My Eyes Are Up Here

by Laura Zimmermann

  “Wait!” I reach out with the egg. Carlisle takes it gratefully before he runs away from Maggie.

  She rolls her eyes. I’m not sure whether it’s at Carlisle or me. “I don’t understand the problem! You’ve got weeks to find something.”

  We are sitting at the counter that overlooks the track. I couldn’t handle Natalie and Tahlia today. It’s just the two of us, sandwiched between kids who are buried in their laptops. Except Carlisle, and now that he’s got my hard-boiled egg, he’s left us alone.

  I had an epically great five minutes this morning. Then a horrible, crushing slide into now, where I can’t even muster the enthusiasm to eat an egg. Here’s what the good five minutes looked like:

  “Hey!” This is Jackson, who bounds from German class so he’s basically at Ms. Tanner’s door the second the bell rings. His cheeks are windburned or sunburned from skiing, and the rosy color makes him look happy and bright. I’m sure mine are rosy and happy, too, and I didn’t go anywhere.

  It’s been ten days since I saw him and my body instinctively lurches to hug him hello, but I put up my hand for a fist bump instead. He reciprocates. He knows me. Even though I told her she was not allowed to, the butterfly invited a bunch of friends over. I think they are taking a Zumba class.

  “What’s up?” He’s not holding a bag of Moose Poop or a maple leaf pop socket, so I guess he didn’t bring me anything from Canada.

  “Where you going? Spanish?”

  “Sí.”

  “I’ll walk you. I can be late to gym.”

  “Don’t blame me if she makes you run laps.” I’m not worried about Jackson having to run around the gym a few times. His legs are long. But I am worried that he seems a bit amped up for the first day back at school.

  “Did you have a good break?”

  “It was okay. Just a lot of family time. How was Banff?”

  “Also a lot of family time.”

  “But skiing family time is better than TV family time.”

  “Depends on the family,” he says.

  Part of me wishes Spanish were farther away so we could keep walking and talking. Like in Spain. The other part of me wants to tuck into an open locker, because once you spend enough time studying Jackson’s every expression, you can see when he’s anything less than perfectly confident, and his excitement today is freaking me out.

  “So, what’s the deal with this winter formal?” he asks.

  Oh.

  That.

  The posters went up this morning, GET YOU’RE TIXS NOW! with messy-markered arrows pointing to a tiny printed URL for the ticket site. I complained to Kurtis and Omar about student council having no concern for grammar. I wondered who would spend their break setting it all up. And I now realize that it is exactly the kind of event a new kid set on finding his place in this school, a kid who joins things, a kid who goes places, a kid who is perfectly comfortable in awkward paired-up situations, would be interested in.

  The breakfast burrito Dad insisted we had time for unwraps in my stomach. The binder hadn’t mentioned the February formal and neither had I.

  “Fancier than homecoming, less fancy than prom,” I answer as informatively as I can. I hesitate before I add, “And freshman and sophomores can go.”

  “Will it be fun?”

  “No idea.”

  “So, are you going to go?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it.” This is a lie. It is me stalling for time because there are two ways this conversation could go: Either he will ask for help coming up with a fun way to ask Red Riding Hood, which would be terrible and gross and predictable and heartbreaking; or . . .

  “Do you think you’d want to go together?”

  . . . he’s going to ask me, which is awesome and fantastic and confusing and very complicated.

  “Um, what?” I say, swallowing hard. The butterfly Zumba class has swarmed up my throat and is choking me.

  Jackson lets out an exasperated sigh. He stands directly in front of me and speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a child. Who has a limited grasp of English. And a concussion. “Do you want to go to the winter formal with me?”

  Seriously? Of course I do. Obviously. The only things I want more are rational women to be elected as leaders in countries all over the world, an effective and ethical solution to global climate and sustainability challenges, and a separate refrigerator so I don’t have to eat anything Tyler has touched. But the very next thing on my list, and the thing that suddenly seems achievable in this lifetime, is to go to the formal with you.

  “You can say no. I won’t be offended. I’ll just bring my wistful poetry journal along to keep me company.”

  But before I scream yes, can you clarify what you mean by “with”? You mean like when we went to Maggie’s play and sat with the girl from German class? Or when I ate dinner at your house and our siblings sat between us? Or when we went to Cupernicus and I gave you that bullshit about being focused on school? That, right? Can we just do that? You don’t mean with with, do you? Or do you?

  “Greer? Did the left side of your brain just shut down? Or are you trying to think of a nice way to say no?”

  You know which side of the brain controls speech?! I might actually love you.

  “No. I mean yes to the formal, no to my brain shutting down.” This is where I should leave it. I should trust that it will all work out, one way or another, trust that he knows me well enough to get it, trust myself to take that chance, but because I’m me, I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want to misunderstand what he means, or for him to misunderstand, so I blurt out, “We can write a review of it for the binder! For the next family.” I force a laugh because this is actually not funny.

  The binder. Did I really bring up the binder? Of course I did. The binder is safe. Neutral. My olly-olly-oxen-free. That’s how we started and is as far as we will ever go. I would spend every minute I could with you, Jackson, but I need to make sure you understand I’m not really dateable. I’m not really touchable. Sooner or later you will want more than this and move on.

  But could you make it later, please?

  He blinks at me for what feels like an hour and says, “Sure. Right. Your whole family is really into this relocation thing, aren’t you?”

  He smiles, and it’s not the same rosy sunburnt one as before, but it’s something.

  * * *

  σ

  I float into Spanish on a cloud of mariposas. We can get our tixs now for the February formal. A night with Jackson, when he could be with anybody else. I promise myself I’m not going to make it weird.

  And then Maestra Bonnie (whose first language is Wisconsinese) starts showing pictures of her daughter’s wedding and asking us to describe them in Spanish. This is one of her favorite techniques and is why my Spanish vocabulary is excellent when it comes to anything related to Bonnie’s life—dogs, Christmas cookies, office supplies—and terrible when it comes to anything related to Spanish or Latin American culture. I could say “The pug rolled in a stinky place,” but I have no idea if there’s a Mexican national anthem or what those little pig-shaped cookies are called.

  While Nella Woster is describing the vestido hermoso in great detail, it hits me that to go to the formal, I’m going to need a vestido hermoso. And how in the world are Maude, Mavis, and I going to find ourselves a beautiful gown? Should we look for one that matches my sweatshirt?

  That’s when my mood went to infierno. And now Maggie’s spending the lunch hour trying to convince me everything is going to be okay.

  “Come on, Greer. We’ll find you something fabulous.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Fine, we’ll find you something pretty good.”

  “It’s not just the dress. I’m not sure whether I want to go anyway.”

  “Really.” She folds her arm and arches an eyebrow.

 
; “You don’t understand, Mags.”

  “Then explain it to me.” She leans in, and I instinctively lean back. How can I explain it to her if I can’t explain it to myself? I wish I’d kept my mouth shut and silently suffered through our usual lunch.

  And like that, I am saved. Nat and Tahlia emerge from the wash of people leaving the cafeteria.

  “Why didn’t you guys sit with us?” Tahlia asks, shaking gum out of a container.

  “Oooo!” Natalie reaches for it.

  Maggie’s eyes don’t leave my face, but she sighs and says, “Greer was trying to explain logarithms to me.”

  “Mush be nysh to have your own mash geniush,” Natalie manages through a mouthful. “Wait. Ish thish grape?”

  I say goodbye and bolt to class. I wish it could all be logarithms.

  CHAPTER 55

  If I am totally honest, there was this moment—and really, it was only a moment—when Maude and Mavis were hovering around a C when I was cool with them. More than that. I kind of liked them.

  I was never a kid who cared about pop stars or famous people and what they wore or did (unless you count J. K. Rowling or Bill Nye or Stephen Hawking (RIP)). And I really never thought about breasts. We were still little when Tahlia put two stuffed animals in her shirt at a slumber party and found Katy Perry on the karaoke machine. This sent the other girls scrambling, looking for bigger stuffed animals so they’d make even better Katy Perrys. Somebody found a pack of washable markers, and they drew big red lips on each other. Then someone tripped over their sleeping bag and it turned into jumping on a big pile of couch cushions. The jumping is when I got involved. Jumping I could understand the appeal of.

  The point is, some girls were waiting for it. Looking for signs of bulging, weird hairs, things they thought would make them . . . women, I guess? All my downloaded images were from the Mars rovers. I wasn’t waiting to be a woman; I was waiting to be a scientist.

  But then right as ninth grade started, and my body started to fold into the shape it is now, my parents got invited to this fancy fundraising gala for the League of Chicago Theatres. Mom got this dress—blue, with those cap sleeves that sit off the shoulder and aren’t really sleeves at all. It was tight to the waist and then flared out at the skirt. The fabric was shimmery. Not like a mirror. More like a hologram. Sapphire blue, but also violet and black and steel gray at the same time. And there were these designs embroidered into the skirt and up the sides in black thread.

  Mom talked me into trying it on, just for fun. I know she wishes I cared more about that kind of stuff. She has friends that take their daughters on wild shopping trips, who complain about how they’ll only wear hundred-dollar tank tops, even though that’s exactly the way the moms are, too. I just put on whatever’s comfortable, especially if I’ve been wearing it the day before, and it takes all the fun out of it for her. Ever since the Lego debacle, apparently. Now, though, maybe she’s relieved that I don’t want to go shopping. There’s not a section in the binder for Top-Heavy Fashion Outlets.

  But that day, which seems like a hundred years ago, when I slid into the dress and zipped up the side, it was like it was made for me. The neckline dipped over the tops of my breasts and hugged my sides, with just the slightest curve at my waist. I lifted and curved just where you’d want lifts and curves. My eyes looked like they were reflecting the same shimmery blue of the dress. For the first time, I didn’t look like a little girl in dress-up clothes; I looked like I was born to carry a glass of champagne around a charity gala. I scooped up my hair into a messy bun to show off the full sweep of my bare shoulders and licked my lips to a shine. I even stepped into Mom’s three-inch silver heels.

  “Whoa, honey! You are gorgeous in that dress!”

  I was.

  And I loved it.

  Don’t get me wrong; no part of me stopped being strong and smart and sarcastic. I wasn’t imagining twirling around on the arm of a man at the charity gala; I was imagining being the guest of honor at the charity gala because I’d just donated my Nobel Prize in Physics money to build a new wing at my Museum of Equal Rights. Or something like that. But I’d look stunning up at the podium, too.

  I stood in front of that full-length mirror, imagining that this was what being grown would be like. It would be easy; whatever I put on would be perfect and beautiful, and I would feel perfect and beautiful. All the parts of me—the math part and the funny part and the books part and the physical part—would match.

  But that was just one day. I’ve never felt like that in anything again. Not in my extra-large sweatshirt. Not in my custom-tailored volleyball uniform. Not even in the Stabilizer.

  That bra makes things work. It does not make them beautiful. And if I tried on that dress today, I wouldn’t even be able to get the zipper started.

  CHAPTER 56

  I am invited to go dress shopping with Jessa and some other girls from the team. Jess is going to the dance with Kermie Walltower and a bunch of other people. Kermie’s actual first name is Kobe, but he’s gone by Kermie ever since he brought a Kermit the Frog lunch box to school in second grade. They’ve been friends since they played T-ball together. Jessa said yes and then extended the invitation to five other girls and a couple of boys. She thinks everything should be done with a team. Kermie is a good sport, though.

  Suzanne’s Bridal & Prom is a warehouse of evening wear. It’s got high ceilings and bright lights. There are racks and racks of dresses, arranged by color and length. It feels more like going to a grocery store than some elegant excursion. There’s an “Everyday Steals: $79 and Under” rack, which only has dresses that are Barbie pink or puke yellow. Petites, which is swarming with tiny teenagers, gets the only patch of carpet in the place. I’m disappointed but not surprised that “Special Sizes” means dresses size 16 and up. What would really be special is if Special Sizes included something that was a 4 on the bottom and Lumberjack on the top.

  I drift among the racks, occasionally giving a thumbs-up when someone holds up a hanger for a second opinion. One by one, the Kennedy girls disappear to the fitting rooms with arms full of charmeuse and beads. This place would have been magical to me as a preschooler, before I found out my outfit was getting more attention than my engineering. Everything about this store says “You are meant to be pretty.” There are girls who never grow out of that, I guess, but also those like Jessa who wear Under Armour sweat-wicking pullovers and track pants most of the time but think it’s fun to pull on this other identity like a costume once in a while.

  “That would look great on you.” I don’t even hear the saleswoman come up behind me. I’m standing next to a mannequin that is wearing a strapless caramel-colored fitted dress with a slit from the floor to mid-thigh and a swirl of rhinestones. It would look great on me if I was an emaciated fifty-year-old at a Field Museum gala instead of a fifteen-year-old volleyball player hoping for the dress equivalent of a hoodie.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “Not what we’re looking for? What kinds of things do we like?”

  If you must know, we like things that are loose, boxy, and don’t make two of us chafe together. Is there a section for that?

  The saleswoman grins like she wants to eat me. She’s wearing a cream skirt and matching pumps, and has a measuring tape hanging around her neck. Ms. K-B’s measuring tape was worn and soft, the lines and numbers faded from years wrapping around waists and up and down legs, stretching over big bolts of fabric, checking the work for errors. The tape around this woman’s neck looks bright and stiff and new. This measuring tape has never met a body like mine, and there is no way she is touching me with it.

  “I’m just looking around for now.”

  “Do we like something a little simpler? Maybe more of an A-line?”

  “I just came with friends. I don’t need help.”

  “What size are we looking for?”

  “I, ah, wha
t?”

  “It’s all right. If you’re used to small, medium, and large, dress sizes can be confusing. It’s not the same as throwing on a sweatshirt!” She nods to my sweatshirt, like I’m too stupid to have ever heard of sizes that are numbers. “Let’s head back and get some measurements so we know what we’re looking for.” She walks away, expecting me to follow.

  I do what any rational person would do: I drop to the floor, crawl under a rack of dresses, and slink away, my head ducked low.

  There’s a sitting area outside the fitting rooms. I slump in a flowered chair to watch the parade of girls twist in front of a panel of mirrors.

  Jessa and the others are having so much fun, it’s almost contagious. Not prissy fun. Just fun. It reminds me of the day we got our uniforms, with people suiting up and transforming right in front of me, and I feel a little pang of envy.

  Mena, whose mother calls her skinny as an uncooked noodle, is trying on a blue dress with one bare shoulder. It bags all over the place. Jessa, pressed tight into a long black casing, stands behind her and pinches the extra fabric. “This is perfect! We can keep our phones in here. And our keys. And our jackets.” Mena swats her.

  “I’m sorry. Zero is the smallest that comes in,” says a saleslady, “but we can alter it.”

  “How much does that cost?” asks Jessa.

  “It depends on a lot of factors.”

  “That means it’s expensive,” Jess tells Mena. “Maybe you can just pin it.”

  “I don’t recommend that,” says the lady, but Mena is already closing herself back in the fitting room.

  “I’m feeling pretty good about this one,” says Jessa. She’s dancing in front of the mirrors, grinding her hips even though Suzanne’s is piping in a string quartet. She’s not trying to pull the fabric away from her sides or suck in her breath. She’s not scrutinizing every angle of herself. She’s just moving. She’s moving like bulges and curves are supposed to be part of a human body. It’s like she’s found a new skin. Or a new uniform. Jessa wears that dress the way she wears everything: comfortably.