The Universe Is Expanding and So Am I

by Carolyn Mackler

  I didn’t want to come to this golf club fundraiser, but Mom and Dad donated enough money to get four tickets. Lindsey is flying to California to see her mom on Sunday, so Anaïs is spending the weekend with her. That got my sister off the hook for the party. Which meant it was up to Byron and me to represent the Shreves offspring. The one good thing about coming is that Mom took me shopping for a dress at Torrid. I was shocked when she suggested it because, in Mom’s opinion, there’s only one place to buy plus-size clothing and that’s Saks. Otherwise known as “Sacks” because their idea of fashion is putting curvaceous chicks into burlap sacks. But Mom announced the other day that one of her patients was saying that Torrid has stylish clothes for all shapes and sizes. I decided not to tell her I’ve been shopping there since last year. We found two awesome dresses, a shorter one that’s silver and a black one that’s low-cut in the front. Mom shocked me a second time by declaring, “Let’s get them both!”

  And then, when I was changing back into my jeans and Mom was outside the dressing room, she dropped the third shock:

  “Both of those dresses show off your chest,” she said. “Very flattering.”

  I stood with my jeans bunched around my ankles and tears in my eyes. It was possibly the first time ever that Mom has said anything nice about my body.

  So, yeah, I’m feeling good at the golf party in my silver, boob-flattering dress with my new silver sandals. I’m saving the black dress for next Thursday when Sebastian and I are going to the Met. We’ve already been to the Guggenheim one day when it was too hot to be outside. We’ve also ridden the Staten Island Ferry and the Roosevelt Island Tram. I’ve honestly never seen as much of New York City as I have in the past month. I love it, but I’m also happy just walking on West End at night. We’ve done that a few more times, and we’re always careful not to hold hands or kiss if anyone’s around.

  Mom’s friend Margaret air-kisses her on both cheeks and then drifts away to find her husband. As soon as she’s gone, the smile slips off Mom’s face and she sighs heavily. I wonder if she’s finding this as exhausting as I am. That makes me feel sad for Mom. I have a feeling my parents donated a lot of money to the fundraiser so their golf buddies won’t judge them about Byron.

  Mom walks off to greet a friend. A few minutes later, she returns with a petite Indian woman wearing a shimmery turquoise dress. She has the same hairstyle as Mom, just black with brown lowlights. “I was just talking to my friend Divya about your hair,” Mom says. “Her daughter wants to dye her hair blue and needs advice.”

  Divya nods, sending her diamond earrings swinging back and forth. “I offered to take Mira to my salon, but she said it’s more authentic to do it herself.”

  “That’s right,” Mom says. “It’s not as cool if it’s done professionally. Virginia’s hair is the real deal.”

  Color me shocked. What about Mom trying to coerce me to go to Talia and get rid of my purple and green because it doesn’t reflect well on the family?

  I explain the process of bleach and tinfoil and what brands of dye are the best, but the ironic thing is that I’ve been letting my color wash out. Every time I shampoo, I see more and more of my natural blond. It’s not like I have a game plan for my hair, but I’m thinking about going natural for a while. When I asked Sebastian if he’d still like me without purple hair he took me in his arms and said, “You will always be a Leela, no matter what.”

  “Virginia,” Dad says as I’m wrapping up my lesson on home hair coloring. He’s brought over two men, one white with spiky hair and one tall and Asian. “I want you to meet Brian and Andrew. Their daughter, Madison, is starting at Brewster in the fall, and she’s nervous. Sixth grade. Can you reassure them it will be okay?”

  I smile at the men and open my mouth to speak when I realize my tongue has gone dry. I excuse myself to get water and hurry over to the bar area. On the way, my breathing feels tight. After sixteen years of being the Shreves sibling who didn’t inspire bragging, I’m feeling the full weight of it tonight.

  “How do you like it?” Byron asks as I arrive at the bar to get my water. Byron is standing with one hand pressed on the edge of the table, finishing a glass of something that looks like whiskey.

  “How do I like what?”

  “The Mike and Phyllis pressure machine. It’s on you now, Gin. You’re their only hope.”

  Byron has a lopsided grin, making it fairly obvious that this isn’t his first drink of the night. It’s no secret that Byron isn’t a teetotaler. He was a popular jock in high school. That’s synonymous with partying. And he played rugby at Columbia, which landed him squarely in the kegger scene there, too. But ever since the arrest, Byron hasn’t slipped into the apartment in the middle of the night reeking of beer, and I’ve also noticed that Mom and Dad have recently stopped offering him wine at dinner. I think a big part of that is the fact that he was drunk when he forced Annie to have sex. Not that being drunk excuses sexual violence ever ever ever, but maybe he wouldn’t have been such an asshole if he were operating with a few more brain cells.

  As Byron orders another drink, I glance around the backyard in search of my parents. They definitely wouldn’t want Byron getting drunk in front of their golf friends when all they want is to prove that we are a functional family, dealing with the arrest, righting the wrongs, back on the path to perfection. Just as I spot the back of Dad’s head, Byron thanks the bartender for his drink and walks over toward where the band is playing. I watch him go. At least he’s not stumbling.

  I turn to ask the bartender for water when I look at his face and realize I know him. It’s Frances’s boyfriend! We met at the emergency room a few weeks ago.

  “Hey!” I say. “Dylan, right?”

  He stares at me like he has no idea who I am. I suddenly wonder if we all look alike to him. Here I am, feeling so different from this shiny-haired, pastel-dressed crowd, but to an outsider maybe I’m just another one of them.

  “I drove Frances to the emergency room,” I tell him, “when she broke her ankle and ribs.”

  “Oh, right!” His face breaks out in a wide smile. “Totally. It was just, you know, out of context.”

  Dylan pours me some water and fills me in on Frances, who he says is doing much better. He tells me how she’s taking classes to get into an arboriculture society, which will keep her busy until she can return to the trees. I’m about to tell him that I got my license when Mom comes over, touches my elbow, and says, “Can I talk to you privately?”

  “Sure,” I say, nodding good-bye to Dylan.

  “That’s Frances’s boyfriend,” I tell Mom as we’re walking over to the side yard. It’s empty here and shaded by oak trees. “You know, the tree woman?”

  Mom nods absentmindedly. “Listen, Virginia, we need you to drive Byron home.”

  I stare at her.

  “He’s had too much to drink. It’s not appropriate for him to be here. Dad has already walked him to the car. We’d take him home, but it would look strange if we left so early. We’ll catch a ride from the Lowensteins in a bit.”

  “But—” I start to say but then pause. I’m trying to think of all the reasons I can’t do it, like I’ve never driven without a parent in the evening and I’ve never driven from Roxbury to our house, but then I think how driving Frances to the emergency room made me feel strong and brave and bold. And I want to do more things like that. Not necessarily in crisis situations involving broken bones. Just in my real life.

  “Byron shouldn’t have had alcohol. He’s underage, and he doesn’t need that kind of trouble right now. Plus, he’s on antibiotics,” Mom explains. “And also, well …” She trails off, her fists clenched at her sides, her face contorted.

  “Okay,” I say quickly. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” Mom sighs. “Honey, this is really hard for me. It’s breaking my heart.”

  Mom looks like she’s about to cry. I touch her arm to comfort her, but she flinches away.

  “Let’s go,” she says brusquely, tugg
ing my elbow in the direction of the car. “Dad has the keys.”

  Halfway home, Byron nods off. It’s actually easier to drive with him sleeping. I roll down the windows and carefully listen to the directions on my phone. I’m the slowest driver to exist in Connecticut, and every car on the road is passing me, but who cares? Fuck it.

  I’ve been feeling all-around fuck it recently. Maybe that should become my motto. In the best possible way, of course.

  As I get closer to home, I flick the blinker for our street and suddenly remember the windshield-wiper trick. Before I can ponder whether it’s a stupid idea, I tug at the wiper-fluid stick and spray a squirt onto Byron’s cheek. He squirms a little but doesn’t wake up. I turn into our driveway, park, and reach in the back seat for the paper towels.

  The thing is, it’s not funny. It doesn’t feel in any way good.

  I dab at my brother’s cheek, poke him awake, and help him onto the couch. As he’s falling back asleep, he rips out a loud fart. In the past, I would have been delighted to witness Byron doing something so gross and unperfect. But now I just feel sorry for him.

  23

  Whole Fitness has become Whole Momness. She’s here all the time. She goes to yoga classes and spins on the bikes and has appointments with trainers. When she’s not exercising, she’s seeking me out on my breaks and inviting me for iced tea or showing me shirts that she ordered for me from Torrid.

  It’s almost a relief on Wednesday when Mom leaves after her regular morning workout because she’s seeing patients until midafternoon. I’m refilling the dispenser of hand sanitizer when I hear someone say, “Virginia? I was wondering what happened to you. Do you work here?”

  Shit.

  It’s Tisha, my kickboxing teacher. I’ve totally been blowing off her classes and her texts. A few weeks ago she even called my phone and I didn’t answer.

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Summer job.”

  I glance around to make sure Gerri or a trainer isn’t in earshot. I have a feeling Tisha is about to stick it to me, and I don’t want witnesses.

  “So you’re not away this summer?” Tisha asks sharply. Her cornrowed hair is twisted high on her head, and she’s wearing a tiny gold locket shaped like a heart.

  As I set down the jug of Purell, I bite my bottom lip. I can feel the tears coming.

  “I’ve got a training session in six minutes,” Tisha says. “I’m working with a member in the kickboxing studio. But what happened? I thought you loved kickboxing. Did you lose interest? That happens … but you should have told me.”

  I slowly shake my head. The tears are pushing farther up my throat. Unlike Mom, I suck at sweeping things under the rug.

  “What is it?” Tisha says, tipping her head to one side. “Is everything okay?”

  Like a tsunami hitting the shore, it all comes crashing out. I start crying and sniffling. I tell her about Brie and how Mom told Brie’s mom about kickboxing and how Brie has always been mean to me, like calling me fat and humiliating me in public.

  Tisha hands me a tissue. “I can see that. Brie has a sweet side, but I can also see what you’re saying.”

  I blow my nose. I’m not so sure about Brie’s sweet side, but I’m glad Tisha believes me about her mean side.

  “The thing is, you can’t let her drive you from class,” Tisha says. “That way, she wins. She gets the class and you lose it.”

  Easier said than done. I put away the Purell and swipe a member’s ID. “Welcome, Lila,” I say, smiling at her. “How many towels today?”

  She asks for one. I write her name and one towel on the clipboard.

  Tisha glances at her phone. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to talk to Brie. She seems to like kickboxing, but I’m going to let her know that that kind of bullshit is not allowed in my class. If she can agree to those terms, she’s in. If not, she’s out.”

  “But how will I know what she agrees to?” I ask, wiping my eyes.

  “I’ll text you. This time you answer me!” Tisha smiles and gives my arm a light punch. “There’s no perfect solution, but we have to try. We have to deal with it.”

  “I think I see what you’re saying …”

  “Trust me, I’ve been there.” Tisha hoists a gym bag onto her shoulder. “The most powerful thing you can do is walk back into that class.”

  Sebastian can’t get together on Wednesday afternoon, so I decide to go home and relax after work. As I’m heading back to the apartment, I have a light feeling inside. Maybe it’s actually all going to be okay. Maybe Brie will agree to Tisha’s terms or she’ll leave the class. When I think about going to kickboxing again, with or without Brie, my stomach flutters excitedly.

  And maybe Tisha’s right about how the most powerful thing I can do is walk back in. Not just for kickboxing but for Brewster, too. Instead of fantasizing about transferring to another school, I’ll walk in in September and I’ll have Shannon with me and Alyssa and I’ll take an elective writing class and I’ll kick ass on the SATs. Thinking about it that way, Brie and Josh and all the other jerks seem insignificant.

  When I get to our lobby I check the mail, and like a sign from the universe, there’s a letter from Froggy. The return address is his camp up in Maine.

  JULY 26

  DEAR VIRGINIA,

  I HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A GOOD SUMMER. BAND CAMP IS FUN, THOUGH IT’S HARD TO SURVIVE WITHOUT MINECRAFT OR MY PHONE. I WANTED TO WRITE AND TELL YOU THAT I’M SORRY THE END OF THE YEAR WAS HARD FOR US. I MEANT IT WHEN I SAID THAT I WANT TO BE FRIENDS. EVEN THOUGH WE’RE NOT TOGETHER, I DON’T WANT TO THROW AWAY OUR FRIENDSHIP. ANYWAY, WRITE IF YOU FEEL LIKE IT AND I’LL SEE YOU IN THE FALL.

  YOUR FRIEND (FOR REAL),

  FROGGY

  I make a ham sandwich for lunch and go into my room and write Froggy a note. I tell him that I’d be happy to be friends, and I also tell him I’m sorry for how I acted in June. I’m not sorry I fell out of like with him, but I feel bad for the way I blew him off. I add a PS that I’m excited about him and Alyssa. I’m just sealing the letter in an envelope when Mom gets home.

  “Hey,” she says, standing in my doorway. “Want to go for a walk in the park? It’s so pretty today. The air feels clean.”

  I eye her suspiciously, trying to locate the hidden agenda. Does “walk” actually mean “power walk,” and before long she’s going to be sprinting, urging me to step up the pace and burn some evil calories?

  “Gin,” Mom says, smiling. “Just a walk. Promise.”

  “Do you have a stamp?”

  She nods. “Sure … how many do you need?”

  “Just one. I guess I’ll come. I have to mail a letter.”

  I grab my straw hat, slide my feet into sneakers, and we head toward the park. On the way, I drop Froggy’s letter into a mailbox, turning it upside down so Mom can’t see his name. No need to invite an inquisition.

  Once we’re in the park, Mom mentions that we’re staying in the city this weekend because she and Dad have tickets to a play on Saturday night. That’s fine with me. I think Sebastian is going to be here, too. When she asks about my morning at the gym, I opt for honesty. I tell her that Tisha came into Whole Fitness and it was awkward because I’ve been avoiding kickboxing since Brie joined the class.

  Mom shakes her head. “I’m so sorry I told Simone Newhart about your class,” she says. “I’ve thought about it a lot. Actually, I’ve thought about a lot of things. I’ve been so focused on helping other teenagers that I haven’t watched out for my own kids first. Sort of like the cobbler’s children not having shoes.”

  “Well, I do have those new silver sandals you got me,” I offer. I make that bad joke to cover for the fact that Mom is deep diving into emotions and apologies and that simply doesn’t happen, like, ever.

  As we’re looping toward home, I ask, “How’re things going with Byron?”

  “Better, actually,” Mom says. “It seems like Mark Levy and the district attorney are close to agreeing to a plea bargain for a lesse
r change. We’re hoping harassment, which wouldn’t be a criminal offense.”

  “So no weekend jail?”

  “If they agree to it.” Mom pauses as the light changes on Riverside Drive. We’re a block from our building now. “Hopefully it would just entail community service and probation.”

  “What about Columbia?”

  “We’ve decided to hold off on Columbia either way. Byron is going to register for a few classes at City College fall semester. Then we’ll talk about him transferring somewhere else, maybe out of state where he can start over. But that’s getting way ahead. He’s got a lot to deal with first.”

  “Like what?” I ask. I can guess what he needs to deal with, like the fact that he got drunk and forced someone to have sex with him, but I’m curious to hear it from Mom, to see if she’ll gloss over it or actually address it straight on.

  Mom stretches her neck from side to side, lifting her shoulders so they’re touching one ear and then the other. After a minute, she pushes up her sunglasses, looks right at me, and says, “This is Byron’s business, so I don’t want to share too much. But … he’s going to see a therapist. A really good one. He needs to understand what happened that night last fall, and he also needs to figure out where things went wrong so that doing what he did was even in his realm of possibility.”

  Wow.

  I stare back at her, totally speechless. She didn’t gloss it over. She didn’t call it a “we” problem. She didn’t say what he “may have done.”

  I mean, wow.

  “There’s something else I want you to know,” Mom adds. “I don’t want you to think that we believe your brother should be off the hook. But Dad and I feel the entire arrest nightmare, plus being kicked out of Columbia, is punishment enough. Jail won’t help. It rarely does.”

  The light changes. Mom and I start across the street. We’re sweaty when we get back to the apartment. She pours herself a glass of seltzer. I reach into the back of the fridge, past the water and the orange juice, and I grab a bottle of Byron’s Vitaminwater. I don’t ask Mom or look to her for approval. Fuck it. I just unscrew the cap and lean against the counter and start drinking.