The match started with me tied up Houdini-style in Jessa’s jersey and ended with me talking plus-size bras and reduction surgery with a player from a rival school. I didn’t even wrap up in my sweatshirt till I was home and showered.
But today’s another day and this is math, not volleyball. Yesterday I was on a team. Today I am just me. I pinch my swollen finger. Hard. It’s a routine volleyball injury—if the bone is not poking straight out of your skin you don’t complain—but it still hurts, and I am reminding myself what I’ve learned from the girls on my team: You play through the hurt. You have to or you’ll never play at all.
My hand clenched, I swallow hard and walk over to Kyle’s table. Even Asher and Anitha look up. The boys with Kyle look stunned, like the Rock caught them making fun of the name Dwayne. “Do you need something?” the sub says from her seat.
“Just Kyle. I tutor him on Fridays. Ms. Tanner lets us go out in the hall where it’s quieter.” Everyone is too curious to contradict me.
The sub shrugs. Kyle’s friends giggle.
“Come on.”
He stays put.
“Come on, Kyle,” I say more firmly. Kyle looks like his name’s just been drawn for the Reaping. Guess what, asshole? It has.
He follows me out, and I shut the door to the classroom.
“What are we doing out here?”
I step toward him until he is backed up against a locker. My chest—the whole subject of this meeting—is inches from his. We’re so close I can smell the Proactiv cream on his forehead. Turns out he is not very brave without his friends around. Turns out (and this is a surprise, too) I am. He stammers, “Wh-what? What do you want?”
“Your weird obsession with my breasts ends now.”
He turns red. I do not.
“What are you even talking about?”
“The math problems, the calculators, the word finds, the drawings. You need to stop. It makes you seem even dumber than you actually are, and it’s really, really mean.”
He looks like he’s going to deny it, but he knows he can’t win a debate with me. “I’m not obsessed. Maybe you’re obsessed.”
“That’s probably true. I am kind of obsessed. But they are mine.”
“We just joke around.”
“Oh, you joke around? You’re just being funny?”
“Yeah,” he says and squirms.
“Am I supposed to think it’s funny? Have you ever seen me laughing?”
He swallows hard. “We don’t mean anything by it. I didn’t think you cared. You always play along.”
“What am I supposed to do? Look, I wish I didn’t care, but I do. It makes me feel like shit.”
And at this, Kyle’s whole face changes. It changes from defensive and mean to surprised. Because he’s been such a jerk for such a long time, I’ll allow myself to say that it is still quite ugly, but maybe a little bit more human. “I, ah, um, I’m sorry?”
“Is that a question?”
“No? Sorry. I mean, I am sorry. I didn’t know it bothered you.”
I decide not to point out how ridiculous this is, how to “not know it bothered me” is like stabbing someone in the eye and saying you didn’t know it would hurt. It’s a fine excuse if you throw a nonrecyclable yogurt container in the recycling bin. It’s a pretty lame one if you’re making jokes about somebody’s body. I just say, “Now you know.”
I don’t know whether it will change anything, and even if it does, there are plenty of other Kyles in the world. Some won’t be as easy to intimidate. Some will intimidate me. Some will try to do worse than spell out BOOBS on a calculator. But now at least this one knows where I stand. He can’t pretend he doesn’t, and I can’t pretend I don’t care. “Never again, Kyle.” I turn back to class.
“Hey, Greer?” Kyle looks hopeful. “Since we’re pretending you’re tutoring me anyway, would you help me with the binomial theorem?” He holds up his notebook and smiles sheepishly.
I smile back at him. “Oh, hell no, Kyle. Hell no.”
CHAPTER 67
“CHEESE ’N’ RICE!” Theresa Kershaw-Bend spills half her latte. “I didn’t know anybody was in here.”
“Sorry! The building guy said it was okay to wait for you in here.”
She sets her stuff down and takes a long drag on her latte. The cup has a picture of a coffee cup being orbited by a car, a dog, and a briefcase. I decide it’s a good sign. “Sister Greer of the volleyball team!”
“That’s me.”
“Like Greer Garson—the old movie star. Is that who you’re named for?”
“I’m named for my dad’s aunt Gertrude. But they thought Greer sounded better than Gert.”
“Me too!” she laughs. “You know who Greer Garson was, though?”
“I’ve heard of her.”
“She was in a lot of stuff in the forties. She starred as Marie Curie.”
“Really?”
“You know who that is?”
“Curie? She discovered radium. And she died from carrying radioactive materials in her pockets.”
Ms. Kershaw-Bend laughs again. “Sometimes the people you think are the smartest turn out to be the dumbest.” Ain’t that the truth. She finishes the coffee and tosses the cup in the bin. “I understand you had to make some additional alterations to your uniform at last night’s game.”
“You heard about that?”
“Kristine—Coach Reinhold—and I ate lunch together today. Sorry I didn’t know the rule about the colors. I just thought it looked cool with the gold.”
“It did! And it was fine all season—till that coach yesterday. He was just, ugh.” I stop myself from swearing because I’m talking to a teacher, but it turns out not to matter because she fills in for me.
“Prick.”
“Totally. But up till then the jersey was perfect. And actually, without the gold part it was less hot, so it was more perfect. Thank you again.”
“My pleasure. I’m glad you had something more comfortable to play in.”
“It’s usually kind of a one-shape-fits-all problem with me and clothes.”
“Tell me about it! Why do you think I learned to sew? Look at these legs.” Ms. K-B is over six feet tall. Her waist comes up to most people’s necks. “When I was in high school the style was stirrup pants—you know, with a kind of stirrup strap that fits under your feet? No? Well trust me. They do not make them for people my height. I was used to my pants stopping at my shins, but with the stirrups they were too short the other way. I couldn’t pull them all the way up. My butt crack showed over my pants like a sunrise.”
I wonder if young Theresa Kershaw considered wearing an extra-large sweatshirt to cover her crack? Some of them are very long.
“So that was it. If I couldn’t find anything that fit, I made it myself.”
“You’re very good at it.”
“I’ve been doing it a long time.”
“Actually, you’re amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“You could be a professional designer. You should be on Project Runway.”
She tilts her head to the side and smiles. “Okay, Madame Curie. Tell me what you need.”
At first, the look on her face is like if you asked the builders of the Eiffel Tower to try it again with the pointy part on the bottom. When I explain what I want, though, the corners of her mouth rise, and her face lights up like she’s Bob Ross and I’ve asked if she has time for some last-minute touch-ups of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
She sketches it out on the back of somebody’s Family and Consumer Science midterm.
“I know it’s a huge favor. I can pay you or babysit your kids or—”
“You sure this is what you want?” she asks, tipping the drawing toward me.
“Pretty sure.” I’m not sure, not at all, but it’s almo
st like I can hear Maude and Mavis whispering to each other, Did she say yes? Do we get to go?
“I’ll have it done tomorrow.” As I’m leaving, she opens the plastic bag I’ve given her and says, “Jeez, Greer. You coulda washed it.”
CHAPTER 68
“You sure you don’t just want a ponytail and a sweatband?”
I hand her another bobby pin.
Mom is not thrilled. When she saw the dress hanging earlier, she gasped in the same way she did when Tyler showed her his infected lip. “That’s what you’re going to wear? Did Maggie talk you into this?”
Nope. She’ll see when Maggie and Rafa get here to pick me up. Maggie’s “protest” dress is adorable. Retro, but adorable. The statement it makes has nothing to do with gender typing or economic disparities or outmoded rituals. The statement it makes is “I am adorable.” (I haven’t told Maggie; she would be so disappointed.)
Mom twists another section of hair and tucks it into the bun, and then sticks a bobby pin straight into my brain.
“Ow!” She’s being more aggressive than she needs to.
“I hope at least you shaved your armpits.”
I did, but I’m going to leave her guessing for now. I didn’t wax anything.
When the hair and makeup are done, she disappears downstairs. I’m getting dressed in her room. I don’t have a full-length mirror. I don’t have any mirrors in my room. I step out of my sweats and peel off my T-shirt, being careful not to mess up my hair. I stand in front of the mirror in my bra and undies. Cute bikini bottoms, dotted all over with tiny bluebirds and trimmed with yellow edging. On top, the white version of my usual Zappos humdinger, three-quarter-inch straps digging deep grooves into my shoulders. Not cute. Knobs of extra flesh bulge between the bra and my armpit on each side and underneath each badly fitting cup.
I know with a little dedicated research, I can do better than this.
I reach back and release the hooks. The thing sighs forward, weary from trying to hold back the flood of breasts all day long. I let it fall to the floor and force myself to keep my eyes on the mirror.
I never do this. I never look.
Maude and Mavis droop toward my belly. All the weight shifts, like if you filled a sock with sand. The pink rings around my nipples aim almost straight down. In seconds, the undersides of my breasts are sweaty.
But still I look. I rub hard against the grooves in my shoulders, and the flesh starts to fill in again. I roll my head around and feel the tight spots in my neck start to give.
I cup one in each hand and lift them up, up where they are supposed to go. Up where the Stabilizer holds them. I press them together and move them apart.
If anyone walked in, I’d be traumatized for the rest of my life. If Tyler walked in, his head would explode.
I listen at the door to make sure no one is out there and come back to the mirror. I just stand there for a minute. I look nothing like the posters. I look nothing like the online ads. I look nothing like Nella Woster probably looks without clothes on.
But neither does Jessa. Or Mena. Or Nasrah. Or Maggie. Maybe Nella doesn’t even look like the Nella in my head.
I look like me. I wouldn’t choose it, but this is me.
I wiggle my hips back and forth, and Maude and Mavis wiggle, too, awkwardly, like if two flabby aliens showed up in an Ariana Grande video. I stop moving, and they smack into each other. I laugh out loud. I lift my arms overhead and watch as my breasts are pulled upward, too. Like they want to be a part of whatever this is. Like they don’t want to be dragging me down; they just can’t help it. I almost say, “Oh, you guys!”
I know this is crazy. I am sure it’s because I only slept four hours last night. But looking at them—I know you want me to say that I suddenly think they are beautiful, but they’re not. They’re just kind of stupid and helpless-looking. Like blobfish. But even though I don’t like them, I really can’t hate them either. They are part of me, like the blue eyes and the love of books and the fear of centipedes.
“Greer?” Mom’s voice from downstairs. “Maggie and Rafael are here.”
The plan was to ride with Maggie and Rafa and then find Jess and everybody else once we got there, but this morning, Maggie talked me into making one little stop on the way. I am more nervous about that part than I’ve ever been about anything, but at least if I crash and burn, Maggie will be out in the car to throw water on me.
Mom comes in when I’ve got the dress on and I’m stepping into her shoes.
“Sweetie—”
She takes one look at me and her mouth falls open. For a second I think she’s going to pull some kind of Cinderella’s stepmother thing and say I can’t go to the ball without something more appropriate.
It gets worse. She actually starts crying and puts her hands to her face. I am literally so ridiculous that my mother is weeping at the sight of me. How did I convince myself this was a good idea?
But then she says this: “Oh my god, Greer. It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.” She pulls me to her and hugs me hard, hugs me like she did when I was little. Like she hasn’t done in a long time, because I haven’t let her. “It’s absolutely perfect because it’s absolutely you.”
She is not crying because she hates the dress. She is crying because she loves it.
Let’s start from the bottom.
I’m borrowing Mom’s black Mary Janes. They have a high (for me) heel, about two inches, but the chunky kind, not the spiky kind, so you don’t tip over. She promised they’d be comfortable, and surprisingly, they are.
My bare legs look strong from practice, the squats, the burpees, and wherever those sprints have led me and back again.
The skirt part is the bottom of Mom’s fancy gala dress with the shimmery blue-black fabric, the second-to-last thing I remember wearing that I felt good in. The dress hits mid-thigh, short, but not crazy short. It’s got the kind of “twirlability” I used to like in an outfit, before the world tried to tell me I had to choose between twirling and building.
The bodice of the dress is my volleyball jersey, the only other thing I’ve felt at home in in a long time. A modified version of my modified jersey, but still just a volleyball jersey, thankfully washed by Theresa Kershaw-Bend between my last game and her sewing it onto the skirt. It fits me like it’s supposed to: close, but not tight. It follows my shape like it was made for me, because it was. She’s completely taken off the sleeves, cut the collar a little deeper and sewed tiny gold seed pearls around it. She’s even copied some of the black floral embroidery from the skirt straight up the sides of the shirt. The back is still see-through mesh, but my brand-new Stabilizer is a near-perfect match in maroon. Pretty sure Mom will flip when she notices the charge (plus next-day shipping) on her card, but she hasn’t had to spend much on my clothes in a long time.
It’s a mashup because I am a mashup. It fits together because I fit together. This dress wouldn’t work for anybody else because nobody else is a mix of these parts. It doesn’t just fit my not-cookie-cutter body. It fits me, in a hundred ways. Mom’s right. I feel (almost) perfect.
Mom clips the not-really-from-Grandma diamond around my neck, smiling and shaking her head.
“Do you want my anniversary earrings from Dad? The diamond drop earrings? They’d look pretty.”
“Nah. I’m good with these.” I’ve got on the gold sigma studs Maggie got me for my birthday last year. She found them on a website that sells stuff to sororities, but she got them for me because they represent a function in calculus.
“I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“I’m sorry I doubted me, too.” She means it about the dress. I mean it about all sorts of things.
Dad taps on the door, and I endure his compliments and photo snapping, until Maggie pops in and says, “Oh my god. Why am I not wearing that? That’s so cool. So antiestablishment. But also gorgeous.”
My parents fuss over her a bit and make dumb comments to Rafael about how brave he is to be heading out with the two of us. When we leave, Mom shoots me a look that suggests that my volleyball jersey dress is one thing but Maggie’s gone too far with the hair. I don’t think so, though. I think she’s gone just the right distance.
CHAPTER 69
After I decided to ask Ms. K-B to make the dress, I mentally prepared (by which I mean stayed awake obsessing half the night) for seeing Jackson at the formal.
It was supposed to go like this:
“Greer?”
“Oh, hi, Jackson. I didn’t notice you there.” (I would say this casually, then not comment on the fact that his suit doesn’t fit right.)
“Wow, that dress is genius. When I look around the gym and see the conventional and off-the-rack things others are wearing, I understand why you would reject them, and I, too, reject them. Also, I now see that in fact you are not a coward hiding in a sweatshirt. And I realize that in addition to being academically gifted and athletically underappreciated, you are also conventionally pretty, though that is not my priority.”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t really hear you.” (I’d be surrounded by the volleyball team, my math class, the cast of the musical, and all of Nella Woster’s followers.)
“Do you want to dance?”
“I promised Max Cleave I’d dance with him.” Insincere sad-face real-life expression.
“But he’s dancing with the redheaded girl from my German class.”
My Eyes Are Up Here Page 24