The Valeditztorian

by Alli Curran

  “Did Grandma Sally get mad at you too, for hocking the ring?”

  “Not at all. After your father and I got married, Sally didn’t care about the ring, either.”

  “How come?”

  “Even though she worked in the industry, your grandmother always said, ‘the important thing isn’t the piece of jewelry—it’s the woman wearing it.’ So you see, Emma…you come from a long line of smart, practical women. And that’s on both sides of your family. Did I ever tell you about the time my grandmother, your Great Grandma Eva, convinced the local town council to let women vote, even before women won the vote in this country?”

  The stories went on and on. Given my family history, it’s hard not to argue with Grace about standing up to Alvin, but I do my best to respect her opinion by keeping my mouth shut.

  On Friday morning, after Grace and I have finished examining all the mice, we reach another conclusion. Not only are the treated mice healthy, but they’re also disease-free. In the short term, at least in mice, GrR appears to be a cure for this genetic subtype of melanoma.

  When we share our results with Alvin, he’s initially skeptical.

  “You’re telling me that the mice who received GrR are fine?”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “No disease whatsoever?”

  “That’s what we’re saying,” says Grace.

  “Well, you probably didn’t examine them carefully enough. I want you to go back and reexamine all of them, one by….”

  “We already did,” I interrupt. “We double checked each other’s exams.”

  Although this isn’t exactly true, I’m confident we haven’t missed anything.

  “The data are real,” I add.

  Though he won’t take Grace seriously, Alvin listens to me.

  “Show me,” he says.

  Alvin positions himself in front of my computer and scans the information I’ve been inputting. Then he walks methodically through the lab, staring at the mice in each cage. Eventually turning toward the exit, Alvin makes a beeline for his office across the hall, as though Grace and I are totally nonexistent.

  “Alvin,” I call after him, “what should we do now?”

  “I don’t care,” he yells over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go home?”

  Given that it’s almost noon and far too early to leave, Grace and I head to the cafeteria, settling in for a potentially long lunch.

  “Why are men so obnoxious?” she asks, as we munch on papaya and pineapple.

  “It muth be that Y chromothome,” I mumble, my mouth so full of food I can barely speak.

  “But you don’t have any problems with men. They seem to respect you.”

  Suddenly choking on a piece of papaya, I drop my glass of water, which sloshes all over my shirt on the way down.

  “Are you kidding?” I say, when I manage to stop coughing. “You should meet my alcoholic boyfriend.”

  Though Grace knows I have a boyfriend, this is the first time I’ve shared any details about him.

  “You’re dating an alcoholic?”

  “Unfortunately,” I say, wiping up my shirt.

  “Why would you do that?” she asks.

  Now it’s my turn to shrug.

  “How was I supposed to know that Thomas was an alcoholic when we started dating?”

  “Well now that you’re aware of it, why don’t you break up with him?”

  I try to explain.

  “It’s complicated. On so many levels, Thomas isn’t good for me. For starters, the man is totally unpredictable. I never know whether he’s going to show up for a date, or which personality he’s bringing if he does come.”

  Swallowing another chunk of papaya, I continue, “On the other hand, Thomas is the most gorgeous, exciting man I’ve ever known, and the sex is awesome—the best I’ve ever had, in fact—which makes it hard to leave him. So it sort of balances out.”

  Grace shakes her head disapprovingly.

  “That is completely ridiculous, Emma. You need to get rid of him.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I should get rid of him. Breaking up with Thomas will be right on the top of my to-do list, once I get home.”

  Reflecting on my trip thus far, I can already sense that living in Brazil has been good for me, and not just from the standpoint of the work. I’m feeling emotionally stronger, as though the time spent away from Thomas has loosened his control over me.

  Then the words slip out of my mouth, “You might consider breaking up with BJ.”

  Once I’ve said it I feel terrible, but if my boyfriend was cheating, I’d prefer to know the truth about his indiscretion. Beyond not trusting the guy, I’d want to accurately assess my risk of catching some horrible infectious disease. A friend in college, for instance, didn’t realize that her boyfriend was sleeping around, and she ended up with a lovely case of chlamydia (thank God it wasn’t HIV). In some detail, therefore, I inform Grace about the night BJ spent in my apartment. When I’m finished, she stares at me with hurt eyes.

  “I’m really sorry, but I thought you’d want to know,” I say, shoving my foot into my mouth.

  Grace leaps out of her chair, which is probably a bad sign.

  “No, Emma. I wish you hadn’t said anything.”

  When she storms off in the direction of the mouse lab, I jump to follow her. A few feet from Alvin’s office, Grace comes to an abrupt halt, and a moment later I’m standing inches behind her, listening. Alvin’s office door is open just a crack, but he’s shouting so loudly we overhear the whole conversation.

  “Goddammit, Flynn. I’m telling you this drug is incredible. You need to push it through development…now.”

  For a moment he pauses.

  “No, we haven’t done any human trials yet, but the results in mice were astonishing….Oh, come on. Don’t be an idiot, Flynn. The hospital IRB won't meet for another month. You know how long it takes them to review a human drug trial….Fine, then. Just remember that people are dying while you’re busy fucking around. And let’s not forget about all the money you could be making on this.”

  After slamming down the phone, Alvin charges out of his office at top speed, passing us by once again, as though we’re made of translucent window glass.

  Chapter Six

  Carnaval and Complications

  On Friday evening, Grace and I are hanging out in the apartment, discussing the events of the week. Distracted by Alvin’s dramatic behavior in the lab, Grace seems to have forgotten her anger at me, for which I’m thankful.

  “Do you think Alvin’s going to submit a new IRB proposal to the hospital?” Grace asks.

  “If he’s planning to conduct a human drug trial, he’d have to,” I say.

  With a dreamy look in her eyes, Grace says, “What if a person were in the hospital right now, dying from melanoma? Could he give them the drug, because it’s an emergency?”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” I say. “You can’t just waltz into a hospital and start shooting people up with an experimental medication. Until it’s approved by the IRB, it’s probably illegal.”

  “Who do you suppose that guy on the phone was?”

  “I’m guessing a pharmaceutical rep.”

  A knock on the door interrupts our conversation.

  “Paula’s here,” says Grace, opening up.

  Holding a large black pot in her hands, Paula sashays straight into the kitchen.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I ask.

  “Feijoada?” says Grace.

  “Sim,” Paula calls from the kitchen, where she’s already rummaging through silverware and clunking bowls onto the table.

  “Excellent!” I say.

  Because our fridge is empty, like usual, I’m thrilled that Paula has come to feed us.

  The three of us soon gather around the kitchen table and dig into the stew, a rich combination of salty pork, rice and black beans. As Grace and Paula chat in Portuguese, I hungrily swallow huge mouthfuls of feijoada while listening to
their banter. Attempting to decipher the conversation, I’m completely lost, so it’s a good thing Grace doesn’t mind translating. Although I understand a little French and Spanish, the quirky Portuguese pronunciations continue to baffle me. Maybe if I lived here another 10 years I’d get it, but with only one month left, I’ve already given up on fluency, not to mention basic understanding.

  Though her enormous pot of feijoada probably holds enough calories to sustain us through a nuclear winter, Paula reminds us we won’t be eating at home much this week. Focused on all the events in the lab, Grace and I have been ignoring the fact that Carnaval starts amanha in Brazil. According to Paula, we’re scheduled to march in a huge parade tomorrow with our “bloco,” the collective group of celebrants from our district. Our bloco’s signature T-shirt, in fact, was designed by Paula and some university students several months ago. Holding up a sample for our perusal, Paula proudly directs our attention to a rainbow-colored, dancing condom—complete with a happy face near the tip—featured on the front of a white T-shirt.

  Trying to pronounce the words printed above the lively prophylactic, I read, “Sexo Seguro: Bloco das Camisinhas.”

  “Bloc-oh dahs cah-mee-zeen-yuhs,” Paula says when I mangle the pronunciation.

  “We’re the ‘Safe Sex Condom Bloco’?” Grace asks in disbelief, and the three of us burst out laughing.

  Before leaving, Paula passes us two extra shirts and warns us to go to bed early. Sleepy from gorging on too much feijoada, Grace and I take her advice and conk out immediately.

  The following morning Luciano drops us off at our bloco’s gathering place, a churchyard square located a few miles away from Brotas. In no time at all, the four-block radius fills with hundreds of people, including many university types sporting the dancing condom T-shirt. Others are decked out in full Carnaval regalia. A number of leggy women, for example, flaunt Los Vegas-style, sequined string bikinis, sprouting feathers in all directions (à la Gertrude Mcfuzz). Yet I’m surprised to see that the vast majority of costumed folk are either children or men, and the latter are all dressed like women. Many of the older men are wearing traditional, flowing white gowns, similar to those worn by the Baianas, while the younger ones are generally strutting about in sexy transvestite ensembles. Black knee-high boots, fishnet stockings, and matching leather lingerie are a popular combination for the younger set. Whether this public, male-dominated fashion show is an expression of sexual envy, or the opposite—an opportunity for gay men to publicly celebrate their gayness—is unclear. The volume of cross-dressing participants is so high that both conclusions seem plausible.

  “I love your outfit,” I say to one attractive transvestite with long, jet black hair and ridiculously high-heeled stilettos.

  The lovely “he” who looks like a “she” blows me a kiss in return. In any other setting, guessing his sex would be difficult.

  Then it occurs to me that Thomas owns a number of naughty accessories that would be perfect for this event. It’s a shame that he, and his toys, aren’t here to participate.

  “What do you mean, you’ve never used sex toys before?” Thomas asked the first time I peered into his closet.

  “I guess none of my other boyfriends bought this kind of stuff.”

  “What about you? Don’t you shop?” asked Thomas.

  “Of course I shop, but not for sexual items,” I said. “I wouldn’t even know what the options are, or where to start looking.”

  “Where’d you grow up—on a farm in Kansas?”

  “No, in a colonial home in suburban Connecticut.”

  “Presumably, people in Connecticut have sex,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “That depends on what you mean by the word ‘sex.’ The hottest thing in my hometown is a duckpin bowling alley.”

  “You know, that explains a lot about you, Emma. Nonetheless, shopping for sex toys isn’t too hard. You can get this stuff anywhere now, especially through the internet.”

  “Wow, what’s this?” I asked, holding up something resembling a giant, pink rubber penis.

  “That’s a dildo,” said Thomas.

  “Oh. So that’s what the word means. I always wondered, but I never knew. Live and learn. What do you do with it?”

  Thomas was laughing so hard he could barely speak.

  “I can’t sleep with you anymore, Emma.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re much too innocent.”

  “No, I’m not. I just need a little education.”

  “No kidding. The dildo, by the way, isn’t for me. It’s for you.”

  “It’s rather large, don’t you think?” I said.

  “It’s no bigger than I am. Hey, why are you rolling your eyes?”

  “No reason. What’s this thing?” I asked, holding up a long black bar, with cuffs on either end.

  “That’s a spreader. Would you like me to ‘educate’ you on how to use it?”

  “Okay, teacher. Show me what to do.”

  Boy did he show me. No doubt about it, sex education with Thomas was my favorite course in medical school.

  Oops.

  Fortunately, huge trucks carrying musical equipment start arriving, lifting my thoughts right out of the gutter. Soon afterward, bands stationed atop the trucks commence playing, and our entire entourage begins flowing like a giant amoeba down the parade route.

  “Isn’t this awesome?!” says Grace.

  “Yeah, this is really great, except for the fact we’re all going to die from heat stroke in about one minute,” I say.

  Under a cloudless sky in 90-plus temperatures, my pale, Caucasian skin is already baking.

  “Wow. Does the heat always make you this sarcastic?” asks Grace.

  “It’s hard to say, since this I’ve never been this hot before.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” says Grace.

  “You’re right, Grace,” I say. “Instead of worrying, I should look on the bright side. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be a giant French fry, and now I’m finally going to find out.”

  “Emma, do you see all the people getting wet up ahead?”

  “Oh. Now I do.”

  Not far from where we’re standing, plenty of folks are cooling off in the spray of various sprinklers and hoses stationed along our route. Soon enough Grace and I are zooming in and out of the water like happy seagulls, drenching ourselves in the deliciously frigid droplets.

  When the entire crowd is soaked, everyone starts hustling to the music. Forgetting my shyness, I boogie on down the road with the rest of them, internalizing the rhythm as we groove along the parade route. At some point, Luciano grabs my hand, spinning me into a dip like the one that landed me on the floor in the lab. As I fall backward into his arms, he edges his head uncomfortably close to my breasts, where I detect a salacious gleam in his eyes. Oh, no. Here we go again—The Curse of the Wet T-shirt, Take II. This time I purposefully drop to the ground, attempting to widen the distance between us. As he reaches to pull me up, his lips brush the top of my ear, invading my personal space.

  “You know, Emma, we could be more than friends,” Luciano whispers, and his breath reeks of alcohol.

  Being drunk is no excuse for acting like a moron. In fact, years of dating have taught me that a man’s true character is often revealed in states of extreme drunkenness. The crazy runner I dated in college, for instance, got obnoxious and mean when toasted. Thomas, a loner by nature, wallows in solitary depression whenever he’s smashed. Incidentally, my dad starts telling bad jokes when inebriated. Observing Luciano in this state, I’m convinced that my original impression of the man was correct: he is, indeed, lecherous pond scum. Given that we’re in a very public place, with Paula and Grace standing less than 20 feet away, watching us, I restrain myself from nailing him in the groin.

  “Not in this lifetime,” I say quietly, but definitively.

  Before he even has the chance to look hurt or angry, I’ve already turned my back. Luciano is officially on
my black list, and I plan to avoid him for the rest of the day.

  Many hours of walking, dancing, and occasionally eating pass by. As the sun sets, the road fills with more and more bodies, wearing progressively less clothing. Eventually we’re surrounded by a mass of brown, beautiful, half-naked teenagers.

  “If the crowd gets any thicker,” Grace says, “there won’t be any room left to move.”

  “Good thing I remembered my deodorant today,” I say, smiling.

  Initially, the human sardine experience is a novelty. Surrounded by a multitude of teenyboppers showing off their skin, surreptitiously checking out their peers, I watch them, fascinated, trying to remember whether I behaved this way when I was their age. Sadly, my decrepit, 25-year-old brain cells have long since forgotten. Eventually my shoulders get pinned between strangers.

  “What do you say we go home now?” I ask Grace.

  “I thought you’d never ask. Hey, Luciano,” she yells, “it’s time to go home.”

  “Already?” he says. “Don’t you two want to stay out a bit longer?”

  “Not particularly,” I reply. “Now vamos!”

  “Oh, alright,” he says grumpily.

  “Do you think he’s okay to drive?” Grace whispers in my ear.

  “Since he’s not hitting on me anymore, I’d say he’s all sobered up.”

  Grace raises her eyebrows, but she doesn’t ask any questions. After fighting our way through the crowd and hiking a good mile to the car, Luciano finally schleps us home.

  The rest of the week is a blur. More parading, dancing, sun bathing (in the shade for me), eating (not much), and sleeping (definitely not enough) follow. During Carnaval, life in Salvador is one big party. By the end of the week, I’m all partied out, feeling my age and looking forward to returning to some form of normalcy.

  Except that life after Carnaval is anything but routine. Back at work, Alvin orders Grace to start dissecting the healthy mice, in order to rule out any internal disease. Albeit politely, I thank Alvin for having me and return myself to the infectious disease lab. Despite my disdain for Luciano, putting up with him will presumably be more tolerable than witnessing mouse euthanasia.