Lost in Cyberspace (10 page)

“The janitor comes in here at night and sort of sweeps around. He'll find her. He'll throw her out. She'll be homeless. It's winter. She doesn't have a warm coat.”

“Josh, do I have to think of everything?” Aaron whined. “It's your turn. Use your initiative.”

When my brain goes on overload, I think in every direction. My head throbbed.
I
am not a common servant, the girl had said. That rang a bell. And I was desperate.

“I don't believe I caught your name,” I said, trying for polite.

“Phoebe,” she said.

Phoebe? First, Fenella. Next, Feona. Then ...

“Phoebe,” I said, “are you familiar with the term ‘O Pear'?”

We pulled up three chairs, and I tried to put Phoebe in the picture. I started with what 0 Pears are.

“They're English girls from very nice backgrounds,” I said. “They come over here to help out with families and to see American life. They're here to expand their horizons, and ours.”

“But don't they take jobs away from governesses and nannies and nursery maids?” Phoebe looked concerned.

“We don't have too many governesses and nannies and nursery maids anymore,” I said. “Now it's mostly baby-sitters, the occasional Mr. Mom, day care, and Sesame Street.”

Phoebe had pulled a lace handkerchief out of her sleeve and sat there twisting it in both hands.

“My dad's in Chicago, and my mom works,” I said, starting to explain my family and easing up to Heather. “Heather's going to sneak out to a party Friday night. But don't worry about her. She comes. She goes.” The explanation took me a while. Finally Aaron tapped his watch. It was quarter till five. It was time to leave if we were going.

And Phoebe was still with us.

“You want to give it one more try?” Aaron's eyes were begging her. “You want to try to—think yourself back? Really put your mind to it.”

She closed her eyes and gripped her handkerchief. But Emotional Component didn't seem to do her any good. Maybe in her heart she wasn't that anxious to get back to Cuthbert and Lysander.

“Okay,” Aaron said finally. “Let's take her to your place, Josh. It'll just be ... temporary. I'll be doing some heavy-duty collating and really taking a hard look at my formula. You'll be back to 1923 in no time, Phoebe. One way or another. Until then, you can just O Pear at Josh's house. It'll be—cool.”

Easy for him to say.

“What choice have I?” Phoebe reached for her feather duster. “I trust I can be a useful servant in any household.”

“Don't think of yourself as a servant,” I told her. “Think of yourself as a helpful guest.”

We cracked the door and peered out at the empty media center. Mrs. Newbery was long gone. Some nights she locks up. Some nights she just gives up. Down the dark hall through Van Allen House we moved like shadows. But I knew Phoebe was real. You could hear the sharp sound of her high heels on the crummy tile.

The front door of Huckley House was in sight when a figure loomed out of a classroom. We pulled back into a stairwell. It was Mr. Thaw, always the last teacher to leave. He swept out ahead of us with his tweed coat flapping behind him.

“That's our old history teacher,” I told Phoebe. “He's making us do a report for Parents' Night next Tuesday.” I thought I'd just fill her in as we went along.

Outside, a sleety wind was blowing. Phoebe didn't have a coat, so Aaron and I pooled our money to see if we had enough for a cab. We did. Aaron nodded at the drugstore on the Madison Avenue corner. “We better drop in there first, then catch a cab. Phoebe will need a toothbrush.”

Aaron was okay on details, but he was sure leaving the big picture to me. When we got out of the cab at our building, he handed over three dollars and a dollar tip.

“Outrageous,” Phoebe said. “Highway robbery. That was a fifty-cent trip and a dime tip. It wasn't even a proper cab. And certainly not a proper driver. He didn't even get out to open the door for us. What has the world come to?”

I had a bad feeling that Phoebe was in for worse shocks than that. Heather, for one.

When the elevator got to twelve, Aaron stayed on for the penthouse. He said his job was to collate, diddle, and fiddle all night. I jammed the elevator door open with a foot. “Aaron, you're leaving me with the hard part. If I'm going to turn Phoebe into an O Pear, I'll have to tell a lot of lies to my mom, because she certainly isn't going to buy the truth. I'm going to have to convince Heather. I'm in deep—”

“You'll be fine,” he said, but his mind was already upstairs at his workstation. His foot nudged mine out of the door, and it closed between us.

Nobody was home yet. Camilla Van Allen wasn't even on my phone. I showed Phoebe around, pointing out Dad's den where she'd sleep. She observed everything and checked a flat surface for dust. In the kitchen I talked her through the electric can opener and the microwave.

“Have you a cook?” she asked.

“Just us, when we get around to it. We mainly defrost things.” I showed her the freezer compartment at the top of the refrigerator.

“Upstairs maid?” Phoebe's eyebrows could get kind of high on her forehead, like Camilla's.

“We don't have an upstairs,” I said.

“Butler?”

“We only have a doorman, Vince. But he's downstairs. He doesn't—buttle.”

“Who cleans your grates?”

“What are they?”

“The hearths. Fireplaces.”

“We don't have any. We have central heat, central air.”

“How very sad,” Phoebe said, “not to have a cheery fire to sit before in the evenings and let your mind drift.”

“We have TV for that,” I said. We were in the living room, and I was trying to explain TV when the front door banged open. Heather. I know her bang.

She appeared in the living room doorway on the way to her phone. She'd been shopping since school was out. She had three or four Bloomingdale's bags.

“Is Mom home yet?” she said. “Because I've got to get these things I'm wearing to Junior Saltonstall's party hidden before she—”

Heather caught her first glimpse of Phoebe. Phoebe folded her hands in front of her and lined up the points of her lace-up shoes. She had excellent posture.

Heather blinked.

I was beginning to get used to Phoebe, but she came as a surprise to Heather. Heather stared, starting with Phoebe's feet. She seemed to approve of the shoes, which were retro-funky now. She wondered about the white stockings. I guess they were stockings. They probably wouldn't be panty hose. Heather's stare hung around Phoebe's waistline for a while. She nodded cautiously at the starchy lace collar—more retro. Phoebe's face was pretty, so doubt filled Heather's. She ended up at Phoebe's smooth hair pulled back in a knot behind.

“Who—”

The front door opened behind Heather, and she jumped. Mom.

“Heather,” Mom sighed behind her. “Is my Bloomingdale's charge card anywhere on your person?”

“Look,” Heather said, pointing toward the living room.

Mom came in in her Adidas, unwinding a long scarf from around her neck. Her nose was nipped red because she'd walked home from Barnes Ogleby. She saw Phoebe. Sometimes I can read Mom's mind. This time it was blank.

“Mom,” I said in a funny, high voice, “this is Phoebe. Au Pair Exchange sent her. They called up, and they—said she was coming. She might be a little jet-lagged. Au Pair Exchange said they were really sorry that Fenella and Feona didn't work out. So they sent Phoebe. She's like a—bonus. British Air lost her luggage. All she's got is a toothbrush.”

Phoebe had parked her feather duster in the front hall. “And a feather duster.” I'd been on a roll. Now I began to run down.

Mom gazed at both of us. She was really dubious.

“Phoebe,” I said in a screechy soprano like Lysander's, “this is my mom, Mrs. Lewis. This is my sister, Heather.”

“Good evening, madam,” Phoebe said. “Good evening, miss.”

Heather gawked. Mom couldn't take her eyes off Phoebe's hands cupped together in front of her waist.

“You're English?” Mom said.

“I am indeed, madam,” Phoebe said. “A loyal subject of His Majesty, good King George the Fifth.”

Mom wondered. Heather swayed. Phoebe was such a jump from Fenella and Feona, Heather didn't know what to think.

“We've had our difficulties with Au Pair Exchange,” Mom said.

“I hope I shall give satisfaction, madam.” Phoebe's eyes skated down to Mom's running shoes, which she didn't understand. “I have most recently been in the employ of Mrs. Van—”

“Phoebe's O Peared a lot, Mom. Au Pair Exchange is sending a printout all about her. It's in the mail. She's seventeen and a recent ... school leaver.”

“Thank you for sharing, Josh,” Mom said. Her mind was a mixture of suspicion and surprise.

“We hope you'll—make yourself at home, Phoebe,” she said. “I don't know what we have for dinner. I could defrost—”

“I shall see to it, madam, as you are rather short of staff at the moment.” Hands still cupped, Phoebe walked poker-straight out of the living room, heading for the kitchen.

The three of us looked at each other. My face was blank.

“At least you won't be going to any discos on horseback with this one,” Mom said to Heather. “And Josh, you either know more about Phoebe than you're telling, or less. When you can come up with a good explanation for your part in this, I'll be glad to hear it.”

 

I was in my room when my phone rang. For once it was for me.

Aaron. “Is Phoebe still there?”

“She's here,” I said. “And get to work. If she—van—ishes, I'll let you know. Don't be calling every five minutes.”

After a long time a strange smell began to seep in under my door. I couldn't place it. It wasn't anything burning. It was worse than that.

I went out into the hall. Mom and Heather were already there. “Gross me out,” Heather said. “What is that?”

“Cabbage,” Mom said. “I'd bought a head of cabbage for coleslaw. Phoebe's boiling it.”

“I'll order a pizza and have it in my room,” Heather said. “I've got a conference call coming in from Camilla anyway.”

“You'll be at the dinner table with the rest of us, young lady,” Mom said. “If we have to eat it, you have to eat it. Josh, drop by the kitchen and see if you can do anything.”

The boiling cabbage smell about knocked me out when I opened the kitchen door. Phoebe had found an apron. “Oh, Josh, did you say this microwave machine will cook anything in minutes?” She wiped her shiny forehead with a floury arm.

“Sure.”

“Then would you fire it up?”

I opened the microwave door. A dish was inside with mashed potatoes on top. It didn't look too bad. I gave it a few minutes full power.

“Shepherd's pie,” Phoebe said, “made from bits and bobs I discovered in the icebox.”

“Refrigerator,” I said.

“I'm a dab hand with pastry,” she said, whatever that meant. “I'll do a proper job of baking tomorrow. If I am still here. I'll do you a nice jam roly-poly for pudding.”

“Sounds ... great,” I said. But the boiling cabbage smell was really cutting my eyes. “About the cabbage—”

“An excellent winter vegetable,” she said. “I knew you'd like it.” She was still somewhat stunned by being here, but her training was taking over. She leaned nearer me. “Aaron seems to think I might go back suddenly, all on my own.”

“He hopes,” I said.

“But supposing I did? Wouldn't your mother think it odd if I suddenly vanished?”

“Don't worry about that,” I said. “The other O Pears vanished pretty quick too. But there could be another problem—about you being a loyal subject of good King George Whatever.”

Phoebe listened.

“Heather wouldn't have picked up on it, but Mom wondered. You English people have a queen now. Good Queen Elizabeth the Second.”

Phoebe's eyes widened. “You mean ... the king—”

“I'm afraid that king's been gone quite a while. Aaron would know when.”

Phoebe's blue eyes filled.

“Phoebe, you've got to remember. Things change.”

The microwave bell rang. She stood up ramrod stiff and blinked away her tears. Mom was there in the kitchen door behind me.

“Dinner is served, madam,” Phoebe said.

 

When I woke up the next morning, hints of last night's cabbage were still hanging around. But the smell of frying bacon was seeping in too. Which might also mean eggs. On my bedside table was a steaming cup of tea with milk already added. So Phoebe was still with us.

Mom and Heather were out in the hall with cups of tea in their hands.

“Some service,” Mom said. She was still in her robe, but she had her face on.

“Wait till Camilla hears,” Heather said. “The Van Allens have a whole staff of servants, of course.”

“Don't think of Phoebe as a servant,” Mom said. But her heart wasn't in it.

Aaron and I took the bus that Friday morning. “Is Phoebe—”

“She's still here,” I told him. “You up all night?”

“Most of it,” he said. “How are things at your place?”

“Not too bad. Mom's suspicious.”