I knew the Schusters would have to be well-off. Any family that sends their child to Evanston, without the help of a scholarship or financial aid, has to be. Still, I didn’t expect this much. Annie’s family pays full Evanston tuition, but they live in a modest brownstone in Queens. To say the Schusters are sitting in the lap of luxury is an understatement. They’re straddling it.
The doorman points me to the elevator, and when I step inside, there’s an elderly white-haired man whose purpose, it seems, is to push the elevator button for me. When I thank him, his face crinkles into a smile.
The elevator zooms up twenty stories and stops at the very top. The penthouse floor. Oh my freaking God. Levi lives in a penthouse? I look down at my dress, which is suddenly the rattiest looking scrap of fabric I’ve ever seen.
The elevator man nods at me as the doors slide open. “Have a great night, ma’am.”
It’s an unsettling feeling when a man at least sixty years your senior calls you “ma’am.”
I step off the elevator into a dimly lit hallway that leads to the Schusters’ front door. My anxiety level increases a notch as I ring the doorbell. Inside, a dog emits a high-pitched yelp before the door clicks open and Levi is there, grinning his chipped-tooth grin. He kisses me, then pets the small white dog trying to nip at my shoes.
“Princess, hush,” he scolds her.
I shut the door behind me. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“Yeah . . . it’s my mom’s dog, technically.”
“She’s cute.”
I’m lying. Princess isn’t cute. Her tiny pointed teeth jut out in a severe underbite, and she’s baring them at me now. When I reach over to pet her, a low growl emanates from her belly.
“She takes a while to warm up to strangers,” Levi assures me, scooping her up in his arms.
“Of course.” I shrug off my coat and hang it on the rack by the door.
Princess wiggles around in Levi’s arms until he lowers her back onto the floor. “Follow me,” he says. “My mom’s in the living room.”
I start to follow him, but he stops short. “Oh. Would you mind taking off your shoes first?”
I look down at my high-heeled boots, chosen specially to complete my sophisticated, elegant look. The tights I’m wearing underneath have an inelegant hole by my right pinky toe. Levi is wearing argyle socks with no discernible holes in them.
He shows me the shoe rack inside a hallway closet.
“Sorry,” he says as I try to peel off my boots as gracefully as possible. “My mom’s anal about tracking dirt inside the apartment.”
“No problem.” When I bend down to put my boots on the rack, a snarling Princess runs around Levi’s leg to face me, her eyes bugging out maniacally.
“She’s feisty, isn’t she,” I comment. Inconspicuously, I try to fold my tights over my toes to conceal the hole on the edge.
“She’s really sweet once you get to know her.”
Right.
When we walk into the living room, my first thought is that the area of this one room is larger than my entire apartment. There’s an overwhelming amount of neutral color . . . beiges, creams, and taupes. And there’s nothing on the floor but carpet. No Xbox discs in sight. Not even a dog toy of Princess’s, which might explain her aggressive personality.
Mrs. Schuster rises from the couch when we enter the room. She’s small and frail and heavily doused in perfume. Her hair is black like Levi’s, and she wears it in a low bun.
“Hello, Victoria,” she says, grasping my hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Schuster.”
“Come have a seat, please. Steven should be home soon. He’s running a little late at work.”
The three of us form a semicircle with Levi and me on the loveseat and Shira on the couch. Princess gives a yap and snuggles against Shira’s side.
“That’s my good girl,” Shira coos at her. Then she turns to me and asks, “Do you like dogs, Victoria?”
I sense this is the first test of Shira’s approval.
“I love them,” I say. I do love dogs. Most of them, anyway. Princess may be the exception.
“Princess is a bichon frise. Levi and his dad gave her to me as a birthday present a few years ago.”
“That was very sweet of them,” I say.
“She’s the best present I could have gotten.” As if understanding our conversation, Princess closes her eyes contentedly. “Does your family have any pets?”
“Unfortunately not. Our apartment building doesn’t allow them.”
Shira clucks her tongue and wiggles her French-manicured toes. “How awful.”
“I’ve always wanted a cat, though.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Levi’s allergic to cats.”
“Oh . . . well then, it’s a good thing I never got one.” I give an unnatural chuckle.
“I never liked cats,” Shira says. “I don’t trust them. They’re so withholding.”
Annie had an old cat named Larry, and he was the most affectionate pet I’ve ever known. He used to crawl onto my lap and fall asleep, heavy purrs thrumming through his body. I don’t want to bring him up though, in case Shira thinks I’m arguing with her anticat stance.
The phone rings, and Shira excuses herself to answer. I give Levi a backhanded slap on the shoulder when she’s out of sight.
“Since when are you allergic to cats?” I ask him.
“Ow.” He rubs his shoulder. “What difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference. It seems like something I should know. Kind of like the fact that your mom hates cats.”
“You don’t have to hate cats just because my mom does.”
“Is there anything else your parents hate that I should know about?”
He scratches his eyebrow. “Um . . . the Mets?”
“Great, Levi,” I reply, voice hard. “My parents love the Mets.”
“Relax, Vi. I don’t think your family’s favorite baseball team is going to come up tonight,” he says, rubbing me on the knee. Then he stares down at my feet. “You know you have a hole in your tights?”
* * *
When we sit down for dinner, the table is set for four even though Mr. Schuster is still at work. The silverware is wrapped in ivory linen napkins and the china sparkles under an antique glass chandelier.
A round woman in a blue cotton dress brings out a salad bowl. I think back on my mom’s advice to help Mrs. Schuster in the kitchen. It seems Mrs. Schuster already has all the help she needs in that department.
“Thank you, Rosa,” Shira says to the woman. Rosa gives a quick nod and shuffles back into the kitchen. She comes back a moment later to fill our water glasses.
“Gracias,” I say to her. She smiles at me, and Shira looks surprised.
“Do you speak Spanish, Victoria?” she asks me.
“Only a little.”
“It’s a useful language to know these days . . . do you take it at Evanston?”
“No,” I say. “My parents are Cuban, actually, so I learned from them.”
“Cuban!” Shira remarks. “How interesting! Rosa is Cuban too, isn’t she, Levi?”
“Dominican,” Levi says.
Shira shrugs off the error and takes a sip of her water. “I assumed you were Italian. You look very Italian.”
“Do I?” I say. I never know how to respond to comments like this. Evanston is a predominantly Caucasian school, and it’s like when people find out I’m Hispanic, they expect me to turn five shades darker, don a sombrero, and speak with a Sofia Vergara accent.
“I think so. You look like a young Isabella Rossellini.”
“I don’t know who that is,” I admit.
“She’s pretty,” Levi assures me, giving my arm a squeeze.
“Well then . . . thank you,” I say. I take a bite of my salad and chew as silently as possible. I’m not used to eating without the TV on in the background. I’m also not used to eating dinner on fine china. My
family has a set that we only use for Thanksgiving, and the rest of the time we use mismatched plastic plates collected from various department store sales.
When we finish our salad, Shira sighs and announces that we should start our main course so it doesn’t get dry.
“Shouldn’t we wait for your dad?” I whisper to Levi, but he shakes his head.
“He usually gets home late.”
I now see where Levi gets his workaholic nature. My mind flashes forward to my possible future, where I’m sitting alone in an exquisite beige living room, waiting for him to come home for dinner. The portrait inspires me to feel a flicker of pity for Shira.
I’m snapped out of my daydream when Rosa enters the dining room with a platter of sliced meat. I try to mask my horror.
Levi has to know I’m a vegetarian. We eat lunch together every day.
“Is something wrong, Victoria?” Shira asks as Rosa plops a pile of dead animal carcass on my plate.
Levi looks at me questioningly. Obviously he doesn’t know, and I can’t make a scene now. What will Shira think if I refuse to eat the meal? Then again, it’s not as though she spent the time and effort preparing it. I would possibly offend Rosa.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I reply, giving her a tight smile. “It looks delicious.”
“It’s veal piccata,” she says. “Levi’s favorite. Go ahead and start.”
Levi doesn’t need to be told twice. He sticks a huge chunk of veal into his mouth with almost unnecessary gusto. I stare down at my plate and try to ignore the voice in my head telling me that I’m a horrible human being who neglects her morals to impress her boyfriend’s mom. The meat is covered in a glop of brown sauce.
“It’s delicious,” Levi says to me.
It’s a baby calf, I think to myself. What kind of a monster kills and eats a baby calf?
Shira cuts her meat into tiny pieces and chews for a long time before swallowing. I force myself to cut a piece, and it slices easily under my knife.
Tender baby meat, that’s why.
Then I stick the meat into my mouth. I don’t taste the flavor, only the overwhelmingly chewy texture. I chew until my gums ache, then swallow it down.
“How is it?” Shira asks me. She probably thinks it’s rude that I haven’t complimented the food yet.
“It’s very good,” I say, gearing up for the second bite. I eat about a quarter of the cutlet before my stomach jolts in protest.
“Where is the bathroom?” I ask Levi.
“Up the stairs to your left.”
“Excuse me,” I say, then do a half walk, half sprint to the bathroom, feeling the sour taste of bile rising in my throat. Just as I kneel in front of the toilet, my body forcefully expels the five bites of veal along with everything else I ate today. I cough and gag, clutching the porcelain edges of the toilet seat until my stomach stops contracting.
I slump against the wall, eyes closed. I should have reminded Levi I was a vegetarian as soon as he extended the dinner invite. I could have sworn he already knew. How could he not? I feel irrationally angry. He’s my freaking boyfriend, and I’ve been a vegetarian for three years. Hasn’t he been paying attention?
I rise to my feet and my entire body feels sore, the same way I used to get after a cross-country meet. I rinse out my mouth with tap water and wipe off any leftover traces of vomit sticking to my lip gloss. So much for elegant and sensible.
When I get back to the dining room, I tell Shira that I’m very sorry but I’m not feeling well. She cocks her head to the side and presses her lips together like she’s trying to diagnose me.
“No, you don’t look well,” she decides, then insists on paying for me to take a cab home.
When I protest, Levi rubs my upper back with one hand and uses the other to scoop more veal into his mouth. The smell makes my stomach lurch.
“I agree. Take a cab home,” he insists between mouthfuls, and I’m too tired to politely argue anymore, so I accept the crisp pair of twenties that Shira slips me. As I slink out of the Schusters’ penthouse suite, Princess follows me to the door, yapping at my back. I stick my tongue out at her before leaving.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“WITH A GIRL LIKE YOU”
—THE TROGGS
The next morning I wake up to the sound of laughter drifting in from the living room. I blink my eyes open and for a second I’m seized by hope. Was my disastrous dinner at the Schusters’ only a dream? Then I look and see the dress I so carefully picked out discarded on the floor, along with my holey pantyhose. No. This is real life, and it sucks.
I need to call Levi and make sure his mom doesn’t hate me. I sit up too quickly and have to wait for my post–wake up dizziness to subside. Then I hear it again. The laughter. My mom’s laugh is easily recognizable, but there’s another voice joining hers. A deep male voice that is not my dad’s, because he’s working this Saturday. Oh God, is Mom having an affair?
I creep out of my room in the direction of the laughter and the first thing I see is a mop of messy brown hair poking up against the couch.
Strand, of all people, is sitting in my living room, cracking jokes with my mother. Mom spots me first, and before I can motion for her to keep quiet, she calls, “Good morning, sleepyhead!”
Strand turns to look at me, a smile already playing at his lips. “Cute pj’s,” he says in lieu of a good morning.
I look down at my Pokémon T-shirt, which I don’t remember picking out last night, or even purchasing in the first place. It’s so large it hangs over my polka-dot pajama pants, which, like my pantyhose, also have a hole.
I really need to buy new clothes.
“What time is it?” I wonder out loud, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
“It’s ten thirty,” Mom says.
I glower at Strand. “You’re early.”
He stretches his arms out in front of him and gives a lazy shrug. “I overestimated how long the train ride to your apartment would take.”
“You’re never early. To anything.”
Mom looks between the two of us, then zeroes in on my shirt. “Ria, why don’t you go get dressed so you can keep Strand company?”
“Ria?” Strand asks with interest. “Is that a nickname?”
“Oh, it’s one of our pet names for Victoria,” Mom replies.
“How lovely,” Strand says. “I’m quite fond of giving Victoria nicknames myself.”
“Really?” Mom sounds thoroughly fascinated. I cut in before Strand can open his big smirking mouth. None of the nicknames he’s given me contain a backstory appropriate for my mother.
“Nothing out of the norm,” I say, shooting him a warning glance.
He bats his eyes angelically in response, then says, “Gloria was just telling me some stories about your childhood.”
I stare back at him. “Gloria?”
“Yeah . . . your mother? Gloria?”
“I know my mom’s name, thanks.”
“Oh, good, because you sounded confused.”
“That’s because you should address her as Mrs. Cruz.”
Mom furrows her eyebrows at me and says, “He’s welcome to call me Gloria. Mrs. Cruz sounds old.”
“Which you are anything but,” Strand says to her. “You’re, what? Twenty-eight?”
“Oh, please,” Mom replies, but she’s grinning like a fool.
“I’m serious. I can see where Victoria gets her looks.”
Mom tips her head back and laughs so hard I can see her fillings. “You’re too much, Strand.”
Good freaking lord. I’m about to vomit for the second day in a row. Strand is flirting with my mother. Has he no shame? Does he have to flirt with everyone in possession of a vagina? Worse, she seems to be enjoying it.
I excuse myself to change, throwing on a pair of jeans and my least wrinkled sweater. I pray that I won’t come back into the living room to find Strand and my mom taking it to the next level, since it seems most women, regardless of their age, are helpless against
his spell.
When I emerge from my room, neither of them has left the couch.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Mom asks. I try to ignore the obvious implication in her voice, that I should about-face and make myself look more presentable.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to iron it for you?”
“Nope.”
She flattens her lips together, and I know she would pursue the issue further if Strand weren’t here. Who do I have to impress, anyway? It’s a rehearsal for a quince I was suckered into. There is a long list of better ways I could spend my Saturday. Things that are much more preferable than spending the day with Strand stepping on my toes in an attempt at salsa.
“So, Cutlet, do I get to see your room or what?” Strand asks.
“My bedroom?” I say. “I don’t think so.”
Even Levi hasn’t been inside my bedroom. I would assume my parents aren’t okay with me having a boy in there, but then Mom says, “Go ahead. Show Strand your music collection.”
Apparently, all rules fly out the window when it comes to Strand.
“My room is a mess,” I protest.
Strand hops off the couch. “I don’t mind.”
“I do,” I say, but I lead him down the hallway anyway. We pause outside my door. “Count to thirty before you come in,” I instruct him.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t realize you thought I was worth impressing.”
“It’s not about that,” I say. “It’s just common decency.”
“You’re a ridiculous person.”
“Count.”
“Thirty . . . twenty-nine . . .”
I slip into my room and close the door, then rush around to scoop clothes off the floor, throw breakfast bar wrappers into the trash can, and hastily make my bed.
“Two . . . one,” Strand calls through the door. “Ready?”
“Yes, come in.”
He steps inside, almost hitting his head on the doorframe. He’s so damn tall, it’s like my room can barely contain him. It’s odd to have a boy in here, in the space that I take up every day. He looks so out of place with his grungy jeans and Converse sneakers.
The Victoria in My Head Page 14