“Selling clothes.” Her eyes tick toward the red-headed waitress, who’s neared the kitchen. I really do like her uniform. I’d wait tables if I could wear that. “You met Abigail?”
“You know her?”
“Of course I know her. I know everyone in town.”
“No, you don’t,” I counter. Phoebe has always been antisocial. Or, more accurately, she’s antisocial with anyone who doesn’t seem especially hip, which is most people. “You’re an asshole.”
Her demeanor breaks, and she laughs. “I’m on the upswing. I started taking this course with a life coach online.”
“What kind of course?”
“On how to be a life coach.”
That sounds like a pyramid scheme, but I keep the thought to myself. The idea of Phoebe as a coach, life or not, gives me chills. But she’s always into something, always searching.
“Anyway, I’ve learned to open up. Network. You know?”
This is even harder to believe. My father’s employees network, not Phoebe. I try to imagine her handing out business cards and suggesting lunch. Maybe that’s what we’re doing now. Have I been networked?
“Sure.”
“I know all the players.”
“And the waitresses here. They’re players?”
“Servers know everyone. They hear all sorts of juicy shit.”
I sit forward. “Okay. Then tell me some ‘juicy shit’ you’ve learned from networking here.”
“Abigail walked out on rich parents and a full ride at Princeton. Oh, and an asshole boyfriend who was apparently sticking it in everything.”
“Telling me gossip about the person who told you the gossip doesn’t count.”
“Okay,” says Phoebe. “See that girl over there?”
I look where she’s not terribly subtly nodding. There’s another waitress at the diner’s far end, past the stylized chrome stools lining the counter. This waitress also has red hair, but it’s far redder. I wonder if there’s some sort of a dress code for hair, but the only other female server I can see is tall and thin, sharp but gorgeous features and dark-brown hair, her uniform adjusted for maximum tit exposure. On second look, it turns out the waiters and even the cooks all seem beautiful. It’s like eating at a modeling convention. Only the toad-like owner isn’t worthy of a glossy cover.
“Yeah?” I say.
“That’s Maya. Got herself knocked up in high school, and the guy ran off or something.”
I think I remember that. It might even have happened in my high school, certainly before I left. As business-expanding networking goes, Phoebe’s intel is worse than useless.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“I didn’t get knocked up,” she says, her posture as defensive as her tone.
“All you’ve learned while I was gone centers around the Nosh Pit. You’ve achieved the networking equivalent of watching a teen soap opera.”
Phoebe grabs a sugar packet and throws it at me. It hits me in the face before I can block it then falls into my coffee, paper and all. Phoebe raises her hands, making her stylish black pullover drape from her arms like a bat, and says, “Score!”
“Seriously? Are you still at Très Chic?”
“Just until I get my coaching credentials.”
I want to fast-forward past this part. It’s embarrassing. Phoebe has had so many great ideas that haven’t panned out, it’s amazing that she still believes every new thing will be the one that finally works. But I don’t pity her. Phoebe is a happy mess. I’m more or less organized, now with a college degree in business, but I feel like more of a mess. Phoebe’s delusion means she has it made. My clarity, by comparison, kind of sucks.
“You’re not impressed? I talk to everyone. Either I talk to them while they’re buying clothes — ”
“ — at a fancy boutique store that most people can’t afford.”
“ — or they’re eating in here or at other places where the staff is my ear to the ground. So yeah. I’m Grand Central, Honey.”
I glance at the waitresses. I wonder if they know they’re part of Phoebe’s delusional master plan. I wonder if they realize they’re apparently Phoebe’s good friends, or even that they know her at all.
“Who do you want to know about? Try me, Bitch.”
“Nobody.”
“Your dad. Want to know what he’s been up to?”
I wonder if that’s a threat. She could say anything.
“No thanks.”
“Because, you know, maybe he’s been dating.”
“I don’t want to hear it. Not from you, anyway.”
“How about Police Chief Wood?”
“I don’t care.”
“Stygian Hart?”
“Who the hell is Stygian Hart? Is he the big crazy guy?”
“Frightening. Not crazy.” She points at me as if this is an important distinction, or as if I’ve accidentally insulted an institution. Then she crosses her arms. I’ve seen this before. It means I’m not playing along and need to hop on board. I love Phoebe. She’s always been one of my best friends, but she’s also always been nuts. I remember the time she insisted we engineer her Big Wheel to fly.
I sigh. Then something occurs to me. Something I’d been wondering about anyway, so I might as knock two birds from my sky.
“Okay, I say. Brandon Grant.”
“What?”
“You want me to test you? Fine. Do you know Brandon Grant?”
Of course she won’t. But this will shut her up, and we can get back to talking about sensible things. This is the problem with Phoebe: She walks into everything with assumptions, and it’s her conversational opponent’s job to defeat her or lose gracefully. Ironically, this same trait is an asset at Très Chic, where beating her customers into acknowledging her superior sense of fashion increases both her reputation and commissions.
A small smile cracks across her dark-painted lips. Her brown eyes light up. “Of course I know Brandon.”
And she does, too. I can tell the difference after so much time knowing Phoebe. The devilish way she’s looking at me now makes me uneasy, though — as if she knows something about my inquiry that I’m not eager to admit. Or, worse, as if she knows him from firsthand experience.
I started this. I try to make my voice casual. “How?”
There’s a long, drawn-out moment wherein I can tell Phoebe is trying to torture me. In that second, I’m sure she’s slept with him. She’s kissed those lips. She’s felt those strong hands on her skin. She’s gripped those arms — arms that even through his suit, I knew would be hard and tan from his time building houses.
But then Phoebe’s head tips, and she kind of lets go. Abigail has returned with Phoebe’s coffee and flinches, as if she thinks Phoebe is about to faint.
After Abigail is gone, Phoebe sips her black coffee and says, “I know him through his sister, Bridget.”
“Oh.”
“Foster sister, actually.”
“He was a foster kid?” For some reason, this doesn’t make me feel bad for Brandon; it immediately elevates him in my mind. Now he didn’t just climb up from construction to potential veep. Now he’s almost a rags-to-riches story. You couldn’t get more all American than that. You couldn’t be more respectable, having mined all you had from nothing.
Phoebe nods. She takes another sip. “Bridget is going to be one of my customers.”
“What does that mean?”
“She was window shopping all the time, so I started talking to her. I decided I liked her style. She’s tough. So I stole some stuff for her. But she told me to piss off. Those are the words she used: ‘Piss off, Phoebe. I’m not some sort of charity case.’ She was superinsulted. But she’s doing some big audiobook right now?”
Phoebe says it like a question. I don’t respond, so she waves it away. I recognize the formation of another trademark Phoebe Reese open loop. I’ll probably never learn about the big audiobook, how she does them, how someone makes big money “doing” an audiobook, or why she’ll one day be a great customer.