heart.)

"What? You think that me running into a brick wall and falling on tile would make me cry? Eww . . . God no. It'd take something more than that to make me cry. It's this damn eyeliner. Stupid Twila. . . ."

I scrubbed the back of my hand against my eyes furiously. As the dark mess came off, my eyesight became clearer. Two football players were in front of me. I should have known.

The first was a blonde who was shorter than me; I'm not all that tall at 5'5". He wasn't your typical football player, I don't think, but what did I know of the sport? Nothing, that's what. The guy who knocked me down was tall at around 6'2" if I'm any judge of height and his shoulders filled out his should-be lanky build. He was muscular and strong and his hair and eyes were both chocolate brown.

"Riley, do you think we should invite----?" asked the giant in an even deeper voice.

Riley the blonde nodded. "Sure. I don't care; it is your party, Kevin. She should come."
He turned to me, "What's your name?"

"Phoebe."

Kevin shook his head. "No. No. I don't think the guys will go for a Phoebe."

"You sure you don't want her to come?"

Kevin shrugged. It was almost as if I wasn't even there. I wanted very much to grab my scattered books and run, but I couldn’t find the ability to move. Besides, he crashed into me; I wasn’t going to leave without an apology and an attempt to pick up my books.

"We could always say her name is something else."

Riley grinned. "What were you thinking?"

"How about Copper? Her hair's has a reddish-gold to it, don't you think? Copper would work."

Riley nodded. "Yeah, I like it! I mean, she was ready to fight you, too, wasn't she? So that would wor--"

Suddenly tapping my foot to hold in my fury failed, and I interrupted. "You know, I am right here. And you're talking about me. Don't you think that is a bit rude?"

Kevin answered with a no and so I was perfectly justified to fling myself at him. I hit his arm with all the force I could muster; I think it hurt my hand more than his body. Then I gathered my books (without forcing him to be chivalrous) and ran to Trig. I made it to Mr. Hardy's class in the nick of time; the bell was just ringing as I fell into my seat. I didn't want to think of brick walls and so I concentrated on the boring nothingness that is mathematics for an hour and a half.

As soon as the torture ended for the day, I went to my locker, deposited my books, and waited in my car for Ivy. When my sister exited the doors, she was in the arms of some football player. I rolled my eyes, this time not fearful they would get stuck and I would have to go through the rest of my life looking to the right. Geez, just how many freaking athletes are here at this school?

I thought about how many of those green and gold jackets I had passed in the hallways, dodged from collision in the cafeteria, and just ran into in general. I deduced throughout the day that the all green letterman jackets were for the band after seeing a little shrimp of a girl run by: on the back of her jacket was a the marching band insignia with the lettering “Laurel Fighting Irish Band.” (I wondered about that. Fighting Irish, you say? Should I expect to see Gerald O’ Hara tearing out of the woods surrounding the school and jump a fence via horseback? I would pay to see that – especially if that was the fall that killed him.) There were also green jackets with dark gold sleeves; I discovered they were for the JROTC program after I helped some mousy junior boy pick up his dropped books. And then there was the jacket of the typical football player – green with golden gold sleeves. I pondered if the different organizations just used a different jacket provider . . . probably so.

Ivy was deposited in my car; she was squealing in sheer delight. No way would I allow myself to be toted around like I was baggage. No, I’m pretty sure that if I ever find a guy I want to spend my life with, I won’t be carried around in his arms, I won’t be walking in front of him, and I most certainly will never walk behind him. We’d walk side by side as equals.

“Take good care of Twila, ya hear?” twanged the guy, to which I responded with, “Sure. Oh yes. I will.”

I glanced over at the car from yesterday and saw the same group of athletes. This time, however, some of the guys were smoking. I hated cigarettes: they (sometimes) caused cancer; they stunk; they were generally just horrible. The only thing I hated more than people who smoked were people who were stupid. And it was really brainless to smoke on a school campus immediately after last bell. I hoped they would get caught, even though I knew getting in trouble was a dreadful thing to endure. So I rephrased my hope and only wished a comet -- or something else from outer space -- would fall near the car, scaring the guys into never again smoking lest they invoke the gods’ wrath or whatever.

“Are we leaving?” asked Ivy, interrupting my thoughts about how one certain kid wasn’t smoking.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I sputtered, and I drove Wiley home to 1515 Willow Way. I must say that my father sort of went crazy with this house, considering we’d only be here a little less that a year. It had two stories, six bedrooms, two and a half baths, and my attic of course, and a basement in which Alfie insisted we put all our cans of corn and beans. I didn’t debate the fact that we didn’t need such an opulent, magnificent home or that we really would never eat those canned vegetables.

When my sister and I both collapsed on my bed, Ivy started into how her first day had been, and I reflected on how puffing away at cigarettes could hinder the health.

“So should we go to the party or not?” she questioned.

“I don’t know. What party?”

Ivy rolled her eyes at me. “The Going-Back-To-School party, of course! Apparently a kid named Kevin Royce holds a party every year and everybody who’s anybody goes. It’s invite only, and it’s purely based on what the football players think of you.”

I wondered how Ivy found out all this information, but, then again, she was more socially active than I was and it was obvious she knew a football player, having been lugged to my car by one. I was getting sick of football and the season hadn’t even begun yet.

“Well, in that case, I can’t go, because I wasn’t invited.”

“Nonsense. I invited you.” Ivy flipped onto her back and stared at the slanted ceiling. “I just can’t decide how we’ll get out of here without Alfie knowing.”

I tensed at having heard her call Dad Alfie, but then I got over it.

“Well, you know, we could always ask him.”