The Valeditztorian

by Alli Curran

  “No problem. I’m glad you made it here okay. How was your trip down? Or would you rather rest now and talk later?”

  “Right now I’m so tired I can barely stand up.”

  “Sleep then,” says Grace. “We’ll catch up later. Your bed’s on the right.”

  I like this woman already. After nodding goodbye to Luciano and Paula, I pass out, bleary eyed and exhausted, onto my new bed, which is small but wonderfully functional.

  At some point after the sky has blackened, Thomas reaches out for me across the continents, coiling my long, tangled hair around his stealthy fingers. Yanking my head backward, his pelvis crashes into mine, and my poisoned Adonis draws my body into a violent orgasm. For a moment I wake up, panting and confused. Stretching my hands across the bed, searching for Thomas, I find only the edge of the mattress. Then I sigh. Even in dreamland I can’t escape him.

  Chapter Two

  Brotas

  When I open my eyes, dim sunlight is filtering in through a nearby window, suggesting early morning time. My new roommate lies fast asleep on a twin bed identical to mine, positioned against the wall on the opposite side of our bedroom. For a minute or two I keep still, listening to the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. The sound is comforting, unlike the ear-splitting, nocturnal cacophony generated by my two previous boyfriends, both of whom snored like elephants. Ah, men. As much as I need them in my life, they all have their exasperating habits. It’s enough to make a straight woman reconsider her heterosexuality.

  When I was growing up, my mom was always bickering with my dad about his irksome little habits. Not wanting to be left out, he skillfully argued right back.

  “Larreee,” my mother hollered from their bathroom on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning, when I was 15-years-old.

  “Yes?” he asked in his normal voice, from the office next door.

  The proximity of my room to theirs made overhearing them unavoidable.

  “Were you clipping your fingernails this morning?” asked my mom.

  “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you left them in the bathroom sink.”

  “Left what?” asked my dad.

  “Your fingernails,” said my mom.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. Come take a look.”

  “But I’m reading the paper,” my father protested.

  “Larry,” my mom threatened.

  “Oh, alright,” said my dad.

  I heard the recliner squeak as he stood up and trudged toward the bathroom.

  “Okay. You proved your point,” he said a moment later.

  “Would you clean them up now, please?” asked my mom.

  “Why didn’t you just pick them up in the first place?”

  “Because they’re your fingernails, Larry, and it’s disgusting that you left them in the sink. I refuse to deal with discarded parts of your body. It’s bad enough I have to pick up your socks.”

  “What about your used tampons?”

  “What about them?”

  “I deal with those all the time,” said my dad.

  “What are you talking about?” said my mom. “I always throw them into the garbage. It’s not like I leave them in the sink, for you to pick up.”

  “But I still have to look at them. They’re pretty gross, you know.”

  “Oh, give me a break, Larry. Menstruation is a natural part of a woman’s existence.”

  “I’d rather not see it, though.”

  “So you’re suggesting that I do what with the tampons? Hide them?”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “I think you’re being ridiculous about this,” said my Mom, “but I’ll make you a deal. If you throw away your fingernails, I’ll wrap up the tampons before I toss them. Okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  That was the thing about my parents. Since they were pretty open about their feelings, they did argue a lot, but their feuds usually ended with a reasonable conclusion or compromise. On the other hand, if it came down to a complete battle of wills (like the time my mother booted me from home), Cecile always prevailed.

  As I check out my new bedroom, the décor is noticeably clean, but sparse to the point of being sterile. Everything is white, including the walls, floor tiles, shelves, and sheets. No pictures hang on the walls. Nor is there a television or computer. Fortunately, I’ve seen a phone in the living room, so I know we’re not completely cut off from the outside world. On the whole, the interior design is reminiscent of a cheap hospital, or possibly a psych ward, which is fine for a poor medical student with low expectations and intermittent hallucinations. If I don’t manage to get Thomas out of my head, institutionalization is probably right around the corner anyway.

  Standing to get dressed, I’m surprised to feel lightheaded and plunk down quickly to avoid passing out. Trying to remember the last thing I’ve had to eat or drink, nothing comes to mind except breakfast on the plane…which was yesterday morning, I think. I’m famished, and probably a bit dehydrated. I wonder what day it is. Possibly it’s Saturday, but I’m not really sure. When the stars circling my head disappear, I manage to stand upright without fainting. Padding into the apartment’s tiny kitchen, I look around for something to eat, but I’m bitterly disappointed. The refrigerator is spotlessly clean, containing not a crumb of food. Thankfully, I do find one 12-ounce bottle of water, which I rapidly chug. Though I’d like to continue inhaling the tap, I’ve no idea whether it’s safe. Hoping to avoid ingesting any intestinal parasites, I decide to wait and ask Grace whether the water is potable.

  Due to a recent traumatic experience, the food situation is beginning to make me edgy. Home alone in New York over Christmas break, I contracted a terrible case of the flu. With an empty fridge and no strength to shop, for 24 hours straight I consumed only water. By the time Thomas decided to drop by, my condition was rapidly spiraling downward.

  “Emma, hey Emma, open up!” said Thomas, as he pounded loudly against my apartment door.

  Crawling on my knees through the kitchen, I just managed to turn the knob.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” he asked, as I collapsed at his feet. “Holy shit, girl. You’re burning up.”

  Next thing I knew he carried me, kicking and screaming, across the street to the emergency room. I remember thinking it odd that the giant intravenous needles they shoved into both of my arms didn’t hurt at all. As the nurses pumped me with fluid, bits and pieces of conversation registered.

  “Good thing you brought her in when you did,” said a doctor. “The hyponatremia could’ve killed her. Are you her next of kin?”

  “Nope,” said Thomas.

  “Do you know who is? We should try reaching a family member,” said the doctor.

  “You could call her aunt,” Thomas said.

  “Does Emma have a living will?” asked the doctor.

  “Good God,” said Thomas. “I have no idea.”

  “Did you hear that?” asked the doc. “What did she say?”

  “I’m not sure,” Thomas replied. “Let me listen….It’s hard to tell because she’s mumbling.”

  “Try putting your ear next to her lips,” said the doctor.

  “Okay.”

  Thomas started snickering.

  “What’s so funny?” asked the doctor.

  “I’m pretty sure that last bit was, ‘Don’t let Aunt Pam find my vibrator.’”

  “She’s delirious.”

  “No kidding,” said Thomas.

  A few hours later I woke up, alone and fully conscious in a hospital ward, with Thomas nowhere to be seen. He might’ve said something about going out for a drink.

  Given these events, I’m particularly mad at myself for not buying food at the airport yesterday. I’m also thankful for Grace’s presence. Presumably, I’ll be less likely to kill myself with a roommate watching over me.

  Ignoring my grumbling stomach, I immerse myself in a steamy shower and scrub away two days’ worth of sweat
and grime. As I inhale deeply through the mist, the deliciously hot water streams over my body, relaxing all of my muscles. That’s when I notice the pink bottle of Nair sitting on the bathroom shelf. Though I’ve never used this product before, I’m tempted to try it, especially because I still haven’t found any razors. Of course the Nair doesn’t actually belong to me, but I bet Grace won’t mind sharing. She seemed like such a nice person when I met her.

  I don’t bother reading the directions on the bottle. How hard could the procedure be? First, I squirt a generous helping of the lotion into my palm and give it a sniff. Yuck! The stuff is foul. Nonetheless, I proceed to lather up my legs, armpits, and pubic area. Minutes later, while wiping my shins with a towel, I’m amazed to watch clumps of hair falling away from my body. Then I’m distracted by an unpleasant itching sensation emanating from my groin area. Glancing in that direction with trepidation, I find that my entire pelvis is turning a frightening shade of purple. Apparently, I’ve developed a chemical burn secondary to the Nair. Ugh. The price of so-called beauty.

  If my mother were here, I’m sure she’d say, “I told you so.”

  Before she banished me, my mom used to regularly lecture me about hair removal. Placing a cold compress over my irritated bikini region, I’m reminded of our last conversation on the subject.

  “I don’t see why you bother shaving your legs, Emma. Shaving is just another way that society subjugates women. Like putting on makeup, it’s a complete waste of time.”

  “Mom, I don’t think….”

  “In fact, if you added up all the minutes that a teenage girl spends shaving and putting on makeup, she’d probably have enough time to complete a college education.”

  “But Mom, everybody shaves. I don’t want to be the only girl in school who looks like a hobbit.”

  She laughed at that.

  “I’d be proud of you if you looked like a hobbit. You’d be setting a good example for the rest of them.”

  “I already stand out way too much. I’d rather shave and keep a low profile.”

  “Low profile? You, Emma? Good luck with that. But if you want to shave, I suppose you have my blessing. Do me a favor, though, and try to avoid cutting yourself with those ridiculous razors. I don’t want you looking like Carrie at the prom.”

  Predictably, I managed to cause significant bodily harm with the Nair on my very first try. I suppose I should count my blessings. At least I’m not hallucinating that my mother is standing here in the bathtub, yelling at me.

  Because wearing underwear is currently unbearable, I go commando and throw on a pair of airy sweat pants. Next, I grab a bra and the T-shirt closest to the top of my suitcase, a turquoise blue one reading, “Haight Ashbury 1968, The Summer of Love,” in flowing, pink script letters. As I recall, my Dad acquired this shirt from an old girlfriend years ago, when he lived on a commune in San Francisco.

  Suddenly I notice that Grace and I aren’t the only animals in the room. The largest cockroach I’ve ever seen—which is saying something, considering that I’ve lived in numerous, sketchy New York apartments for the last eight years—is crawling across the sheet covering Grace’s sleeping form, at about the level of her belly button. Now, I may be absentminded and uncoordinated, but I’m not afraid bugs, not even very large ones. Defiantly, I grab the insect by one antenna and march it toward the window at the head of Grace’s bed. Viewing the 10-story drop, however, I abort the launch; instead, I decide to contain the roach in a Tupperware, with a cover, that I find lying in the kitchen. Just as Grace is awakening, I seize a second, mutant-sized roach from a corner of the room. While I’m throwing numero dois into the roach motel, Grace emits an ear-splitting scream.

  “Eww!” she screeches. “Why are you touching them?”

  “Are you scared of them?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” says Grace.

  “You did yell pretty loudly.”

  “They’re just so gross!”

  I shrug.

  “To me they’re no big deal. I’m used to them from the city.”

  “Aren’t you going to squash them?” she says. “I don’t think they make very good pets.”

  “I considered throwing them out the window, but I couldn’t do it.”

  “How come?” asks Grace.

  “I have a really hard time killing bugs,” I say.

  “I’m sure they would’ve survived, even if you had chucked them,” she says. “Those things are nuclear cockroaches.”

  “Nuclear?”

  “Yeah. Nothing kills them. I’ve seen them running around in the microwave, even while I’m cooking something.”

  “Still, I don’t think that I could hurt them on purpose.”

  “Why not?” Grace inquires, looking incredulous.

  “I’ve always felt that bugs have the same right to life as people.”

  “What are you, a Buddhist or something?

  “Nope,” I say. “I’m Jewish.”

  “Does the Old Testament forbid the killing of bugs?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “I’m not really sure, but I’ve felt this way ever since I was a kid.”

  “Well, if you’re not going to kill them, what’re you going to do with them?”

  I pause to consider the question.

  “I don’t know…probably set them free, outside.”

  For a moment, Grace looks too surprised, or possibly disgusted, to say anything, so I ask, “Got anything to eat around here?”

  “Just very large bugs,” she answers faintly, eyeing my Tupperware.

  “Would you happen to know if they’re kosher?” I ask out of curiosity.

  “How would I know what’s kosher?” says Grace. “I’m Catholic.”

  Unlike my grandparents, my laid-back, ultra-reformed Jewish parents never kept a kosher household. In fact, as a teenager my dad used to drive my grandmother crazy by clandestinely frying bacon out the window in an electric pan that he purchased himself, specifically for this purpose. Unfortunately for my pork-starved father, the smell of bubbling bacon is strong, and Grandma Sally had a pretty keen nose.

  Though I’ve never felt guilty about eating bacon, or animal products in general, as a child I couldn’t bring myself to hurt the tiny creatures that frequently invaded our house.

  “Momma, there’s a spider crawling in the bathtub,” I said one day when I was five.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” my mom called from the next room. “I’ll be there in just a sec.”

  Soon my mother appeared at the bathroom door, holding a paper towel.

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  “What are you going to do to him?”

  “Kill it, of course.”

  “No Momma, you can’t kill him. Sammy’s my friend.”

  “What do you mean ‘Sammy’s your friend?’ I don’t see any spiders in the bathtub. Wait a minute. What’ve you got behind your back, Emma?”

  “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

  “Show me, Emma, right now.”

  Ever so slowly I moved my fist into view and uncurled my fingers, revealing the tiny, black spider I’d hidden in my palm.

  “Oh, Emma. What am I going to do with you? You’re lucky that this type of spider doesn’t bite. Some of them do bite, you know. A few are even poisonous.”

  “But Sammy’s a nice one, Mommy.”

  She chuckled, just a little bit.

  “I can see that. Why don’t you bring Sammy downstairs and put him outside, before you kill him by accident.”

  “Okay.”

  As carefully as possible, I ran downstairs, slid open the screen door leading to the outside world, and released the spider into the grass. As predicted by my mother, however, the creature never moved. In the time it took me to reach the backyard, I’d already smothered it. The experience nicely illustrates the dichotomy which threatens my career choice. On the one hand, since I believe in protecting all forms of
life, becoming a doctor fits well with my personality. In practice, on the other hand, I’m a threat to anything living. Isn’t life ironic?

  As Grace dresses, she explains that she’s been living in Brotas for the past six months and is nearly fluent in Portuguese. Thank goodness one of us is. During this period she’s been working in a mouse oncology lab, studying melanoma.

  “Do you like working with the mice?” I ask, while battling stubborn knots in my thick brown hair.

  Grace shrugs her shoulders.

  “It’s okay,” she says.

  “Do you have to kill them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  For a moment I cease detangling and stare at Grace.

  “Isn’t that difficult, considering they’re so furry?”

  From my standpoint, killing rodents is even worse than squashing bugs, though I try not to hold this against Grace. At least she’s doing it for medical purposes.

  “Not really,” says Grace. “We just break their necks. It’s quick. They don’t even know what’s happening.”

  Without warning an image of my favorite childhood pet flashes before my eyes. Sweet-tempered Fred had long, silky, orange-brown fur. I would hold that hamster for hours, stroking his warm little body until he’d fall asleep in my shirt pocket. Sometimes he’d pee right through my clothing, but I didn’t care. When he died, I bawled for hours and held a funeral in the backyard, burying him under a bunch of rocks that I decorated with oil paints. With such fond memories of Fred and subsequent loveable rodents, I’d never work in a mouse lab.

  Once Grace is dressed, we head downstairs and exit the building into the fragrant morning air.

  “Grace?” I ask.

  “Yeah?”

  “You were kidding about the edible bugs, right? Because right now I’m so hungry that cockroach tartar is starting to sound appetizing. And saying that is a big deal, since I usually go out of my way to avoid stepping on ants.”

  “Brazil is an exotic place, Emma, but not that exotic. Eating insects won’t be necessary. Speaking of which, isn’t it time to release the vermin?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say.

  I’d almost forgotten about the Tupperware in my hand.

  “Enjoy your freedom,” I say to the roaches, opening the container under a cluster of bushes.