Free What She Saw... by Lucinda Rosenfeld Page A

her to take the offensive in what had so far been a lackluster match, with she and Stub Nose tied at 4 all and each of them holding serve.
    At the very next lob that came her way, Phoebe pounced, driving the ball hard and fast down the line. Stub Nose must not have been expecting it. In her zeal to get her racquet on the ball, she tripped over her own feet and fell onto her ass, while her return (if you could call it that) sailed sideways into Court 2, where Pringle Prep’s second doubles team was busy double-faulting an entire game. It was an unpleasant confluence of events for Elizabeth Academy’s second seed. And still, by screaming “FUCK ME!” at the top of her lungs, it wasn’t entirely clear whom she intended to address.
    Jason Barry Gold took the exhortation personally. “I’d rather not,” he informed Phoebe’s opponent, who returned the favor with her middle finger. But the provocation rolled right off him. “Beautiful shot,” he said, turning his attention back to Phoebe, who shot him her best smile and offered up a simple “Thanks,” further infuriating Stub Nose, who thundered, “I WANT THAT DICKWEED OUT OF HERE NOW,” her oversized Prince racquet pointed at the fence like a sawed-off shotgun.
    But “that dickweed” was already gone—though not in spirit. Her heart full with the memory of Jason’s endorsement, Phoebe took the first set 6–4, then the second set 6–love, thereby advancing to the quarterfinals in what was widely regarded as a major upset for Pringle Prep. After the match her teammates crowded ’round to offer their congratulations. Even Bradley Clay, varsity tennis’s notoriously withholding coach, had these laudatory words to offer: “Way to hustle, Phoebe.” Moreover, so elated was she by the events of the afternoon that she barely registered the sight of Jennifer Weinfelt holding court in the girls’ locker room at six o’clock. She was wiggling out of her field-hockey polo and adjusting the straps of her 32D purple mesh bra. And she smiled when she saw Phoebe, but it wasn’t a friendly smile—more like a snicker smile.
    â€œSo what’s up with you and Jason?” she said, raising one arched eyebrow—just like Rachel had. (They were all the same; they were all suspicious.)
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said Phoebe, playing dumb.
    â€œSlow-dancing at Aimee Aaron’s . . .”
    â€œWe’re just friends.”
    â€œOh.” Jennifer lifted her flaky chin. “Right.”
    A CROSS-EYED BRUNHILDE with a killer drop shot from Watchung Day School subsequently eliminated Phoebe in the semifinals. Understandably, then, her mood was less than jubilant when, that same evening, Roberta called upstairs, “Phone for you, cupcake!”
    â€œWhat?” Phoebe called back. It was hard to hear over Beethoven’s Ninth.
    â€œTelephone,” she trilled. “It’s a boy.”
    A boy? Phoebe ran into Leonard and Roberta’s bedroom, grabbed the receiver, and pressed it against her stomach before she even said hello. Then she called downstairs to them—to her incredibly embarrassing parents who refused to listen to Barbra Streisand like everyone else’s parents: “I’ve got it—can you hang up?”
    She thought they had. But when she said, “Hello?” it sounded like the inside of an orchestra pit. (She could just barely make out a human voice on the other end of the phone.) “Sorry,” she told whoever it was. “Can you hold on a second?” Then she tried again. “MOM, DAD, PLEASE! COULD YOU HANG UP THE PHONE?”
    â€œWe did, sweetheart!”
    Phoebe took a deep breath and tried yet again. “Hello?”
    â€œI feel like I’m on the tarmac at La Guardia,” said Jason Barry Gold the Frequent Flyer.
    Phoebe’s stomach fell out of her body even before he’d finished his sentence.