Ms. Crowley is standing behind her desk. Her wavy hair is secured into a bun with two yellow pencils. The wisps around her face are held back by paper clips.
“Hello there,” she says, smiling.
My heart is still thumping from taking the stairs two at a time. “I was just wondering if you needed help grading tests, like you said the other day.”
Ms. Crowley glances at her watch. “I’m running out to a meeting, so I don’t have time to get you started.” She studies my face for a second before adding, “You can hang out here for the rest of the period, if you’d like.”
I step into her office. “Are you sure?”
Ms. Crowley maneuvers around me. “Make yourself comfortable. Read whatever you want. My computer’s still on, if you want to tool around.”
“Thanks, Ms. Crowley.” I set my notebooks on her desk.
“My pleasure.” She hoists a tote bag onto her shoulder. “Let’s do the tests another time.”
As soon as she’s gone, I sink into her chair and survey the small room. Ms. Crowley’s office is cluttered with books and coffee mugs and photographs of her husband and their two Great Danes. The only other chair is piled high with literary journals. I think a few of them have published Ms. Crowley’s poems. An entire section of her bookshelf is dedicated to poetry compilations by Maya Angelou, e. e. cummings, Allen Ginsberg, Pablo Neruda.
On a top shelf, I spot A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf. I’ve tried reading several books by Virginia Woolf, since Mom named me after her and everything. But I always get lost after a few pages. Her writing is so dense and enigmatic. Exactly what you’d expect from someone who committed suicide by filling her pockets with stones and walking into a river.
I open my notebook to a new page and scribble Froggy + Virginia. It’s strange to see it on paper. It makes me wish I could write it on my locker or with a highlighter on my hand, like other girls do with their crushes. I tear out the page, rip it to shreds, and sprinkle it into the trash can.
That’s when I notice that Ms. Crowley’s office overlooks the small courtyard behind the school. I’ve never actually set foot in there, since that’s where the popular kids sneak out to smoke cigarettes.
There are mostly juniors and seniors in the courtyard. And then I see Brie Newhart weaving through the crowd, sucking at a cigarette and flaunting her Parisian boots.
I turn away from the window, face Ms. Crowley’s computer, and compose an e-mail to Shannon. I haven’t heard from her in a few days. I hope she’s not too miserable out there in Walla Walla.
I mention that there are only 296 days until our lives begin again.
I don’t mention that it’s lucky I’m not near a pile of stones and the Hudson River.
Because I can’t guarantee that if given the opportunity, I wouldn’t take Brie’s advice and go the way of my namesake.
On Saturday I sleep in until 11 A.M. Mom and Dad are long gone by the time I wake up. They always leave for Connecticut at the crack of dawn, so they can beat traffic and hit the golfing green early. Most weekends they don’t return until Sunday evening. They call and check in a few times, but basically I have two solid days to myself.
When Anaïs was in college and Byron was fifteen or sixteen, weekends were great. As soon as Mom and Dad took off, my brother and I would take over the apartment. We’d keep the TV going for thirty-six hours. We didn’t pick up our wet towels. We’d make kooky food creations. We wouldn’t do a single dish until 5 P.M. on Sunday.
But then Byron got into girls and going out, so I began spending weekends at Shannon’s apartment down in Greenwich Village. But with Shannon in Walla Walla, weekends have been a drag recently.
Dad’s always saying, “Give Ginny a stack of magazines, a computer, and a TV and she’s set for life.”
I guess that’s true. But even I get a little lonely sometimes.
I pour myself a bowl of Rice Krispies, plop onto the couch, and scan the movie listings. The pickings are sparse today, the highlight of the afternoon being Babe: Pig in the City, which they aired twice last weekend.
I know some families are all rah-rah about having nightly sit-down dinners. Believe me, it would be nice to have a Shreves family meal every once in a while, but I’ve basically come to accept that that’s not what my family is about. Besides, Byron and I used to have a blast creating our own dishes. They were much better than stir-fry or spaghetti or whatever normal families eat every night.
Sometimes we’d make run-of-the-mill things like Rice Krispie treats, except we’d eat them for dinner, which rendered them exotic. One time, when I was sick, Byron made me a waffle sundae. He toasted an Eggo and topped it with vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup. Making food together became our special ritual. Sometimes on a Saturday evening or a Sunday afternoon, as we were plugging away in the kitchen, I would get a warm feeling inside, wishing we could freeze the moment forever. Other times, I would have the craziest notions. Like hoping Mom and Dad would get into a car accident and Byron and I could live together, just the two of us.
But everything changed once my brother got popular. “In demand” is what Mom used to call it. He had dates with girls on weekend nights. And during the day he hung out with his friends at Chelsea Piers. That’s around the time I started blimping out, so I think Byron got embarrassed to be seen with me in public. He never said as much, but sometimes it felt like he was walking a few strides ahead of me on the sidewalk.
I choke up as that thought crosses my mind.
I miss spending time with the old Byron. Maybe he misses it, too. Maybe he wants our closeness back, but he’s too busy with school and life to do anything about it.
As I set my empty cereal bowl on the coffee table, I come up with a great idea. I race into the kitchen and tear through the cupboards to see what ingredients we have and what I need to go out and buy.
Two hours later I’m riding the subway up to Columbia, toting a warm batch of Rice Krispie treats topped with a layer of melted chocolate morsels. I’m hoping the goodies will jump-start Byron’s memory of the old days. If nothing else, it’ll soften the shock of my showing up, unannounced, at his dorm on a Saturday afternoon.
I’ve never dropped in on Byron at college before. I visited his old room a few times last year, with Mom and Dad. And then, in late August, we helped him move into his new suite. That was after my parents’ Biannual Byron Brunch. At the beginning of every new semester, they put out a huge bagel spread and invite the whole world — from downstairs neighbors to Connecticut friends to Byron’s preschool teacher. Everyone toasts Byron and, wired on coffee, the guests’ speeches commending him last longer than the president’s State of the Union address.
Byron’s dorm is called Wallach. I thought I remembered where it was, but as I step through Columbia’s entranceway, all the buildings look identical — stately, stone, draped in ivy. I stop a professor type on the path and ask him about Wallach. He gestures to a dorm off in the distance.
It’s a balmy fall afternoon, so the grassy expanses in front of the majestic library are overflowing with students. Everyone is tossing Frisbees, stretched out on blankets, laughing, eating chips, writing in notebooks. I scan the crowd for Byron. I hadn’t considered the fact that he might not be in his room. If he’s not there, I guess I could just hang out in his hallway for a while. Either that or leave the treats at his door with a note to call me.
Once I get to Wallach, I spot a security guard at the front desk. She’s checking everyone’s student ID cards. I linger on the front steps until a gaggle of students filters into the dorm. As they hand their IDs to the guard, I slip past them and dash up the narrow staircase.
I mount three flights of stairs, catch my breath, and study doors until I find Byron’s suite. That’s just a fancy way of saying he’s in a single room with several other singles, a shared bathroom, and a common room.
I cross the empty common room and knock on Byron’s door.
“Door’s open,” he says.
“Door’s open.”
“It’s not,” I say. “I just tried it.”
Silence.
“Virginia?” Byron asks.
“Yeah?”
Byron swings open the door. His hair is kind of messy and he’s wearing shorts and a beat-up T-shirt that says COLUMBIA RUGBY.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks like he doesn’t know what to make of all this. “What are you doing here?”
I’m quiet for a second. This isn’t how I imagined it. Not that I pictured us throwing our arms around each other, but I thought maybe a “what a pleasant surprise” might be in order.
“I made you these.” I open the Tupperware container and reveal the contents. “Thought you’d like them.”
“Well,” he says, rubbing his cheeks. “Well, well.”
“Can I come in?”
Byron opens his door wider and I step into his room. The first thing I notice is that he’s replaced the bed with a futon mattress directly on the gray industrial carpet. On the windowsill, there are three candles with frozen waterfalls of wax.
I kick off my shoes and sit on the futon. Byron settles into his chair. I offer him a Rice Krispie treat, but he shakes his head.
“What are you up to today?” I ask.
“Not much,” Byron says. “Getting some reading done for a paper.”
“Oh.” I nibble some chocolate off a treat.
“How’s Brewster?” Byron asks after a moment.
“Fine,” I say. “Same as usual.”
“Is Old Moony still there?”
“Yep,” I say. “Still singing his crazy songs.”
“He used to sing some to me,” says Byron, “but they were always about Brian and I didn’t have the heart to correct him.”
We both laugh.
I polish off the rest of my treat.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Come on in,” Byron calls out.
The door opens to reveal a smallish guy with closely shorn hair and a pointy nose. He smiles as he eyes me on Byron’s bed. Actually, not a smile. More of a male-bonding grin. If there could be a facial expression that conveyed a thumbs-up sign, this would be it.
“Never a surprise to see a lovely young woman hanging out in Lord Byron’s room,” he says. “Who have we got here?”
As much as I think incest is the grossest thing in the world, I’m flattered that someone would actually think Byron and I are enough in the same league to be “hanging out.” Also, do I need my hearing checked or did this guy just call me “a lovely young woman”?
I’m totally basking in the praise, but Byron doesn’t seem thrilled about the mix-up. “It’s my little sister,” he says, shooting the guy a scolding look. Then he nods in my direction. “This is Shawn. He lives in our suite.”
“Hi, Little Sister,” Shawn says. “Do you have a name?”
“Virginia.” I pull one of Byron’s pillows onto my lap. I always feel safer that way, like my body is more concealed.
“Virginia.” Shawn lifts up a stapler and sets it down again. His jerky movements remind me of a hamster. As he gives me the once-over, I hug the pillow tighter around my middle. “Are you really Byron’s sister?”
“Yeah,” I say.
Shawn glances from my brother to me and back again. “You’re serious, man?” he asks Byron. “You two look nothing alike.”
There’s a long silence in which I can’t help but wonder: Is it our hair color? I have a Yankee cap on. Our height? I’m sitting on the bed. Our weight? Aha!
Byron switches on his computer. “So, what’s up?” he asks Shawn.
“Not much.” Shawn picks some wax off one of the candles. “Just letting you know we’re tapping the preparty keg in the common room around ten.”
“Sounds great,” Byron says.
Shawn rolls the wax between his finger and thumb. “You’re coming to Virgins and Sluts, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” says Byron.
“Are you still bringing Annie Mills?”
“Yep.”
“Lord Byron strikes again,” sings Shawn. “She’s cute, man.” Shawn rubs his knuckles up and down his chest. “For a math major.”
As soon as Shawn is gone, I ask, “What’s Virgins and Sluts?”
Byron enters his password into his computer. “That’s this party that a bunch of us are going to tonight.”
“Why is it called Virgins and Sluts?”
Byron takes a deep breath. “The theme is ‘the more you bare, the less the fare.’ The cover charge is ten bucks, but there’s a sliding scale depending on how much skin you reveal.”
“Who’s Annie Mills?”
“Just a girl.”
I scratch at a pimple on my arm. “Do you know what she’s going to wear?”
Byron laughs. “She says she’s wearing a black leather bustier and fishnets, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t know. Probably just boxers.”
I examine my arm. A tiny dot of blood has cropped up, so I rub it off with my thumb.
We chat for a few more minutes. I eat a Rice Krispie treat and then another and then another, until I realize there are only five left in the Tupperware. Byron hasn’t even had one, which strikes me as a little strange. This is the boy who used to consume an entire panful during the course of a half-hour sitcom.
After a while Byron stretches his arms over his head and yawns loudly. “I’d better get started on this paper,” he says. “Fifteen pages. Due Wednesday.”
“I hope you have fun tonight,” I say.
I give Byron a meaningful stare. I guess on some small level, I’m hoping he’ll invite me to hang out for the rest of the afternoon, maybe go with him and that girl to the Virgins and Sluts thing tonight. I’ve heard of kids who visit their older siblings at college and go to parties and get totally wasted.
But Byron doesn’t nibble. Not even close.
“Do you know your way out of here?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say, slipping my feet into my shoes.
Byron hands me the Tupperware. “Thanks for the treats.”
“You’re welcome. I thought maybe it would . . .” I trail off.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Byron opens the door. “Look, Gin, the next time you want to come up here, can you give me a call first?”
I stare at my feet. “But I wanted to surprise you with the . . .” I hold up the container.
“Even so,” Byron says.
As I head across campus, I feel a lump lodging in my throat. What I wanted to say a few minutes ago was I thought maybe it would remind you how much you love me, how close we used to be.
By the time I reach the subway station, tears are trickling down my cheeks. I keep wiping them away, but every time I do, more slide out to replace them.
When I arrive home, I have a headache. It feels like there’s a thick band stretched around my forehead. I go into the kitchen and splash my face with water. Mom always leaves a few twenties on the counter in case I need anything. I dig through a drawer for a Chinese takeout menu, call up the restaurant, and order mu shu pork and fried veggie dumplings.
I head into my room and switch on the computer.
The More I Bare, the More I Scare
by Virginia Shreves
1. The Bri-girls would rather commit suicide than look like me.
2. No one ever believes Byron and I are related because he’s cool and attractive and I’m, well, not.
3. If they filmed another Babe: Pig in the City, I’d get cast in the leading role.
4. If I eat a slice of pizza on the sidewalk, strangers give me nasty looks, like I’m supposed to live on lettuce until I’ve whittled down to the size of a chopstick.
5. Relatives don’t send me clothes because they’re scared to guess my size, so I have more gift boxes of nail polish than t
he Revlon factory.
6. Whenever I picture myself squeezed into a black leather bustier and fishnets, I get violently ill.
7. If I were thin, maybe Byron would have invited me to the Virgins and Sluts party — or at least been happier to see me at his dorm.
By the time I’ve finished writing, my headache has subsided. I go online. I haven’t heard from Shannon since Wednesday, so I’m starting to worry that the onion fumes are seriously depressing her. I exhale when I see her name in my Inbox.
To: citigurl13
From: goddess_shannon
Date: Saturday, September 28, 4:29 P.M.
Subject: !!!!!
I’m running out the door, but I had to tell you that I think I’m making some real, live friends in Walla Walla! Stay tuned . . .
To: goddess_shannon
From: citigurl13
Date: Saturday, September 28, 4:53 P.M.
Subject: ?????
YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME HANGING LIKE THIS.
Who, what, when, where, and why?
As soon as I’ve sent the e-mail, I collapse on my bed. My forehead is tightening again. I must be an evil person, but I’m not exactly thrilled that Shannon is making new friends. What if she forgets about me? Besides, our bicoastal boo-hoo-fest has offered me a certain degree of comfort, like I’m not alone in all my misery.
I roll over and stare out my window. I can see a narrow stretch of Riverside Park and the Hudson River. I’ve watched the most amazing sunsets from my bed, especially during late fall when the air is cool and clear.
The intercom rings. It must be the Chinese food. As I’m heading to the front door, it crosses my mind that if I don’t go out tomorrow, the delivery guy is going to be the only human I’ll see for the next twenty-four hours.
Froggy Welsh the Fourth has made it up my shirt!
Every star and planet must be perfectly aligned today. As Froggy and I rode the crosstown bus, we chatted more than usual. He described this citywide graphic design competition that he’s just entered. We also discovered that we’ve both memorized the theme song to nearly every sitcom from the past decade.
The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things Page 4