The Universe Is Expanding and So Am I

by Carolyn Mackler

  Mount Everest of Doubt: It’s a television show, Virginia. Don’t be delusional. Don’t read into it.

  On the other hand: He called me Leela. He told me to put him in my phone as Fry. How can I not read into that?

  Welcome to my morning. Mountains of doubt followed by valleys of justification. And, worst of all, valleys without the slightest flicker of cell reception.

  Finally, I’ve had enough. I find Dad under the sunshade on the back porch.

  “Can you take me driving?” I ask. “I need to go to the bookstore, and that’s practice, right? Like with intersections and traffic lights?”

  There’s a bookstore called Words on Pages in Lincoln Township. I know they have cell reception. And for a signal, I will brave intersections.

  Dad looks up from his magazine. “Not now,” he says gruffly.

  I’m shocked. Dad loves nothing more than Dadsplaining the mechanics of driving to me.

  “What about Mom?” I ask.

  “She’s upstairs. She’s got a headache.”

  “But I have to buy something for a project,” I plead. One perk of having a dad who is oblivious about my life is that I can use school as an excuse when necessary. I don’t think he’s even aware that Brewster has let out for the summer.

  “Byron?” Dad calls into the house.

  Oh, great. Just what I need. Quality time with the one person I am most betraying by checking to see if Sebastian has texted.

  “Take Virginia to Words on Pages,” Dad says. “The keys are on the counter. Let her drive. Practice who yields to whom at an intersection.”

  “Am I even allowed to?” Byron asks from inside.

  “Yes,” Dad says. “You’re twenty and you’ve had your license for four consecutive years without any violations.”

  Dad took serious notes at that parent-teen safety class.

  “Now?” Byron asks.

  “Now,” Dad says.

  Before the arrest, Byron would have said Sorry … I can’t, but he’s on thin ice right now and he knows it. It’s not just about the bail money and the fact that my parents are paying for his expensive lawyer. It’s that Byron’s entire life is on the brink of wreck and Mom and Dad are trying to right the ship.

  “Do you need money?” Dad asks, opening his wallet and offering me some bills.

  “No, that’s okay.”

  Byron and I don’t say anything as we get into the car, me in the driver’s seat, him in the passenger seat. The car is pointed forward, so at least I don’t have to turn it around. I position my hands on the wheel and press the gas. We jerk clumsily down the driveway. I won’t let myself look over at Byron to see if he’s smirking. I hate this. I hate driving. I don’t see the point. My fingers are sweaty on the wheel as I nose closer to the road. I study the lanes, remind myself to cross over the yellow line, and then pull out.

  “Want me to just drive?”

  Upon hearing Byron’s voice, I ram the brake and the car slams to a stop. Luckily I was only going three miles an hour and no one was behind me.

  “Yeah,” I say quickly. “That’d be great.”

  “Shift into park and turn on your hazards,” he says. “We can change here. Just don’t tell Dad.”

  “What are hazards?” As I hold my foot on the brake and shift into park, I scan my mental database for everything I learned in driver’s ed.

  Byron reaches over me and presses a button that makes a rapid clicking sound. Oh, right. Those lights that flash if you stop in the road to yield your seat because you suck at driving and should never be behind a wheel.

  “Let’s go,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt and hopping out.

  A few minutes later, Byron pulls into the parking lot of the bookstore.

  “I’m going to wait here,” he says. “You’re not going to take too long, right?”

  “Probably about ten minutes.”

  Byron nods and reaches for his phone.

  Speaking of phones, I won’t let myself peek at mine until I’m safely huddled in the empty cookbook section. Alyssa sent four texts on Thursday night and Friday morning asking if I’m okay. She’s also texted that she’s leaving for New Jersey. A girl from kickboxing wrote on Friday night asking where I was. And then there’s Fry.

  Yes, Fry. Sebastian.

  On Friday, he wrote, Want to meet in person? Enough with the texts. Let’s kick it old school.

  On Saturday morning he wrote me again: Have you decided we shouldn’t be talking?

  A few hours later he added, I understand and respect if you think we shouldn’t be in touch. I wanted to tell you that I read When You Reach Me last night. I finished it in three hours and didn’t get up the whole time. SO GOOD. Loved the Wrinkle references.

  I smile as I read his texts, commit them to memory, and then delete them. I pluck a cookbook about kale off the shelf and stand in line to buy it. In the off-chance that Dad asks what I got, I need something to show for myself. He and Mom are obsessed with the health benefits of leafy greens, so this might karmically offset my wrongdoing.

  Before I leave the bookstore, I tuck into a corner and quickly respond to Sebastian.

  Yes. I’d love to meet. I’m out of cell range until tomorrow. I’ll write when I get home.

  I send the text and then delete it like it never happened.

  When I get back in the car, Byron starts up the engine. I’m trying not to smile. I can’t believe Sebastian wrote three times. I can’t believe he read When You Reach Me because I recommended it. I can’t believe he wants to meet up.

  “Don’t worry so much about your road test,” Byron says as he pulls out of the parking lot. “I know Dad is making it into a big thing, but his expectations are low. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t pass.”

  I glance at him. “Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

  “I’m just saying you have it easy. They’ve pinned all their female hopes on Anaïs and all their male hopes onto me. You can just be … you.”

  I shrug. I decide not to tell Byron that he’s oblivious about the many ways I’ve let our parents down.

  “Believe me,” Byron says, “it’s better than being a big hope and fucking everything up.”

  Now is the moment when I’m supposed to tell Byron that he hasn’t fucked everything up, but that would be a lie. Instead I roll down my window and rest my head against the side of the car. The trees are bursting with green, and there are pastures, fences, and tidy Colonial houses with black shutters. The soft summer air is blowing on my face. I think about Sebastian, and how he wants to meet up. I think about how school is out and I don’t have to see any Brewster people for almost three months. Maybe I really will look into public school. Maybe I’ll learn to cook with kale. Maybe I’ll take some money out of savings and buy business-casual clothes to wear to my internship at Dad’s company. Maybe things don’t have to be so bad—

  Suddenly there’s a wet splash on my cheek. I jolt forward, only to be slammed back into place by the seat belt, and raise my hand to my face. It feels slimier than water and smells like a chemical.

  “I have no idea what just—” I start to say when I notice that Byron is laughing.

  “What’s going on?” I reach in the glove compartment for a tissue. “What happened?”

  “You didn’t know our car could do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “When you spray the windshield-wiper fluid, it’s at a weird angle and can peg the person in the passenger seat. If the window is open, of course.”

  I’m aghast. “You sprayed me with windshield-wiper fluid? On purpose? That stuff is toxic. You could have gotten it in my eyes.”

  “I only did a little bit.”

  “You’re an asshole,” I tell him.

  “I’ve done it to other people and they thought it was funny. You should learn to take a joke.”

  I wipe at my cheek some more. I’m too mad to respond. Is this how it all starts? Someone thinks it’s funny to spray windshield-wiper fluid on som
eone else. Everyone thinks that person is so great that no one tells him it’s an asshole thing to do. All the while, he gets praised for taking no prisoners when he plays rugby even though he’s leaving a trail of sprained ankles and black eyes. So he keeps on being an asshole. And the next thing you know, he’s inviting a friend into his dorm room and forcing her to have sex even though she’s saying no.

  When we pull into the driveway, I don’t wait for the car to come to a complete stop. I unbuckle my seat belt, grab my bag, and run into the bathroom where I wash my face until the chemical smell is completely gone. And then I wash my face some more.

  We leave on Sunday night to avoid the traffic back to the city. It’s after nine but still dusky out. In a few days it will be the longest day of the year. Dad is driving and Mom is in the passenger seat. It’s weird the way Dad lectures me about the importance of being a driver, yet he dominates the wheel and rarely yields it to Mom. I’ve been noticing things like that recently, sexist things, and they’ve been bothering me.

  Mom and Dad decided to have Byron stay in Connecticut this week. There’s a fence that needs painting, and the deck could use a coat of sealant. They figured it would be more therapeutic for Byron to fill his week with physical labor than to languish around the apartment. They left him with a fridge full of groceries, and there are bikes in the garage in case he needs to go anywhere.

  We’re getting closer to Manhattan when Dad turns down the radio. “Gin, there’s something we need to talk about.”

  “What?”

  Mom takes out her Altoids case and pops a few in her mouth.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this,” Dad says, “but the internship at Ciel isn’t going to work out.”

  “Why not?” I ask, suddenly worried that Dad has lost his job.

  Dad clears his throat. “Because of Byron’s situation and how the news got out … I need to maintain a boundary between my work life and my home life. It’s not the time to have my daughter at my workplace.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  There goes my dream internship with my fantasy rock star boyfriend, or at least a cool summer job with a pool table and concert tickets.

  “The good news,” Mom says, “is that I called the manager at Whole Fitness today. You know Gerri, right? She can offer you a part-time job this summer. It’ll be good for you. Get some work experience.”

  “No way,” I say. Whole Fakeness? No thanks. “No offense, but that’s not my kind of place.”

  Mom shakes her head. “That’s a rash judgment. You haven’t even given it a chance.”

  “Do I have a choice here?” I ask.

  “The alternative is that we could look into Outward Bound,” Dad says. “Maybe they still have room on one of their hiking expeditions, or even white-water rafting.”

  I don’t say anything. We both know he’s got me.

  “Tomorrow,” Mom says, snapping her Altoids tin shut. “Gerri is expecting you at nine.”

  15

  “Fill out this application,” Gerri says as she curls hand weights from her hip up to her shoulder, “but it’s just a formality. I love your parents. I would do anything for them.”

  We’re in the brightly lit office that’s off to one side of the lobby at Whole Fakeness. Whole Fitness. I have to start thinking of it as Whole Fitness. Gerri is sitting on a yoga ball behind her desk, and I’m in a plastic chair. I’ve seen Gerri here before, when Mom has dragged me to the gym with a guest pass, but I’ve never talked to her. Other than the fact that she’s been pumping hand weights the entire time and other than the fact that she looks like she wears workout clothes morning, noon, and night and other than the fact that she’s conducting an interview from a yoga ball, she doesn’t seem that bad. She’s not even as skinny as I thought a Whole Fitness manager would be. She’s more of the muscular type.

  I write my name, address, and phone number on the application. For the question about previous work history, I write that I’ve done cat-sitting for neighbors. When the application asks about previous workout history, I write that I go to kickboxing every Friday. I don’t mention that I bailed on my last class and will most likely never go again. At the bottom of the application, one question sends a chill up my spine.

  Do you consent to Whole Fitness running a background check? We are required to do this for all potential employees.

  As I select “yes,” I think about my brother. For the rest of his life, when anyone runs a background check on Byron, it will reveal that he’s been arrested for sexual assault. For a second, I feel sorry for him. But then I remember yesterday. I know in the big picture, being squirted with windshield-wiper fluid isn’t the worst thing. But I’ve been thinking more and more about how it’s small things that add up to the sum total of who people are.

  When I’m done, I push the application across the desk to Gerri. She scans it, sets down her weights, and reaches over to shake my hand.

  “Welcome to Whole Fitness,” she says. She has a tight grip. I practically expect her to start pumping my arm up and down, curling me like a barbell. “Pending the background check, which I’m sure will be fine, you’ll be on the morning shift. Don’t kill me, but we need someone Monday to Friday from six to noon. Our regular morning person is waitressing at Yellowstone National Park this summer. You’ll be at the front desk swiping IDs and handing out towels. We offer one half-hour break midmorning, and a lot of our staff uses it to work out. But no pressure. Do you want direct deposit or a check? We pay every other Thursday.”

  I’m staring at her, not sure how to respond. I SO didn’t picture my summer going this way, but I’m actually a little excited. My first real job with a real paycheck! Of course, I wish I didn’t have to get up before six during summer vacation and I wish my first workplace wasn’t a place I hate, but it’s not like I have much choice.

  “I guess a paycheck?” I say. I have no idea how direct deposit works.

  “I’m going to grab some shirts for you,” Gerri says as she rises from her yoga ball. “I’ll give you a five-day supply so you can wear one every day. Come a little before six tomorrow, and I’ll show you the ropes.”

  I follow her to a supply closet where she pulls out a stack of red shirts with the Whole Fitness logo on the front, a Whole Fitness water bottle, and a Whole Fitness baseball hat. I didn’t bring a bag, so I cradle the gear in my arms. As we cross the lobby she says, “Your parents are awesome, by the way. They’re some of the first people here every morning. It’s so impressive.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “It’s uncanny how much you look like your mom. She’s so attractive and smart and has this amazing career. She’s told me about her book proposal. I’ve said to remember us little people when.”

  I guess Gerri hasn’t heard about Byron, and how Mom’s career and book proposal are falling apart.

  Gerri pauses at the doorway. Now is when I’m supposed to say, Yeah, my parents are great, my mom is wonderful, I wake up every morning grateful to be in the Shreves family.

  Instead I say, “Okay … thanks … see you tomorrow.”

  It’s only once I’m on the sidewalk that I realize she said Mom is attractive and I look like Mom. No way. Gerri’s brain must be scrambled from so much bouncing on that yoga ball.

  I should text Sebastian. I told him I’d text him when I got back to the city, but I was too nervous last night. Instead I watched a movie on my bed, consumed a bag of Swedish Fish, and promised myself I’d text him in the morning.

  Which is now.

  I’ll just drop off the Whole Fitness stuff at the apartment and then text him.

  Once I dump everything on my bed, I realize I need to send a package to Shannon. She told me the resupply stations where she could receive mail along the trail and the approximate dates she’d be there. If I want to reach her at Tuolumne Meadows, then my package has to go out today. I went to Walgreens last night and bought her deodorant, waxing strips, and butt wipes. It’s supposed to be a joke, but I figure by the time i
t gets to her she’ll be desperate for sanitation.

  I grab a blank notecard from my shelf and try to figure out what to say. I could just say Hey, how are you, how’s the wilderness? But Shannon and I have our honestly pact, and so I write to her that Froggy and I broke up and I met a new guy. I listen to make sure no one’s home and then write who Sebastian is. I seal the letter quickly and then go into my sister’s room to get a padded envelope.

  Mom’s office area is tidy as usual. The book proposal is still on her desk. There’s a stack of new white sheets on the bed against the far wall. I’m guessing it’s for Anaïs, who is flying home in four days. I wonder if Anaïs is moving back home for a while, or just for the summer so she can take her MCAT prep course. On the phone, she said she wasn’t staying long, but she didn’t give me any details.

  The line at the post office is slow, making it the perfect time to text Sebastian. I already have my phone in my hand because Mom has been texting me about Whole Fitness. She seems thrilled that I’ll be working at her gym, like maybe the fitness bug will burrow under my skin and transform me into a workout maniac.

  When I get to the front of the line, I hand the package to the postal worker, pay, and walk outside.

  It’s ten fifteen on a sunny June morning. I have nearly twelve hours of daylight ahead of me and nowhere to be.

  And yet I can’t text Sebastian.

  The thing is, I’m nervous. For one, he’s Annie Mills’s brother. But it’s more than that. It’s that I always want to have this. This being the fact that Sebastian sketched me and called me pretty and asked to see me. What comes next could be good. On the other hand, I could have read the situation wrong and Sebastian just wants me to be his tour guide while he’s visiting the city. Or he could see me again and realize he’s not attracted to me and he’s twenty-thousand leagues out of my league. And then I’ll never have this perfect moment again.

  But then I’ll never see his sea-glass eyes again.

  And I’ll never see. I’ll never see what it could have been. What it could be.