Extraordinary (2 page)

Phoebe was one of them. Or rather, she had been. However, after a long talk with her Nantucket friend, Benjamin Michaud, a few weeks ago during summer vacation, she had realized she didn't want to be, not anymore.

Benjamin hardly ever offered a direct opinion and would just listen and ask questions. And he was over a year younger and, being from Nantucket, knew nothing of the kind of big suburban middle school Phoebe went to, much less of the politics of girls and friendship. But talking with her summer friend had the ability to make Phoebe realize when she was worried. As she had gone on and on to him about her girlfriends at school, she had realized that she didn't like them, and—this was almost worse—that she didn't like herself when she was with them.

And if that made her prissy—if Colette was right about that too—well, so be it.

The problem was that Phoebe wasn't sure how to detach herself safely from her so-called friends. It had even seemed very possible that she would be a coward and do nothing, because she didn't want to be alone and friendless, and also, she really did fear Colette's sharp tongue and her power. But as she looked at Mallory Tolliver in her awful costume, Phoebe suddenly understood that she was indeed going to step out of the pack. In fact, she was going to do it this very day. Somehow. She had to.

It was as if a tight constriction around her chest began to relax, and she caught a glimpse of the truth in a conversation she had overheard her parents having about her latest asthma attack. They had said her asthma got worse when she felt stressed or anxious.

Mallory had just shifted position, moving closer to the window. “My God,” Colette said to Phoebe, in a voice pitched for all to hear. “Look at the new girl now!”

Phoebe looked. Phoebe winced.

In the direct light from the window, Mallory's dress had become partially transparent. She wore nothing beneath the cheap costume. Nothing at all. And, though she had not changed position, her shoulders stiffened, and Phoebe knew that of course she had heard Colette.

Phoebe scanned the room. Everybody was looking at Mallory, and a couple of the boys had their mouths open. “My God,” she muttered involuntarily to Colette. “Where's her
mother?”

Colette snickered approvingly—and simultaneously, Mallory Tolliver whipped around. But it was not to look at Colette. Instead, Mallory met Phoebe's gaze, Phoebe's only, instantly and directly. There was no mistaking the intelligence—and disdain—and pride—in her eyes.

There was something else there too; a tiny, unmistakable flicker of recognition.

Then, just as abruptly, Mallory turned away again. Her spine was straight as a post.

Phoebe never knew exactly what it was about Mallory that called to her so strongly. That straight back? That quick, proud look at Phoebe that held recognition? The intelligence in her face? The fear that she sensed in her, that moved her to sympathy?

I want to know that girl, she thought suddenly. I want to be friends with her. Not Colette.
Her.

Out of nowhere, a plan came to Phoebe. It came with tidal-wave force and with the conviction and joy of a religious conversion.

Phoebe reached up and peeled Colette's hand off her arm. She walked away from her and up to the new girl.

She spoke to Mallory's back. “Hello. I'm Phoebe Rothschild. I haven't been here the last few days, but I know you're Mallory.” She waited until Mallory turned. The girl's expression was now quite blank.

Phoebe nodded toward an empty desk beside Mallory's. “Is this seat free? Or did Mrs. Fraser assign seats and I should just go away and find mine?” She paused. Smiled. “Or maybe you don't want me sitting with you?”

For long seconds, Mallory didn't respond. Finally she shrugged. “This teacher lets us sit wherever we want.” She had a low voice, a little flat. It was absolutely without an accent; certainly not the local Boston accent that Phoebe's mother, Catherine, said drove her crazy.

“But is it okay with you if I'm here?” Phoebe persisted. “It would be for the whole year. I'm a creature of habit.”

There was another brief silence before Mallory shrugged again. “It's okay. Sit there.”

Phoebe sat. She examined her class schedule as if it were riveting reading. But she also stayed aware of Mallory, who continued to stand and look out the window.

Phoebe could feel the amazed stare not only of Colette Williams-White, but of her other satellites Emma Parry and Jacklyn Ivy Lurvey and Hannah Simons.

Good, she thought. Watch me befriend Mallory Tolliver. And think twice about targeting her, because you'll have to do it to me too. And you won't.

Without rushing, Phoebe cupped her chin in her hand and held Colette's dangerous gaze. She felt herself breathing easily and deeply. Then she smiled.

I am a Rothschild, Phoebe thought, and as she watched Colette coolly, she knew Colette was thinking it too; that Colette never forgot it; that Phoebe's amazing, storied family history, wealth, and power was the only reason that the borderline dorky Phoebe had ever been a desirable friend for Colette in the first place. Now, Phoebe realized, it would also get her free.

Why had she not realized this before? Why had she only felt it was a burden, being a Rothschild? Why had she wished to be ordinary? No matter. She could use it right now, and she would. Her gaze on Colette's grew a little softer, kinder, but no less decisive. Good-bye, Phoebe thought. Good-bye.

It was so simple.

Colette's eyes dropped. She turned—stumbling a little—and sat down abruptly at her desk, her back to Phoebe.

But then things went right back to being complicated. Mallory did not sit down at the desk next to Phoebe's until the bell rang for the start of homeroom and everyone else sat down too. Phoebe was full of urgent questions about the strange new girl. Was Mallory totally unaware of what had just happened? Did she at least realize she needed help? Surely she did.

Phoebe leaned toward Mallory and dropped her voice low. “Look. Mallory. You're not wearing the right clothes. I can help you. It'll be better here—easier for you, I mean—if you don't look so different from the other girls. Okay?”

Mallory didn't even glance at Phoebe. Ten seconds passed. Phoebe waited. She thought about repeating herself, but she knew Mallory had heard her.

An astounding thought occurred to Phoebe: Was she going to be refused?

No. No! Mallory Tolliver wouldn't be that stupid.

Would she?

Tension began to coil in Phoebe's stomach. She didn't look around for Colette. It was too late; she'd chosen her path and would not be forgiven. There was nothing to do but wait and see how Mallory responded. And if this didn't work, she'd be friendless in the seventh grade.

Phoebe waited. She waited while Mrs. Fraser performed the business of homeroom. She waited through morning announcements. All the while, Mallory kept her face turned aside.

How had the balance of power in this weird girl-game shifted in mere minutes from Colette, and then—for one brief glorious moment of power and self-assurance—to Phoebe, but then to Mallory? Phoebe didn't know. She only knew that it had.

Finally Phoebe could no longer stand it. She leaned over and spoke again, even more quietly. She didn't think she sounded desperate, but she couldn't be sure. All her newly found Rothschild confidence had ebbed away.

“Mallory? Please. Will you please be my friend?”

The bell rang to mark the end of homeroom.

Neither Phoebe nor Mallory moved. As the classroom emptied and the other kids started off to first period, they stayed seated.

Mallory looked at Phoebe. Her expression was different now. It was not happiness or relief, as Phoebe would have expected. It was, instead, pure panic. And for an instant, because of it, Phoebe thought her offer would be rejected. It was clear this odd girl had much more on her mind than fitting in at middle school.

But then Mallory spoke, slowly. “You want to be my
friend?”
She said the word as if she had never heard it before and wasn't sure what it meant.

“Yes,” Phoebe said.

“Why?”

Instinctively Phoebe gave her the truth. “Because I need a new friend. A real one. My old ones aren't any good.”

Mallory still said nothing.

What was going on with her? Did it have to do with the peculiar clothes, her uncared-for appearance? Whatever it was, Phoebe's heart stretched in empathy. She was filled with the desire to understand. To help.

A few kids had already entered the room. One of them was lingering a few feet away, quite obviously waiting to occupy Phoebe's desk.

Phoebe grabbed her class schedule and got up. “What do you have next?”

She was relieved when Mallory answered. “Earth science. Mr. Herschel.”

“Oh, wow, me too. Let's go together.” Phoebe began walking and Mallory came along, slowly, but beside her.

Phoebe was conscious of other kids around them in the corridor, but she kept her attention on Mallory. And eventually, Mallory said, “I've never had a friend before.”

Phoebe groped for a reply. “Oh. Well. You'll like it. I'm a good friend.”

Was that a smile struggling to form on Mallory's face? Yes. Yes! It was the smallest upturn of one corner of her mouth. Then she smiled outright—and it transformed her. All at once Mallory was almost pretty. In fact, the only thing that kept her from it was the anxiety that still lingered, somehow, in her face.

Phoebe smiled back encouragingly.

For another handful of seconds, they looked at each other. Mallory said, “You're sure about this? Dumping your old friends for a girl you don't even know?” A tinge of mockery entered her voice. “A girl who wears the wrong clothes? Who people stare at and talk about?”

Mallory had understood everything that had happened to her in school, then. Shame swept over Phoebe and then was washed away by relief and a kind of gladness. This girl was indeed worth befriending. She was smart, interesting, and different.

Phoebe would perhaps be able to be herself with her, like she could with Benjamin.

“Yes.” Phoebe lowered her voice. “I have some stories about my old friends that I'll bore you with another time. Let's just say I need to leave them.” She hesitated, waiting until they'd traveled into the next corridor, and then added bluntly, “Look, Mallory, can I ask you—what's with your clothes? That thing you're wearing, it's so awful, it should be burned. You obviously know better. So why are you wearing it?”

Mallory's right hand stole up to her shoulder and just barely touched the ragged fake feathers of one ridiculous fairy wing. Phoebe wondered if she had made a mistake in being so direct. In insulting Mallory's fairy costume. Was it money after all? It could be, even if Mallory owned a few good things, like the shoes Colette had mentioned.

Mallory said, “I actually
didn't
know better at first. I was, uh, homeschooled before this, so there weren't any other children. On the first day of school, I just put something on—anything—like I would at home. Then I saw how people looked at me here and I understood.” Her voice hardened. “But I didn't care. I had other things to think about.”

“I understand. But you won't mind wearing better things? Today, actually”—Phoebe took a little breath—“I wouldn't be surprised if a teacher spoke to you. It's that you're, um, not wearing underwear. Maybe you didn't realize it showed.” She made herself go on. “So. I have to ask this. Is money a problem?”

“Oh. No. I don't think so. I live with my mother, and we have some.”

Phoebe wasn't sure what
some
meant, but she'd find out later. She had a credit card from her parents; she could tactfully pay for some things for Mallory, if need be. Her parents would understand, she thought. “Good. I'll take you shopping. How about this afternoon? Will that be okay with your mom?”

“I have to go home first and check in with her.” Mallory gestured at her costume. “This thing is actually hers. It was just, uh, something that she kept. As a memento. She, uh, she asked me to wear it and I thought, why not, if it makes her happy. She . . . she cries a lot. She sort of lives in her own world. It's hard to describe.”

Interesting, Phoebe thought. Colette was right, then, with that remark about somebody else's closet—and that “somebody” being really screwed up.

Well, Phoebe would have time later to find out exactly what was wrong at Mallory's home, with Mallory's mom—there had been no mention of a father—and if she could help.

They were now outside Mr. Herschel's class, with only half a minute before the bell. The school corridors had largely emptied. Phoebe opened her mouth to speak—

But Mallory got there first, with a rush of sudden words. “Phoebe? Listen. I'll wear what you tell me to. It obviously matters to you and that's fine. But you need to understand something.” And now her face was close and her voice fierce, even though it remained low.

“I don't want lots of friends. It will just be you. I can't be part of a group. And if that's not okay, then you and I can't be friends. Sorry.”

Perhaps a tiny warning bell went off in the back of Phoebe's mind. But it was faint and far away, and drowned in the class bell that went off simultaneously.

Phoebe wanted this mysterious girl as her friend. No, as her
best
friend—her confidante, the sister she had never had. She was intrigued and moved by Mallory's strangeness, and there was no way she was going to back off now.

“No problem. And we'll go shopping.” She led the way into their classroom.