The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things

by Carolyn Mackler

  As I slide into my seat, I force myself not to look in Froggy’s direction.

  The bell rings.

  Brie and Brinna head to their desks. Brie’s high-heeled Parisian boots click down the aisle as she takes her seat, one row to my left. I make a special attempt to turn my eyes away from Brie, but I have to admit it’s hard. She flirted with my brother on the subway, for god’s sake! She now knows exactly who I am. So how can she still sit three feet from me and act like I’m a nonperson?

  Mademoiselle Kiefer slams a hole-punch onto her desk to get everyone’s attention. “Bienvenue,” she barks, welcoming us to class.

  Mademoiselle Kiefer writes Weather Expressions on the chalkboard. I copy it into my notebook. Then she rattles off various ways to describe the elements. Oddly, she only seems to be teaching us foul-weather phrases such as “It’s cold” and “It’s windy.”

  I feel a sharp jab in my arm. I glance to my left. I’m shocked to see Brie holding a folded piece of paper with my name on it. As I grab it, I attempt to offer her a smile of thanks, but she won’t make eye contact with me. Oh yeah, I might contaminate her perfectly popular reputation. Or maybe she thinks my cellulite is contagious.

  It’s an expertly folded note, with five different edges poking into various flaps. I carefully unfold it. The first thing I notice is Froggy’s handwriting. He writes with scrupulous block letters — very neat, very consistent.

  VIRGINIA—

  WHERE WERE YOU YESTERDAY?

  I WAITED ON THE STOOP FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.

  IS EVERYTHING OK?

  FROGGY WELSH THE QUATRIÈME

  I am shocked.

  I am stunned.

  Froggy knows I’m going to a Fat Doctor and he still wants to fool around!

  I’m about to climb on top of my desk and whoop for joy when it hits me that I actually have to answer Froggy’s question about why I stood him up.

  I chew my lower lip for a second. A white lie will have to do.

  F–

  I was feeling sick so I went home early.

  Sorry.

  V

  I refold the paper, cross out my name, and print Froggy on the outside.

  Ordinarily I wouldn’t ask anything of Brie.

  Iron Rule of the High School Way of Life: Only address a popular kid if they address you first. Don’t just approach them and strike up a conversation, unless it’s a matter of life and death — and even then, it should be a matter of the popular person’s life or death.

  This isn’t life and death, but it’s pretty important.

  I work up my nerve before lightly tapping Brie’s bony forearm.

  I can see her flinch, but she pretends to be enraptured by Mademoiselle Kiefer’s lecture on crappy weather.

  I poke Brie again.

  “Hmph!” she snorts.

  Mademoiselle Kiefer spins around and glares at me. I cower like an abused puppy. As soon as she turns back to the board, Brie snatches the note out of my hands and tosses it at Froggy’s feet.

  “Il fait mauvais means it’s stormy,” Mademoiselle Kiefer says. “Il pleut. That’s what you say when it’s raining.”

  I can see Froggy writing on a fresh page, tearing it from his spiral notebook, and folding it up.

  Brie flings a new note onto the floor near my desk. I slide out of my chair and swipe up the paper.

  VIRGINIA—

  MAYBE WE SHOULD TAKE A TRIP TO WALLA WALLA TOGETHER.

  WOULD THAT MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER?

  FW4

  I’m puzzled.

  I’ve never talked to Froggy about Shannon, so how does he know about Walla Walla? And why a vacation there?

  I turn to Froggy, scrunch my eyebrows together, and mouth, Walla Walla?

  Froggy pantomimes a swimming/crawling gesture and tugs at his sweatshirt. At that same moment, someone’s cell phone starts playing an instrumental version of the French national anthem. Mademoiselle Kiefer spins around in time to catch Froggy while he’s still in action.

  “That’s it, ma petite grenouille,” she snarls. “Into the hallway.”

  I can see Brie quietly tucking a small pink cell phone into her bag. An uncomfortable laughter ripples through the classroom. Mademoiselle Kiefer has just called Froggy her “little frog.” I only know that because I recently looked up “frog” in my French-English dictionary.

  “Excusez-moi?” Froggy asks as he rubs his nose. He’s definitely not the type of kid who’s ever sent into the hallway. He plays trombone, after all.

  Mademoiselle Kiefer angrily extends her arm in the direction of the hallway, as if to say, Don’t doubt the magnitude of my evil.

  Froggy gathers together his folders. As he stands up, he turns to me and yanks his sweatshirt one more time.

  “Maintenant!” growls Mademoiselle Kiefer.

  Once Froggy is in the hallway, I turn it over and over in my head. Crawling. Tugging at sweatshirt. Swimming. Crawling. That’s it! When Froggy crawled under my bed last week, he must have seen my WALLA WALLA IS FOR LOVERS sweatshirt that I kicked under there a few weeks ago. I’d almost forgotten about that sweatshirt from Shannon. I smile as I ponder the romantic implications of Froggy suggesting we go to Walla Walla together. Walla Walla is for lovers, after all.

  Mademoiselle Kiefer stomps toward me.

  “Is there some joke you want to share with the rest of us, La Vierge?”

  The class cracks up. I can hear Brie’s high, hiccupy laugh above everyone else’s.

  “No,” I say.

  Mademoiselle Kiefer marches back to the board. I flip through my French-English dictionary. When I come to vierge, I feel my cheeks heating up. I have just been called “The Virgin” in front of the entire class. If there’s ever a self-prophesying name, mine’s the one. At least la grenouille was out of earshot.

  To: citigurl13

  From: goddess_shannon

  Date: Wednesday, October 9, 5:38 P.M.

  Subject: H.A. is not funny

  Virginia—

  I’m soooooo sorry for my absence. I hope you’re not mad at me. I’ve been on House Arrest. For the past ten days, Liam and Nina have not allowed me to talk on the phone, watch TV, or do e-mail. Death by denial of technology.

  It’s all because of my new friends. There are three of them — two guys, Evan and Hunter, and a girl named Sabrina. Most people at Walla Walla High School think they’re freaks. Hunter has aquamarine hair and Sabrina has “Mom” tattooed on her arm. But I don’t care. They were the only people who treated me like something other than a stuttering misfit.

  Last Saturday night, the four of us decided to meet at a playground near my house. It was just going to be some after-dinner hanging out, but we started talking and walking and talking and talking. GUESS WHAT? I didn’t stutter around them, not even once.

  The next thing I knew it was one-thirty. IN THE MORNING.

  I sprinted all the way home, but when I got there, Liam and Nina were spastic. They thought I’d been squished by farm machinery. They yelled at me. I called them “onion-loving fuckers” and locked myself in the bathroom. That’s when I was slapped with H.A. Liam and Nina say they’re happy I’m making friends, but that still doesn’t mean I can stay out all night. Whatever.

  Love,

  Shannon

  P.S. Sabrina, Evan, Hunter, and I have been sitting together at lunch all week. Evan eats tofu in peanut sauce.

  To: goddess_shannon

  From: citigurl13

  Date: Wednesday, October 9, 5:47 P.M.

  Subject: H.A. is DEFINITELY not funny

  Shan—

  Good to hear from you. I was about to file a Missing Persons report. I’m not mad, but I wish you’d found a way to tell me what was up, like snail mail.

  Congrats on your new friends. They sound interesting. Are you sure Sabrina’s tattoo is real?

  Shan, may I admit something? I’m a little worried that you’re going to forget your boring old best friend now that you’ve found these exciting new
people. Well, I hope you know that I won’t let you escape that easily. Even if I have to start eating tofu.

  Love,

  Gin

  P.S. Speaking of eating, have I told you I’m on a diet? For real this time.

  P.P.S. Things on the Froggy front are starting to improve.

  P.P.P.S. Just thought I’d remind you that you never stutter around me either.

  I’m sitting on my bed, struggling to conjugate verbs in the passé composé. Mademoiselle Kiefer gave us a worksheet of verbs that we have to transform into the past tense. I’ve heard that in Chinese you don’t have to make verb forms change for tenses. What a far superior language.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I shout.

  Mom peeks into my room. “How was school?”

  “Fine.”

  “Anything interesting happen?”

  “Not really.”

  “Would you like to go out to dinner?”

  I drop my pencil. “Just you and me?”

  Mom nods.

  I can’t remember the last time Mom and I went to a restaurant, just the two of us. She’s always so busy with her patients and her exercise and everything. Besides, she usually has dinner with Nan the Neurotic Nutritionist on Wednesday nights.

  “What about Nan?”

  “Nan’s out of town,” Mom says, “so I thought it would be nice to have a little mother-daughter time.”

  Mom gives Dad a quick call in Chicago and then we walk down to Citrus, this elegant Mexicany-Japanesey restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue. It’s a mild fall night, the last gasps of summer. The sidewalks are buzzing with people and strollers and dogs straining at their leashes. With each step, I squeeze my butt cheeks together.

  Diet Tip #4: Find creative ways to exercise undesirable body parts.

  Mom orders a glass of chardonnay. I get a Diet Sprite. When the waiter brings our drinks, he plops a basket of multicolored tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa onto the table. I’m zooming in for a chip when I catch Mom’s eye.

  Diet Tip #5: Utilize something other than a grease-drenched chip to eat salsa.

  I scoop up some salsa with my spoon. Mom smiles approvingly.

  As I drink my Sprite through a straw, Mom starts talking about her patients. She never calls them by name, so she won’t break their confidentiality. It’s more like the Girl Who Swallows Pocket Change When She’s Upset or the Boy Who Shoplifts Even Though His Parents Are Millionaires. Mom’s stories often shock me. I can’t believe how screwed up some people are.

  I’m tempted to tell Mom about Shannon’s e-mail. I’m curious to see if she thinks I’m in danger of being replaced by the Walla Walla friends. But I decide not to mention anything. After listening to problems all day, Mom’s tolerance for hearing mine is usually pretty low. Sometimes at night, as she’s making a mug of tea or curling up with a novel, she’ll sigh and say, I’m glad my children have turned out so healthy. Having a stable family is important to Mom, probably because her own childhood was so rocky.

  I spoon up some more salsa and study the menu. Whenever we’ve been to Citrus before, I’ve gotten the cheesy fajita platter. But this time around, I’m determined to order something light, like mango sushi. Maybe that will score me another approving maternal smile.

  Shannon hasn’t been the only Missing Person. I haven’t spoken with Byron since the day I brought him the Rice Krispie treats. I’ve left him three voice-mail messages and even sent a few e-mails asking about that Yankees game to which Dad is offering us tickets. New York beat Oakland in the Division Series, so if they can hang on in the playoffs, it looks like this game will happen. It’s a big-deal game to any Yankees fan, especially one who aspires to bear the offspring of several players.

  Unfortunately, no one’s heard a peep from Byron, not even my parents.

  That’s what Dad and I are arguing about now. It’s Thursday evening. Mom is doing her group-therapy night. Dad has just returned from his business trip. He’s reclining on the ottoman and watching the news. I’m sitting on the floor, removing my nail polish with a cotton ball. This afternoon, while in the throes of munchie-mania, I painted each finger a different color. After applying Strobe, Zippy, Sizzle, Tidal Wave, and Firecracker, I decided the rainbow thing was too flashy for someone like me.

  Every time there’s a commercial, Dad and I start arguing again.

  “If Byron can’t give you definite word by tonight,” Dad says, “I’ll have to give the tickets to one of my colleagues.”

  “Dad, you can’t! It’s a playoff game and you said I could go.” I attempt to throw a cotton ball at him, but it lands an inch in front of me.

  “I’m afraid I have no other choice, Ginny. The game is next Saturday, so I’ve got to get something figured out. Mom and I will be in Connecticut all weekend, and I can’t let you go to Yankee Stadium alone.”

  I unscrew a bottle of mauve and polish my middle finger. I’m almost angry enough to flip Dad a big pink bird. “Who says I’d go alone?”

  “Is there another person you had in mind?”

  Sometimes Dad can be as sensitive as a cement block. I search my brain for an answer. Normally I would say Shannon and that would be that. Who can I bring now? Froggy? We’ve actually been talking in school a little more recently. Like in French class today, he asked to be my partner for “Everyday Conversation.” That’s what Mademoiselle Kiefer has us do whenever she wants to go chase after the sexy male physics teacher. But I’m not about to ask Froggy on a date. That’s in total violation of the Fat Girl Code of Conduct, rule #1. No riding the moped in public. Besides, Froggy is a Red Sox fan. He has a bunch of their stickers on his trombone case.

  The news comes on. Dad pumps the volume. I’ve just finished my left hand when the phone rings.

  “Would you get that?” Dad asks.

  As I stomp into the hallway, I suspend my hand in the air so I won’t smudge my nails. My only hope at this point is that it’s Byron, finally calling back to say he can come to the game.

  I pick up the cordless phone. “Hello?”

  “I’m calling for Dr. or Mr. Shreves,” a man says. His voice sounds deep and official.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “This is Maxwell Briggs.” He pauses before adding, “The dean of students at Columbia University.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  I cover the mouthpiece as I carry the phone into the living room and tap Dad’s shoulder.

  “It’s for you,” I whisper. “Sounds important.”

  Dad mutes the volume on the TV, clears his throat, and lifts the phone to his ear. “This is Mike Shreves,” he says.

  I flounce onto the couch and blow at my fingertips. I’m half watching the news and half listening to Dad’s side of the conversation. He’s not saying much, just an occasional “I see” and “of course.”

  My ears only perk up when I hear Dad ask, “Are you sure there hasn’t been a mistake, sir?”

  I don’t think I’ve heard Dad use the word “sir” since a doctor called from a Phoenix hospital three years ago to report that his father had had a stroke.

  “What was that about?” I ask as Dad switches off the phone.

  Dad is staring blankly at the television. The color has leaked from his face, leaving him a sickly greenish hue. The last time Dad looked this bad was the day he got the phone call about Grandpa Shreves.

  I don’t know how much time has passed.

  I’m sitting on my bed. I’ve just devoured an entire box of Frosted Flakes, handful by handful. I hear my parents’ voices rising and falling in the living room. Mom’s voice is high and squeaky. Dad’s sounds drained, devoid of emotion.

  The phone rings. I hear Mom scamper to get it. I hear shrill sobs. I hear someone go to the liquor cabinet and pour a drink.

  I concentrate on numbing myself. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since the phone call from Dean Briggs. I’ve started with my heart and am expanding outward to the rest of my body. Now I am
numbing my arms and legs, elbows and knees.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  I don’t answer.

  Another knock.

  I don’t answer.

  The door cracks open, so I stuff the empty cereal box under my covers.

  I turn to face Mom. There are smears of mascara under her red-rimmed eyes.

  When she speaks, her voice sounds like a deflated balloon. “I assume you’ve heard.”

  I nod.

  Mom opens her mouth. This is the point in the conversation where she generally lapses into ShrinkSpeak, offering a Dr. Phyllis Shreves therapized explanation. But nothing comes out.

  We stare at each other for several seconds.

  Mom wipes under her eyes with the side of her finger. “Byron is moving home tomorrow.”

  I continue staring at her.

  “He’ll be living here until we can get this straightened out.”

  I turn to the window.

  “There must be some mistake,” Mom says. “I’ve known Byron for his entire life. I know who he is and how his brain operates and what he’s capable of. And my son is certainly not capable of something like this. That I can guarantee.”

  There’s a red light flashing in New Jersey.

  “What’s wrong, Virginia? Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  I concentrate on numbing my ankles and wrists.

  “How do you feel about this?”

  Now my hands and feet. Now my fingers and toes.

  Mom switches off my light as she leaves my room.

  citigurl13: It’s 1:12 A.M. in NYC and I can’t sleep. Are you there? If not, I’m going to keep instant-messaging you all night.

  goddess_shannon: I’m right here! I was about to e-mail you that you’ll ALWAYS be my spiritual twin no matter what . . . Hold on! What’s up? Is everything OK?