The Universe Is Expanding and So Am I

by Carolyn Mackler

  I ease my foot onto the gas and position my hands at ten and two and try not to hit the curb or drift over the yellow line on the trip to the parking lot where we practice turns.

  One horrible hour later, it’s obvious that I suck at three-point turns. Despite Dad’s stream of commands, I can’t seem to accomplish a turn in less than seven points.

  “I don’t get it,” Dad says once we’ve traded seats. “You took thirty hours of driver’s ed, and we’ve gotten in thirty-two hours of practice. What’s not clicking? Byron and Anaïs picked up driving so quickly.”

  Ah, yes, I want to say. That’s because I was switched at birth. Don’t you realize that one of these offspring is not like the others?

  Dad adjusts the mirrors, takes a left on the main road, and merges onto the highway toward the city. It’s a ninety-minute drive. He puts on NPR, and I slide on my headphones. A few minutes before the Cross County Parkway, Dad takes a conference call on speakerphone. I turn off my music and listen to him talking about licensing and rights management. Since I’ll be interning at Ciel Media this summer, it’ll be good to get some of the terminology down.

  Once Dad hangs up, I say, “Should I come by next week to do the internship paperwork or wait until Shannon gets back?”

  Shannon is flying home next Saturday, and we’re starting as interns the week after.

  Dad shakes his head. “I’ll call Holly in HR and see what I can figure out. She says she’s on it, but these things take a while. You and Shannon aren’t traditional college interns.”

  We head down the West Side Highway. I can see kids in Riverside Park taking soccer classes in their matching white shirts and blue shorts. Mom forced me to do those soccer classes all through elementary school. I didn’t tell this to the cute boy from the bagel store, but soccer is another bullet point on the list of Horrible Things. So was dressing the same as fifteen other girls. Their soccer outfits draped loosely over their skinny bodies while mine stretched tight across my stomach and thighs.

  Dad pulls up in front of our building before dropping off the car at the parking garage. “We’ll get more practice on Saturday,” he says as I’m climbing out. “You might not have the instincts, but plenty of hard work should get you there.”

  I nod at his C-minus pep talk and close the door.

  Just as I’m walking into the apartment, Shannon finally texts.

  Sorry for the delay! I was on an awesome end-of-year class camping trip and didn’t have my phone. I’m assuming you figured out how to sneak Froggy past Byron yesterday? AWKWARD!!!

  I quickly respond. Did you really put “awesome” and “camping trip” in the same sentence? Shannon is an indoor artsy type. Or at least she used to be.

  Ha! Shannon writes. Do you like the pot holder I sent? I bought a loom at a yard sale. I may sew a bunch of pot holders into a quilt. Oh, and I want to tell you the news, but promise you won’t be mad.

  Mad??? I write, hopping onto my bed. It’s weird to think how yesterday Froggy and I were fooling around here, that he was trying to undo my jeans. It’s been a relief not to deal with him today, but I’m dreading seeing him back at school tomorrow. It’s confusing. I just can’t figure out how I could have been into Froggy for so many months and then suddenly not. And does “suddenly not” last forever, or will I fall back in like with him if I stick with it? Of course I have to stick with it! It’s rule number one.

  Then again, I can’t chase away this niggling little thought that Froggy was a fine starter boyfriend, but maybe I could hope for true love someday. And maybe true love could come in the form of a tall guy with blue-green sea-glass eyes who likes books and bagels and who makes me laugh. I’m not saying the guy from this morning was my true love, because I don’t know his name and he’s not from here and for all I know he’s leaving the city tomorrow. But something about meeting him and hanging out this morning made me feel something I’ve never felt before—that getting a boyfriend isn’t about settling for who will take me, that maybe I could hope for more than that.

  A text comes in. I lunge for my phone thinking it’s Shannon with her news, but it’s just Mom, writing from her office.

  Be sure to pack for the weekend in CT, she’s written. Dad and I are coming home from work early tomorrow and we’ll leave right after you get back from kickboxing. How did driving go?

  I guess she hasn’t talked to Dad yet.

  It went, I write back.

  I open my drawers and toss shirts and shorts and magazines into a tote for the weekend. Just as I’m zipping up the bag, Shannon texts me back, You know how we’re supposed to come home from Washington in nine days?

  I’ve only been counting down since last August, I write to her.

  And you know how we have a pact to always be honest with each other?

  Yeah, I write.

  I’m worried you’re going to be upset about some news I have to tell you.

  I won’t, I write. Promise.

  Since we’re already on the West Coast, my parents and I have decided to hike the PCT. Well, 600 miles of it. Through Central and Northern California.

  Googling PCT, I text her.

  A moment later, I write, Oh.

  It turns out the PCT is the Pacific Crest Trail, a hiking trail that runs along the entire West Coast from the Canadian border to the Mexican border. I’m guessing she can’t hike six hundred miles and return home in time for our summer internship.

  While I’m waiting for Shannon to respond, I stare out my window at the Hudson River. My hands are clenched into fists when her text finally comes in.

  I’m sorry I can’t work at Ciel with you. Please tell your dad sorry/thanks. I’ll be back for school at the end of August.

  When I don’t write back immediately, Shannon adds, You promised you wouldn’t be mad.

  Maadd? I write. I’m fine. Have fun out there.

  I consider saying, Maybe you can weave your pot holders into a thermal sleeping bag, but instead I power off my phone and stuff it deep in my tote bag.

  5

  As I walk across Central Park on my way to school on Friday, I keep reaching into my dress pocket and touching my phone. I still haven’t turned it on since yesterday. I know it’s not fair to blow off Shannon and I should be happy she’s hiking six hundred miles, but the truth is that I am mad she’s not coming home and doing the internship with me. That was our plan. We’ve been excited about it for months.

  Also, when my parents were pushing me to do Outward Bound, Shannon was my number one supporter in my quest to stay Inward Bound. We spent an entire night texting about the atrocities of pooping in the woods. Shannon was the one who pointed out that you could get your period in the wilderness and a bear could smell the fresh blood and track you and eat you. So what’s up with Shannon suddenly wanting to spend her summer trekking through the wild?

  I have to turn on my phone soon, though. Otherwise Froggy and Alyssa will think I’m dead. Actually, Froggy thinking I’m dead could be a solution to my out-of-like situation. Clerical day was a break, but unless I can decide what do about him, like whether I should acknowledge that starter boyfriends must have ends, I’ll have to keep suffering through slobbery make-out sessions every day until he goes to band camp in late June. Part of my brain is insisting, Break up with Froggy. But what if I hurt his feelings? Also, what if he’s the best guy I’ll ever get and if I dump him then I’ll never be half of a couple again?

  Central Park is quiet, just dogs loping around and owners clustered in groups chatting. I used to take the crosstown bus to school, but ever since “the ordeal,” I’ve needed my walk across the park to clear my head before I can deal with people. “The ordeal” has definitely taken its toll in many different ways. Right after I found out what Byron did, during the phase when I could barely look at him, I snuck up to Columbia and located Annie Mills, the student who accused him of date rape. I found her through the college directory and apologized on my brother’s behalf. I’ve never told a soul about that. When I k
nocked on Annie’s dorm-room door and announced who I was, she was like, What are you doing here? But after a while, she realized I wasn’t a psychopath and we drank herbal tea and talked about not being victims. In the end, she even gave me a hug. It didn’t magically make everything better, or make what Byron did go away, but it felt like the tiniest twig of an olive branch.

  That was back in December. I saw Annie another time, a few months ago. I was uptown at Columbia writing poetry for a Humanities assignment, and I popped into the Hungarian Pastry Shop to indulge in a chocolate éclair. There she was, waiting tables. As soon as I saw her, I hurried out before she could spot me. I’ve never told anyone that either.

  It’s a warm morning, already in the high seventies, and I’m wearing a black tank dress and strappy sandals. I glance over at Turtle Pond. I used to love passing this pond, with Belvedere Castle hovering on a rocky outcrop above it. That’s the first place Froggy and I kissed in public, on January twentieth at 1:21 p.m.

  Back then it felt really important. Back then I couldn’t imagine not wanting to be with him.

  As I hit the East Side, I see Brewster down the block. It’s a small private school in a redbrick building draped in ivy. I climb the front steps, wave at the guard, and walk down the corridor toward my locker. School doesn’t start for fifteen more minutes. I’ll probably kill time at the library. I round the corner at the sophomore wing and—

  Froggy is standing next to my locker.

  He waves when he sees me. I used to think he was cute. Now he looks needy, like a rescue dog begging for a kibble. Okay, this is getting bad. Kissing like a golden retriever. Pleading rescue-dog expression. Remember, Virginia: Froggy is your boyfriend. He is a fine boyfriend. He will most likely be your boyfriend forever. So stop thinking canine thoughts about him.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.” I sling my backpack onto the floor and cross my arms over my chest.

  “I texted you a bunch of times.”

  “Oh … uh … thanks … sorry. My phone’s off.”

  “How was the driving lesson?”

  “Yeah, it sucked. I suck.” His nose is sunburned from the beach yesterday. I should ask if he and Hudson had fun at Fire Island.

  “I’m sure you’re not that bad,” he says. He moves in to kiss me. My instinct is to duck, but Froggy is my boyfriend and kissing is what couples do. I angle forward and give him a dry peck. I allow myself a fleeting second to imagine what it would be like to kiss the boy from the bagel store. I definitely wouldn’t dodge his mouth. But then I remind myself that I don’t know his name and I’ll never see him again and I’m not living in reality by thinking about kissing him.

  “Yeah … so … Hudson and I are leaving right after school,” Froggy says. “You know that Minecraft Marathon I told you about? At the Brooklyn Public Library?”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Are you really staying up all night?”

  “We’re going to, you know, try. Twenty-four hours of Minecraft.”

  I don’t get the obsession with Minecraft. I have no interest in building pretend castles and slaughtering pretend animals to pretend survive. Whenever Froggy and Hudson and Alyssa geek out over Minecraft, which is every day at lunch, I pull out a book or check my phone.

  “Are you going back to Connecticut tomorrow?” Froggy asks.

  “Yep.”

  Froggy comes in for another kiss. This time I sidestep him and lean over to scoop up my bag.

  “Is … uuuuhhhh …?” Froggy asks, rubbing his nose.

  I clutch my hands to my neck. “I have a sore throat.”

  I can’t use that excuse every day, but it’ll get me through this moment.

  Alyssa and I spend lunch hidden in the computer cluster. This is where we used to work on our blog. It was called Earthquack. We’re taking a break from the blog because end-of-year schoolwork got too intense, but I convinced her to stow away here for lunch today. I white-lied and said I was stressed about finals and needed her to be my study partner. If I told Alyssa the real reason, that we came here to hide from Froggy, she’d be crushed. Alyssa thinks Froggy and I are the perfect couple and it’s amazing we’re together because no one has real relationships in high school anymore.

  It’s Brunch for Lunch. We make a quick cafeteria run to grab waffles, sausages, and orange juice. Once we’re done eating, we read over the Global Studies documents and quiz each other for the final.

  “Why’s your phone off again?” Alyssa asks.

  “The answer is no. Scotland did not vote to leave the European Union during Brexit.” I pause. “And I want an unplugged day. That’s why I’m keeping my phone off.”

  Lie. But I don’t want to go into the Shannon stuff. It’s not that I don’t love Alyssa, because I do. She saved me from a friendless oblivion this year, and I’m bummed that she’ll be staying with family in New Jersey all summer. But Alyssa and I don’t do deep confessions. Our friendship is more about the day-to-day.

  “Who’s the Prime Minister who stepped down after Brexit?” I ask her.

  “David Cameron,” she says. “I love your dress.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Total credit to Torrid. I love their stuff.”

  “It’s cute how you and Froggy are both wearing black.”

  I nod vaguely. It will definitely crush Alyssa if Froggy and I break up.

  As the bell rings, we toss our paper plates into the recycling bin. Ms. Crowley, my favorite teacher from ninth grade, walks by and says, “Hi, girls!”

  We both smile and say hello back. But as soon as she passes, Alyssa leans close to me. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem quiet.”

  “No, I’m great,” I say. “I mean, I’m stressed about finals, but otherwise everything is fine.”

  “Want to go to Chinatown tomorrow?” Alyssa asks. “My grandma told me about a new restaurant with a cheap lunch special. We could study for finals at my place and then drown our academic woes in dim sum.”

  “I wish. My parents are making me go back to Connecticut.”

  Alyssa shrugs sympathetically. Her parents are from New York City and so are her grandparents. Three generations who don’t know how to drive, a dream family to me.

  We clomp up three flights. Alyssa veers into the bathroom and says she’ll see me in a minute. When I get to Madame Kiefer’s classroom, Froggy is standing outside the door, holding up a bag of honey-lemon cough drops.

  “For your sore throat,” he says. “When I didn’t see you at lunch, I got permission to go out and buy them.”

  “Thanks.” I force a smile as I take the cough drops.

  I’m the worst girlfriend ever.

  As the final bell rings, I hand in my Global Studies review questions and hurry down the stairs, taking caution to sidestep Froggy’s locker. Ideally, I’d like to avoid him before he leaves for the Minecraft Marathon in Brooklyn. Even back when things were good and kissing didn’t involve Canine Tongue, we rarely smooched at his locker. Brie Newhart, Queen Bee of the Tenth Grade, is two lockers down from Froggy. Kissing my boyfriend in front of her is offering myself up as a punch line.

  At the beginning of sophomore year, I overheard Brie making fun of my body. That was the same conversation where Brie told them that she flirted with my brother on the subway and he’s so hot and how on earth could we be related? Soon after that, Brie developed an eating disorder and was absent from school to get treatment. While she was gone, a different clique formed with Brinna Livingston at the helm. When Brie returned, she was subdued for a while and actually a little nice. She even helped me with French homework. But after a few months, Brie reclaimed her Queen Bee position, ushering in a new reign of mean and bitchy.

  Big freaking sigh of relief that the summer vacation means a three-month vacation from Brie Newhart and her friends.

  I slam my locker and head outside. Kickboxing doesn’t start until four. If someone asked me a year ago whether I would voluntarily go to an exercise class on a Friday afternoon when every cell in my body
wants to curl up with Netflix and a bag of honey-wheat pretzels, I would have asked that crazy person what hallucinogenic drug they were on. But kickboxing is different. Tisha creates an upbeat vibe in her studio where we laugh and punch and kick and we’re so into what we’re doing that we don’t even realize we’re getting exercise.

  On Fridays, I usually walk across Central Park, with a pit stop at Sephora to try on lipstick and eye shadow. It’s warm but overcast today, with a hint of rain in the air. In an ideal world, it will rain so hard this weekend that the roads will flood and Dad won’t take me driving and I’ll get to read and study for finals and remain in denial that my road test is coming in four weeks.

  Anaïs and Mom used to fight about denial. My sister would say that Mom was Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, and Mom would get mad and deny that she lives in a world of denial. As I’m crossing the park I decide that when it comes to things like road tests that I’ll fail and boyfriends that I can’t bring myself to break up with, a little denial might not be so bad.

  6

  Forty-five minutes later, Brie Newhart walks into my kickboxing class.

  When I see her, I gasp so loudly I have to pretend I’m having a coughing fit. I wish I could run back to Sephora and see if they sell foundation that will not only cover my flushed cheeks but make my entire self disappear.

  By the time I see Brie, I’ve already changed into my workout clothes and I’m chatting with the girl next to me. It’s a small class, usually around ten girls of all different body types. We worship our teacher, Tisha. She has cornrowed hair, a full figure, and she’s both a jujitsu black belt and a former Alvin Ailey dancer. For an hour and a half every Friday, Tisha gets us to sweat bullets combining dance and cardio and martial arts.

  But Brie.

  Here.