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.
chapter 2
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.
“You’re obsessed with clothes,” Mallory said as she followed Phoebe.
“I’m really not,” said Phoebe seriously, over her shoulder. “I’m just looking out for you. Trust me.”
Mallory did not reply.
CONVERSATION WITH THE FAERIE QUEEN, 2
“But chil
d, what you’re saying doesn’t make sense. You are absolutely sure the Rothschild girl is the right one? And yet you also say she is not ready?”
“Yes, she is the right one, and yes, she is not ready. That other human girl that we were watching, the one called Colette—she had not achieved what we thought she had. The Rothschild girl was fighting back. While she is not very self-assured, she has personal strength of will. Your Majesty, I now understand that when we observe human activity from outside, we can be mistaken when we try to interpret what it means.”
“So you came up with this new plan, of being friends with the Rothschild girl, so that you can finish what the girl Colette started?”
“Yes.”
“I sense you are holding something back from me, child.”
“No, no. You have the gist of it, Your Majesty. The important part. It’s only—well, I have found it not so easy to function in the human realm. At the dwelling, it’s difficult to keep the Tolliver woman calm. She cries in her sleep for her own daughter, though when she is awake, it is I she thinks she loves. Or mostly so. She demands a sugary treat, but then when she has it, she becomes very strange and angry with me and—well, I will not bore you, and I assure you, I can manage her, but she is—it is not easy. Once, I must confess, I even resorted to trying to use glamour on her—you must have felt the drain?”
“Indeed. But I trusted you knew what you were doing.”
“I am afraid I did not, Your Majesty. And you have my deepest apologies that I used up so much of our energy reserve fruitlessly. It turned out that because of the woman’s volatile mental state, the glamour did not work well on her at all. It made her crazier and more frantic and paranoid; she screamed and cried all that night and well into the next day. And then I had to go to school for the first time, and that was fruitless too, for the Rothschild girl was not even there. She—the girl—she has an illness of the lungs and breath, called asthma, which comes and goes. And then I came home from school and the woman saw me and began screaming again. So. It is not what we thought it would be. And—and then . . .”
“Go on, child.”
“At the school, I made mistakes as well. I thought I would not be there for very long, and I was tired from dealing with the woman, and thus I was careless and made myself too conspicuous. And then it was too late to undo the bad impression I made, unless I were to deploy a great deal of glamour, enough to affect everyone who saw me there. Which would cost us all too much. And then it was several days longer before the Rothschild girl even appeared at school. It—it was a difficult time, Your Majesty.”
“I see. I am sorry, my child. I am glad you have told me now. Should I send your brother to you? It would deplete our energy reserves much more to have him out in the world too, for you know what he is. But if you need help?”
“No, no! I can manage. I shall manage alone, and very well too. I have found my path now at last. I am just explaining what has led to my new recommendation.”
“But these details do not seem to me to have much to do with your mission.”
“I—you are right. I shall not bother you with them again. I can manage. All that matters is that I now understand that if I am the girl’s friend, I can influence her and complete my mission.”
“Very well. When will you become her friend? Immediately, I hope?”
“It is done, Your Majesty. She approached me today, soon after she returned to school, and asked me to be her friend.”
“So quickly? But I did not feel the drain of you using glamour to attract her to you.”
“I did not use glamour.”
“Because you were frightened that it would not work, as it did not work on the Tolliver woman?”
“No. The Rothschild girl is sane, unlike the Tolliver woman. I did not use glamour because she already liked me. On her own. She is . . . she is kind, Your Majesty. She is uncertain in many ways, but she has a soft heart, and I—I cannot describe it. I will get close to her.”
“How long will this process take, child?”
“Just a few weeks, Your Majesty. At most.”
chapter 3
Phoebe was disappointed that first day, when Mallory put off the shopping expedition, saying she needed to go straight home alone. But Mallory said that she could shop with Phoebe after school on the next day. This meant that by the time the last class ended, Phoebe was deep into trying to figure out the shopping. It was complicated, because Mallory needed everything. And how was Phoebe to broach the topic of money with her again? She knew it would be necessary to talk in specifics this time.
What would an entirely new wardrobe cost? There was a reality TV show in which people who dressed badly were publicly mocked, after which they were coached in how to dress well and sent out with five thousand dollars. It seemed to Phoebe that this was probably the right amount. Could she do it for less? Yes, but the thought of Colette and company continuing to sneer at Mallory’s clothes made Phoebe cringe inside.
She went into the girls’ room and took two puffs from her asthma inhaler.
First she would meet Mrs. Tolliver, she decided. Then she would assess the situation. Today, perhaps, they would buy just a few things. Underwear. A single pair of jeans. A couple of 100 percent cotton tees, in plain colors.
If only she dared to charge absolutely everything to her own account, and explain it to her parents later. What was that saying, that it was easier to get forgiveness than permission? However, she would also need to get Mallory and Mrs. Tolliver to agree to this. People did not always like to take handouts. And she hadn’t known Mallory for very long.
Spinning thoughts like these had Phoebe roiling with anxiety by the time she met Mallory in the front lobby of their school. They went together to the car that had been sent to pick Phoebe up. “Normally I’d walk home on a nice day like today,” Phoebe said apologetically. “But because of the asthma attack last week, my parents sent someone to get me.”
Mallory nodded. Phoebe had the thought that she too looked tense. Well, taking your new friend home to meet your mother, who you had already implied was messed up—that couldn’t be easy.
Jay-Jay was at the wheel of the car. “Jay-Jay, this is my new friend, Mallory Tolliver.” Phoebe held the back door open for Mallory. “Mallory, this is Jay-Jay Epstein, who works for my parents. He mostly does the cooking but sometimes he gets roped into driving me places too. He’s also a writer. He’s working on a screenplay.”
“I’m on my third screenplay, actually,” Jay-Jay said. “Dreams die hard. Where are we going, ladies?”
“First, Mallory’s house,” said Phoebe. “After that, maybe Bloomingdale’s. After that, who knows?”
Jay-Jay removed his hands from the wheel and turned to look into the backseat, where Phoebe, who would ordinarily have sat up front with him, had followed Mallory. “Phoebe, you’re scaring me. Is this going to take all afternoon? One place after another?”
“Maybe. Is that okay?”
“No, darling, not okay. I have the dough for a couple of loaves of bread rising. I have to be back in an hour to punch it down. And then there’s my halibut sauce still to make.”
“All right, sorry. What if we’re quick at Mallory’s? And then maybe you could just drop us off at the mall? And I’ll call later?”
“Now you’re making sense.” Jay-Jay nodded at Mallory in the mirror. “Mallory? Seat belt.”
Mallory was sitting bolt upright. “What?”
“Buckle your seat belt,” Phoebe said absently. She pulled on the belt she had already fastened around herself.
“Oh,” said Mallory. Her eyes darted from side to side.
“It’s hanging on your right,” said Jay-Jay. “Yes, that’s it. Keep pulling. One long smooth tug—oh, you’ve dropped it. It’s always a little confusing in a new car. Phoebe, help her? Now you’ve got it. Mallory, where do you live?”
It took Mallory a moment before she recited her address.
“I think I know where that is,” said Jay-Ja
y. “Behind Whole Foods, off Crafts Street. Yes?”
Mallory hesitated again. “My mother and I just moved there. I don’t really know the neighborhood. But I know how to walk there from here.”
“Direct me,” said Jay-Jay easily.
A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of a normal-looking ranch house with a big driveway, a peeling paint job, and sad, overgrown bushes. The sight of the house filled Phoebe with even more anxiety about how she would get Mallory properly dressed. She chewed the inside of her cheek.
“We won’t be long,” she said to Jay-Jay. She trailed Mallory up the walk to the front door of the house. Mallory let them in with a key, and called out, “Mother! I’m home!”
Phoebe looked around. The living room seemed fine, even if it was the kind of fine that was completely without color or personality: white walls, beige sofa and love seat. There were no boxes or mess or other indications of the family having so recently moved in. But then again, there was very little stuff, period. No family photos or pictures on the walls.
Her gaze lingered on the sofa as a series of lumps on it stirred and then resolved themselves into the figure of a woman. Fingertips appeared at one end of a beige blanket thrown over the sofa. As the hands pushed the blanket away, a large white face appeared, blinking sleepily. The figure beneath the blanket—Mallory’s mother—struggled to sit upright. Mallory swiftly crossed the living room toward her, and Phoebe followed tentatively.
“It’s Mallory,” said Mallory loudly, and then added, even more loudly, “Your daughter. I’m home from school.” She helped the woman to sit upright.
Mrs. Tolliver had a great big cloud of mussed, soft, graying brown hair, and heavy eyebrows that stuck out like an elderly man’s. She was wearing a flannel nightgown that looked more than a little damp under her chin. “Can I have some Skittles?” she asked Mallory. Her voice slid abruptly high and whiney. “Just a few. Five. Or twelve. I’ve been good. I stayed right here and slept all day so you could go to school.”
Oh my God, Phoebe thought.