The Victoria in My Head

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The Victoria in My Head Page 13

by Janelle Milanes


  That was then. Now I’m not sure how long true love is supposed to wait. Or what it feels like. Does Levi love me? Do I love him? He has all the ingredients of someone I’m supposed to love. Smart, responsible, ambitious. Great husband material. We both have the same dark hair and dark eyes that would match nicely in a wedding photo. I can imagine us living in a mansion in Westchester with two children and a golden retriever. We’d celebrate both Noche Buena and Hanukkah, and our kids could light a tree and a menorah every winter.

  I ponder all of this as I take a long shower, the bathroom overflowing with steam.

  “Victoriaaaa!” Matty pounds at the door. “You’ve been in there for half an hour! Mom and Dad say to get out!”

  “Go away!” I shout back over the running water, but I’m out of the shower two minutes later.

  I turn and face the foggy bathroom mirror, completely nude. I want to see myself the way Levi will when/if we ever we have sex.

  I inspect myself at new angles—flexing the backs of my legs, jiggling my breasts around, clenching my butt. My neck craned, I stare in horror at the dimpling skin along the outer edges of my butt cheeks. Apparently being young and painfully skinny does not make me immune to cellulite. I make a mental note to start doing daily squats and lunges.

  Turning around again, I zero in on my breasts. Back in middle school, Annie and I had a great debate over ideal areola size after we watched a movie that featured a topless Scarlett Johansson.

  “Those are perfect,” Annie sighed, rewinding the scene to admire them again.

  They were perfect. Perky and round and with an ideal areola-to-boob ratio. According to Annie, some girls barely have an areola.

  “It’s mostly nipple,” she says. “Like a pencil tip. But then some girls have giant areolas that take over their boobs, like slices of baloney.”

  I’m not sure what Levi would think of my boobs. They’re not round like Scarlett’s. They’re pointier, like they didn’t grow as much as they intended to in order to round out. My areolas are colored a soft pink, and they measure about the size of a pepperoni slice. I wouldn’t mind them being a little smaller, especially when my boobs barely have any surface area to offer.

  My boobs are smaller than both Annie’s and Krina’s. Krina’s body is all curves, not a straight line to be found. And Annie’s breasts have grown into glorious C cups since we watched Scarlett on-screen.

  In the mirror my reflection stares at me with palpable disgust. My breasts have a game of catch-up to do with my pear-shaped hips and bubbled rear. Annie calls my lower half my sabor, my latinassence. She jokingly offers to trade me—one of her C cups for a slab of my butt cheek.

  “Then we would each be perfectly proportioned,” she says. I think she’s only trying to cheer me up. Her body is already perfectly proportioned, because despite what Nicki Minaj claims, most guys I know seem to prefer smaller rears.

  I imagine Levi lifting up my shirt and gazing down at my naked torso. In this mental film, my breasts are not my breasts. They’re Scarlett’s, pasted onto my body. Levi smiles at them appreciatively.

  In reality, if and when Levi does take off my shirt, he’ll probably call foul after removing my heavily padded bra.

  “That’s it?” he might let slip. And he’d be within his rights. It’s false advertising, walking around with an extra inch of foam.

  I mentally devise my own sex guidelines:

  Levi and I are ready to have sex when . . .

  1. I get rid of the cellulite on my butt.

  2. My boobs fill out.

  3. I’m okay with Levi seeing me naked.

  4. Levi and I say “I love you” for the first time.

  It doesn’t matter at the moment, anyway. Levi is having a love affair with school. Whatever bases he and I decide to cross, the game is on hiatus until finals are over. I trace a frowning face into the mirror’s condensation before tucking my little breasts into my towel and exiting the bathroom in a trail of steam.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “JUNK OF THE HEART (HAPPY)”

  —THE KOOKS

  This is impossible,” I moan, tossing my pencil across the table at Annie.

  She rolls it back to me. “Very mature.”

  It’s the weekend before finals and we’ve taken over my dining room table. Its surface is covered with strewn loose-leaf paper and open binders. It’s been two hours, and my crankiness is kicking in.

  With finals on the horizon, Levi has canceled band practice so we can use the extra time to study. The problem is that band practice was the one thing keeping me afloat. A life preserver in a tidal wave of pressure.

  “When in life are we ever going to use quadratic equations anyway?” I ask.

  “Never,” Annie replies. “That’s not the point.”

  I scribble some calculations into the margins of my notebook.

  “Do you realize,” I say, “that if we live to eighty-five, our lives are only thirty-one thousand and twenty-five days long?”

  “Stop distracting yourself.”

  “It’s so much shorter than I thought it was. I mean, I know ‘life is short’ is not an original revelation . . .” I trail off as I figure out my numbers. “Out of those measly thirty-one thousand twenty-five days, five thousand, six hundred, and seventy of them are spent cooped up in a classroom! And that’s not counting study days, or grad school.”

  Annie shrugs. It’s an insufficient response considering all the extensive math I just did.

  “I don’t understand our world,” I lament.

  “Oh geez.” Annie shuts her textbook. “If I humor you for five minutes, can we get back to quadratic equations?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Go ahead and finish your rant.”

  “I’m just saying. We all agree life is short. So why do we spend it behind desks? Why don’t we all come together and decide to do things differently?”

  “This is the way the world works, Vi,” Annie says. “You study hard so you get into a good college. You get into a good college so you find a high-paying job. Then, when you earn enough money, you can travel and retire and enjoy the rest of your days.”

  I play with the metal rings of my binder, popping them open and shut. “You sound like my parents. And Levi.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. He is your boyfriend, you know.”

  “Yes, my boyfriend who I never ever see.”

  “He’s studious.”

  “He’s worse than you. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

  Pop, pop, pop.

  “You’re going to break that,” Annie warns me.

  I ignore her. “Aren’t teenage boys supposed to be all about sex?”

  “You’re complaining that Levi isn’t a sex fiend?”

  “I don’t want him to be a sex fiend. I would like him to find me attractive is all.”

  “Levi is into you, Vi. You know that.”

  “He’s just so . . .” I try to find the right word. “Practical. He writes himself a color-coded daily schedule every day.”

  “So? You could use something like that. You never schedule your time wisely.”

  “So sometimes I want him to rip up the schedule and say ‘to hell with it.’ And . . . I don’t know, take me.”

  “That’s not Levi.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to accept him the way he is.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “It’s simple,” Annie says. “Does he treat you well?”

  Levi has never snapped at me. We’ve never argued or criticized each other. Sometimes he offers me half of his cookie at lunchtime, and I don’t even need to ask him.

  “Yes,” I decide. “He does treat me well.”

  “Then don’t create a problem where there isn’t one.”

  I pop open my binder and the metal tab snaps right off.

  “I told you it would break,” Annie says sagely.

  * * *

  We finish our finals on Wed
nesday afternoon. My mind feels like a puddle of goo, but I’m pretty confident that I did well enough on all my tests that my transcript will remain untarnished and Harvard-ready. Around me the hallway spills with students who have way more energy than I do.

  “School’s out, bitches!” hollers Nate Greenbaum, banging his hands against the locker door. A teacher immediately pokes her head out of a nearby classroom to scold him.

  The band members plus Annie are going to Cafe Lalo to celebrate the end of finals and the beginning of winter recess. We share a table in the back of the café, against the exposed brick wall. I order hot chocolate with a dollop of fresh whipped cream and nestle against Levi.

  “I have some news,” Levi says as soon as we get our orders. He takes a dramatic pause, stopping to look at each of us in turn.

  “Yeah?” Krina asks. “Do you need a drumroll?”

  Strand raps his fingertips against the table and we all follow suit, to the annoyance of the customers sitting around us.

  When Levi raises his hand, we stop. His lips curl into a smile as he says, “Clear your schedule for March twenty-sixth.”

  At first his words don’t register. Then Annie shrieks, and Krina’s fork clatters onto her plate.

  “We made it in?” Strand asks.

  “We’re in,” Levi confirms. “Battle of the Boroughs. The youngest band ever to make it.”

  Now everyone’s full-on screaming, and our waitress has to rush over and ask us to keep it down.

  “Miss, you’re talking to future Rock and Roll Hall of Famers here,” Strand tells her, shooting her a glimpse of his dimple. Because he’s Strand, she stops scolding us and lets out a girlish giggle.

  “Barf,” Krina mutters as the waitress scurries back to the kitchen. I wholeheartedly agree.

  “We’ll start rehearsing every day after break,” says Levi. “We need to practice longer and harder.”

  In spite of the excitement around me, dread worms its way into my stomach. It’s not the longer practices in my future. Practice tends to be the bright spot in my day, so I have no problem extending it. It’s the Battle. It sounds so intense. Not like performing in the band room or a bowling alley. We’re singing in front of industry people and fellow musicians—people who know what good music is supposed to sound like. People who will know I’m a total fraud.

  “Speaking of break, what are you fuckers up to?” Krina asks. She scrapes the edge of her caramel cheesecake with her fork and slides it into her mouth.

  Strand looks at me sideways and says, “Victoria and I will be very busy with quinceañera rehearsals.” I feel myself blush. Everything Strand says sounds inherently dirty, especially when he throws in some Spanish.

  “I’ll be skiing in Vermont,” Levi reveals.

  I place my mug on the table and try to swallow my surprise. “You will?”

  “Yeah. My family goes every year.”

  This is news to me. I was hoping to spend some quality time with Levi in all his postfinals glory. It’s my fault for assuming he had nothing else to do, but I’m disappointed all the same. No Levi, and as an additional crappy bonus, no band practice. I straighten up and shift a couple of inches away from him in my seat.

  “What about you, Annie?” Krina asks.

  Even in a predominantly dessert café, Annie still manages to order a salad. She pokes a piece of lettuce with her fork and says, “No plans.”

  “Thank God,” replies Krina. “Me either. Let’s hang out.”

  “You guys should come watch our rehearsals,” Strand suggests. “Get a taste of the magic.”

  I shake my head at him. “No one wants to witness that train wreck.”

  “Excuse me, Cutlet. I can only speak for myself, but I happen to be an excellent salsa dancer.”

  “Riiight,” I say, blowing ripples onto the surface of my hot chocolate, which is still piping hot.

  “I’m serious. I went out with the captain of the dance team last year.”

  “He did,” Krina affirms. “For, like, two weeks.”

  Of course he did.

  “Well, I look forward to seeing your supposed moves,” I say. I turn to Levi. “And when are you leaving for Vermont?”

  “Four days,” he says.

  “I wish you had told me you were going.”

  This comes out a little more severe than I intended, so I force a laugh at the end of my sentence. Then I end up sounding maniacal instead. The rest of the table falls silent.

  “I’m sorry,” Levi says. “I should have told you earlier. I was wrapped up in studying.”

  The apology should satisfy me, but it doesn’t. It’s not that I want him to apologize for going on vacation. He should feel free to ski down a few mountains without me. But would it kill him to give me some notice? Maybe look a little disappointed at the thought of leaving me over break? Is that very codependent of me?

  “It’s fine,” I say, busying myself with stirring my drink. “No worries.”

  I’m silent for the remainder of our outing. I focus on downing my hot chocolate and avoiding eye contact with Levi. As much as I realize I’m overreacting, I can’t deny the annoyance bubbling in my chest. Levi doesn’t seem to notice, which only annoys me further.

  As we walk out of the café, Strand nudges me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, totally.”

  “I recognize that look. The signature annoyed Cutlet expression.”

  “Or it’s my natural resting face.”

  “It’s not. I should know. It’s usually reserved for me.” He hangs back with me while Levi, Krina, and Annie walk ahead. “Don’t take it personally. Levi’s forgetful when he’s in the zone.”

  Okay, but when does a zone stop becoming a zone and start becoming a person’s normal state?

  I button up my jacket, which doesn’t do much against today’s thirty-degree weather. “I’m fine, Strand.”

  “Right.” He looks at me like he’s reading my mind, and I have to break my gaze away.

  “I am.”

  “I totally believe you,” he says, but his tone suggests the opposite. “See you Saturday?”

  “Yup. Come by at eleven.”

  Strand is coming to my house so my mom can drive us to Jessica’s for quince rehearsal. The thought only adds to my bitterness. Levi should be the one at my house on Saturday. Levi should be the one accompanying me into a decked-out banquet hall on February twenty-seventh.

  When Strand leaves, I catch up to the group. Levi tries to take my hand, but I slip it into my pocket.

  “I’m cold,” I explain. My voice comes out icier than the wind.

  He shrugs. “Okay.”

  I’m quickly learning that Levi is not a master at reading subtlety, so I sigh and add, “I’m also kind of annoyed with you.”

  “Annoyed?” He blinks. “Why?”

  “I was hoping to spend some time with you over break.”

  “Oh. Well . . . we still have some time before I go . . .”

  “I guess.”

  “Want to come over on Friday night?”

  I frown. “To your place?”

  “Yeah. My parents said I should invite you over for dinner.”

  My frown gives way to a trace of a smile. “Really? They want to meet me?”

  “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free.”

  “I’m absolutely free!” I throw my arms around his neck. “That’s so exciting!”

  He kisses me on the cheek. “It’s not a big deal, Vi.”

  “In what world is meeting your boyfriend’s parents not a big deal? I don’t even know their names.”

  “Steven and Shira.”

  “Steven and Shira Schuster . . . very alliterative. Do I call them Mr. and Mrs. Schuster?”

  “I would, yeah. They’re pretty old-fashioned sometimes.”

  “What do I wear?”

  Levi winds his arm around my waist. “Wear a dress. You look nice in a dress.”

  I know he doesn’t mean to be insulting, but I wish he had said I’d
look nice no matter what I wore.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “NUMBER ONE BLIND”

  —VERUCA SALT

  The great thing about being in Debaser is that my tolerance for anxiety has grown much higher. Performing onstage in front of a sea of strangers will have that effect. So on an anxiety scale of one to ten, meeting Levi’s parents ranks about a five. Parents tend to like me. I don’t have any tattoos or unorthodox piercings, and I always remember to say my pleases and thank-yous.

  Before I leave my apartment, my parents offer some gems of advice.

  Mom: “Remember to offer Mrs. Schuster help in the kitchen.”

  Dad: “Relax. You don’t have to impress anyone. They’ll love you. And if they don’t, they’re idiots.”

  Mom: “No, Jorge. She still needs to be polite.”

  Dad: “I never said she didn’t.”

  Mom: “You basically told her not to try.”

  Dad: “I just want her to be herself.”

  Mom: “Yes, but an extra polite version of herself.”

  They discuss the issue at length as though they’re determining the fate of the free world. Finally, I cut them off with a harried good-bye and hustle to the train.

  “Don’t listen to your father!” Mom shouts after me.

  In my purse I have Levi’s address saved on my phone, and a tube of lip gloss. A natural pink lip gloss that tells the Schusters I am a respectable young woman. Every inch of my body is sensibly dressed.

  The heat is blasting on the subway train. Sweat soaks into my dress and my hair bristles with frizz. An hour of blow-drying all for nothing. I can only hope the Schusters will appreciate my inner beauty.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in front of their apartment building on the Upper West Side. No, not a building. More like a sprawling Gothic palace, so imposing compared to my squat brick abode. The building wraps around a private courtyard with its own marble fountain. There are two doormen, one stationed outside the entrance and one behind the desk in the front lobby. It seems excessive. But then, so does everything about this place.

 

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