Extraordinary (7 page)

It was frustrating. Phoebe hadn't had time for more than the tiniest look at Ryland, and had only gotten a vague impression of him.

She lingered in the dining room, setting another place at the table, not wanting to face the cook yet. Jay-Jay was going to delegate her to go to the grocery store for the Skittles, she knew it, and Mallory, who had not even come to school the last few days, wouldn't want to leave Ryland to go with her.

Out in the foyer, Phoebe could hear the murmur of her mother's voice, talking to Mrs. Tolliver, but she couldn't make out what was being said. An otherworldly feeling slipped over Phoebe. They were all out there, and she was apart from them. It felt like the kind of spooky distance from the world that you sometimes experience when you have a fever.

Then a voice—smooth, deep, unfamiliar, utterly clear—cut into the distance. “Let me put away your coat, Mother. And yours, Mallory. Ms. Rothschild”—and now the voice moved closer—“do the coats go in here?”

Phoebe looked up.

Ryland Fayne was standing in the dining room archway, women's winter coats heaped in his arms, gazing straight at her with a pair of cool, analytical, unsmiling green eyes that reminded her, not in their shape or color, but in the quality of their calm gaze, of his sister.

He was tall and slim, but she had known he would be. Tawny-haired, like a lion; yes, she'd known that too, from his picture. His mouth was set a little crooked in his tanned face, and Phoebe vaguely recalled that it was now summer in Australia, from where he'd come.

Ryland Fayne was not handsome in any conventional way. His sharp nose and high forehead and thin, mobile lips were too individual for that. But he had a confidence about him, a presence. In this he was like Mallory, only more so. He was a male Mallory with more maturity and experience. And all of it, together—the full package that he was—it was—he was—

Phoebe felt like she'd been hit by a brick. Time seemed to freeze before she came to herself enough to speak.

“Hi,” she said. Or at least, she felt her lips move. But she wasn't sure any sound actually emerged.

He was smiling at her. The impact of the smile, cool and reserved and watchful though it still was, stunned like a second brick. Phoebe flattened her hands on the polished dining room table to help support her legs.

She thought about looking away—she knew she needed to go to the kitchen—but she couldn't.

Like his mother, Ryland had dressed for the evening. He had dressed like an adult, in pants and dress shoes and a white oxford shirt with a wool suit coat. At least he was not wearing a tie. This was good because Phoebe was suddenly, horribly aware that she was not only dressed like a kid, but was also sort of a mess.

She had dressed casually on purpose, thinking it would be more welcoming, more like family. Why, why, why had she thought this a good idea? She could not remember; it now seemed like the purest disrespect and rudeness to their guests. Here she stood, shoeless and flat-footed in her black tights (which at least had no runs in them; she'd had to throw out two pair before she found whole ones), with a jeans skirt that she'd paired with a black sweater. While she loved the sweater, and even felt pretty in it, it was undeniably past its prime. In fact—Phoebe pulled her arms in tight to her sides—it was beginning to pill in the underarms.

But if she raced upstairs to her room and changed, he'd know she'd done it. Those eyes would miss nothing. Would that be bad or good? She didn't know, and anyway, she still had to tell Jay-Jay about Mrs. Tolliver and the Skittles. And no doubt she would have to race out to the grocery store too.

Ryland might already have returned her inarticulate greeting, might have said her name and hello and how nice it was to meet her and all that. Phoebe's mind was swimming so much she couldn't tell. He was still looking at her in her all-wrong clothes, though, and never, Phoebe thought, never had she been examined so carefully.

Not even by Mallory, back at the start of seventh grade, when she had been deciding whether she would allow Phoebe to be her friend.

This was the thought that finally snapped Phoebe back to herself. Because it was funny, wasn't it? She'd been so vehement about telling Mallory how to dress, back then, and now it was Mallory who was stylish and she who was the ragamuffin. And here she was just about ready to beg Mallory's brother for friendship too . . . something about him ... she wanted—wanted to please him—

No! No, she didn't. And she wouldn't.

She was not in seventh grade anymore. She was eighteen and she was not needy and she was not desperate.

Phoebe straightened her back and lifted her hands from the table. “There's a coat tree just over to the left, in the foyer, Ryland,” she said. She gave him a professional smile as cool as his eyes. “Now, if you'll excuse me for a minute. I have a couple of things to do.” She turned and went to the kitchen without looking back.

The shameful thing was that she hoped he was watching.

Phoebe never knew what her mother's original intended seating arrangement for dinner had been, because as they all moved into the dining room to sit down, Ryland turned to Catherine and explained that he'd had some back problems as a result of the long cramped flight from Australia. Could he please sit at the foot of the rectangular table, where the chair was taller and had a straight wooden back? This resolved itself into Phoebe, Ryland, and Mallory sitting at one end of the table, with their parents grouped at the other.

It also meant that for large portions of the meal, there were two entirely separate conversations going on, in part because Mrs. Tolliver had a dull, sad, whispery monotone of a voice that required concentration from Drew and Catherine even to hear. She was so unlike her daughter—and her son. It was amazing to think how different family members could be, not only physically, but in terms of personality.

On the other hand, Mrs. Tolliver took a lot of medication. So the Mrs. Tolliver they knew wasn't who she might have been. “If life had been kinder to her,” was the phrase Catherine used.

Phoebe sat on Ryland's left, directly across the table from Mallory. From this position, she could glance at him now and then, but didn't have to look at him directly, which was a relief. She felt shy, even tongue-tied, which was ridiculous and she knew it. She had watched her mother orchestrate formal dinner conversation often, and understood the principles of small talk, of encouraging others to speak by asking them questions about themselves and their experiences. She had become decent at it and often even enjoyed it.

Yet tonight she couldn't think of anything to say. For a second she thought of catching Mallory's gaze across the table and mouthing, “Help me! Say something!” But she couldn't do it. She didn't want Mallory to know how uncomfortable she was with her brother.

If discomfort was what she was feeling.

And if it was something else—if it was—well, Mallory couldn't be allowed to know that either. It would have to be Phoebe's secret until she could talk herself out of it. Because it was ridiculous. Ryland was too old for Phoebe; she was too young for him. He would never be interested in her. And her parents would be shocked. She had to stop thinking—feeling—this way. Right this very minute.

Please, God.

Phoebe picked up the basket of warm whole-grain bread and passed it to Mallory and then to Ryland. To her relief, Mallory began talking about Jay-Jay.

“He's the cook, Ryland, and he's great. You'll meet him later, right, Phoebe? Anyway, he never forgets that I'm vegan. There's always at least one dish I can eat.”

At least this gave Phoebe an idea for something to say. She looked toward Ryland, if not directly into his face. “Jay-Jay's afraid Mallory doesn't eat properly, so he tries to make up for it when she's here. He's made a vegetable curry tonight, Mallory. I think there's pineapple in it, and coconut milk.”

“Yum.” A shadow passed over Mallory's face, though, and she sent a glance toward the other end of the table for just a second.

“There's also going to be Skittles for your mother, after,” Phoebe said.

Mallory smiled. “Did I already say Jay-Jay is great? And you.”

“No problem.” Phoebe was pleased. She hadn't waited for Jay-Jay to ask her to go to the store; she had volunteered.

Phoebe wondered if Ryland had noticed that she had also changed clothes. No, probably he had not. One item of black clothing would look the same as another to most guys, wouldn't it? Which was good, right?

But maybe she should give up wearing all black. Introduce a little green, even just in the accessories. Or gray. Gray would be more subtle. She'd just die if she were obvious.

Stop! She had to behave normally, or she'd embarrass herself.

Phoebe forced herself to turn to Ryland. She tried to imitate Catherine and talk graciously, with dignity. “Are you also a vegan? Or just a vegetarian, maybe?”

“No,” said Ryland easily. “I eat meat. Quite happily, in fact.” He seemed to feel no need to add anything else, even though he was looking directly at Phoebe, examining her face. Phoebe felt herself blush. She ducked her head. She picked up her bread and unconsciously began to pull it into small pieces.

At least Mallory was talking now. “Phoebe, what did I miss at school this week?”

“Oh. Well. I, uh, I think there was a quiz in American history—but wait. You're not in that class with me. Um, in Spanish, that dialogue is due.” She tried to remember. “Or maybe that's not until Tuesday. We should work on it, though. And then in chem—”

It was a relief when Ryland interrupted, in a drawl that had more than a hint of amusement. “Girls. No more. Please. Keep the details of high school to yourself.”

Phoebe said happily, “It's a deal.” And then, to her surprise, she found herself able to smile at him and add, with fair composure, to Mallory, “You know what? I'm having trouble
remembering
what happened at school this week. It's dull. And you just got your brother back and everything.”

Mallory smiled, a little stiffly. “That's sweet of you.”

Phoebe felt Ryland's gaze still on her. She turned to him.

“Do you always find school dull, Phoebe?” He asked as if he really wanted to know.

“Well. It's a good school,” Phoebe said. “It's one of the best public high schools in the state.”

“I know. Still, you might be bored and ready to move on to something else.”

Phoebe wanted suddenly, urgently, for Ryland to think she was extremely smart, like he obviously was. Of course, she knew she was far from being as smart as her mother. But still, she was intelligent. She read all the time, even if it was mostly novels, and that had to count for something.

But she didn't know how to get this across—how to impress Byland—especially given that right now she was having trouble putting together a coherent thought. She wasn't even sure she could name the novel she was currently reading. It wasn't anything impressive anyway; that she knew.

Luckily, Jay-Jay arrived with little vegetarian eggroll-type things with a spicy dipping sauce. There were introductions while Jay-Jay passed the food and dictated exactly how they were to eat it (“Fingers! Don't be shy!”). But once they had settled down again, Ryland immediately turned back to Phoebe and repeated his question.

“Yes, I guess I do mostly find school boring,” she said at last. “The subjects I'm taking are just prerequisites for college. But I might as well be in school as anywhere else. It's okay for now. Probably college will be more interesting, but I don't feel like I'm in any big rush to get there.”

She shot a glance toward the other end of the table. What would Catherine think if she heard what was practically an admission of laziness? But her parents, thankfully, appeared to be fully occupied by Mrs. Tolliver; they were leaning in to hear something that she was saying. And if Drew was rubbing his forehead as if he might be getting a headache, well, that was only to be expected.

“Phoebe likes to keep a low profile,” Mallory said. “She doesn't make waves. She does a good job at everything, but not
too
good a job. Except in English, of course. She doesn't even have to try there, she just loves it all.” A hint of mockery—loving, teasing mockery—entered her voice. “Teachers love her.”

Ryland laughed. “But you're more of a troublemaker, is that what you're saying, sister dear?”

“I am,” said Mallory. “Question authority. Push back, that's my motto.”

“I believe you,” said Ryland. For a long moment, Phoebe watched as the brother and sister stared at each other. Then Ryland looked again at Phoebe. “But Phoebe doesn't like to be pushy.”

Phoebe shrugged.

He leaned toward her. “What about when something bad is happening? Something you have to take action to stop? Would you speak up then?”

Was she being accused of something? Cowardice? Not having principles? Phoebe put up her chin. “Mallory does it for me.”

The other two laughed. But then Mallory leaned forward and began to tell Ryland about how Phoebe had “rescued” her back in seventh grade. “She was all ready to save me from the Big, Bad Seventh-Grade Girls,” she said. “Take me under her protective wing and all. So, you see, Phoebe speaks up and acts when she feels she has to.” Her voice was a little shrill; Phoebe gave her a careful look.

Ryland put a hand on his sister's shoulder, squeezed it, and smiled at Phoebe. “Thank you for looking out for my sister. Especially since you went against your more shy and retiring nature to do it.”