The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things

by Carolyn Mackler

  So . . . can you come?

  To: goddess_shannon

  From: citigurl13

  Date: Tuesday, October 15, 5:57 P.M.

  Subject: YES

  Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

  “No.”

  “Mom, come on. Please. Pleeeeeeeease.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?” I sink to my knees and clasp my hands into the praying position. I’m not religious, but there are times in life when God comes in handy — taking off in airplanes, final exams, weekend jaunts to Seattle. “Is it because you don’t like Shannon’s parents? Because they’re really nice if only you’d give them a —”

  “Get up, Virginia. I don’t know where you got that crazy notion about Liam Newman and Nina Malloy. They’re perfectly decent people. I don’t want you to go to Seattle because there’s too much going on right now. Besides, I’ve already invited the Lowensteins and Nan Grossman, so I want to have as normal a Thanksgiving as possible.”

  I lean against the kitchen counter where Mom is mincing basil leaves. “What’s the”— I make quotation marks with my fingers —“‘too much going on’? Are you talking about Byron?”

  Mom sweeps the basil into a measuring cup and doesn’t say a word.

  I pluck up a leaf and pop it into my mouth. “What about what you said, about how we have to”— I curl my fingers into quotes again —“‘keep going about our lives and pretty soon everything will be back to normal’? If that’s the case, then why should Byron’s ordeal affect what I do for Thanksgiving?”

  Mom slams the knife onto the cutting board. “What’s gotten into you? You’re starting to sound like Anaïs.”

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t think it’s fair.”

  Mom slips on her reading glasses and squints at the cookbook. “Life isn’t always fair.”

  “So why do I have to get the brunt of it?”

  “You should meet some of my patients,” Mom says. “Then you’d see teenagers who’ve had it hard. Not being able to go to Seattle for the weekend isn’t getting the brunt of anything.”

  I grab another piece of basil, head into my bedroom, and slam the door. This leaf must not have been washed yet because I wind up with a mouthful of sand.

  This only contributes to my week from hell. It’s Saturday afternoon. Ever since Shannon’s e-mail, I’ve been begging my parents to let me go to Seattle. I want to go so badly it hurts. Mom nixed it from the start — too much going on, need a normal Thanksgiving, blah, blah, blah. At first, Dad suggested using his frequent flier miles and arranging for a free flight, but Mom vetoed that idea. Later that evening I heard them arguing, though I’m not sure whether it was about Seattle or all the other things going on. There’s been a lot of tension around the apartment recently.

  Over the past few days, details of Byron’s date rape have been trickling out. No one has talked with me about it, but my parents and Byron have been having late-night conversations in the living room. I’ve developed supersonic listening skills, which work especially well when I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom with the door cracked open ever so slightly.

  On Tuesday night I was reminded that the girl’s name is Annie Mills. She’s a junior at Columbia. And she’s from Saskatchewan. I knew that was somewhere in Canada, but when I was in global studies the next morning, I flipped to the page in my textbook with the world map. I was surprised to discover how far west it was, all the way above Montana.

  On Wednesday night I overheard Byron admit to my parents that he slept with Annie on the night of the Virgins and Sluts party. Byron was explaining how Annie had reported the incident to the Office of Sexual Misconduct rather than going to the police. From there, it all happened quickly. They convened a panel of students who heard the case and voted to suspend Byron for the rest of the semester. Dean Briggs seconded the decision. It sounds like Byron has thirty days to appeal. I was falling through my door by this point, straining to catch every word.

  I heard Mom ask Byron about the likelihood of winning an appeal. I couldn’t make out a response, so I inched forward on my butt until I was in the hallway.

  “I’m not sure,” Byron said. “I drank way too much that night. We started fooling around and it went too far. How can I say whether it was consensual? I couldn’t remember anything the next morning.”

  Neither Mom nor Dad said anything. I wished they would yell at him, tell him that, wasted or sober, he had no right to force himself onto Annie Mills.

  But then Byron said, “Let’s say I made a mistake. Will I have to pay for it forever?”

  I could hear little sobs. I slid to the end of the hallway and peeked into the living room. Byron was sitting on the couch with his head bowed. Mom and Dad were on either side of him.

  Mom rested her hand on his shoulder. “Everything’s going to be OK,” she said.

  Dad tousled Byron’s hair. “That’s right, son.”

  I rubbed my knuckles against my braces until I shredded the skin.

  On Thursday my parents took Byron to their lawyer so they could get a professional opinion on whether he should appeal. I didn’t find this out until my nightly snooping session. I was crouched at the end of the hallway when I heard Dad say that he agreed with the lawyer, that an appeal was probably not the best idea.

  “It could just open you up to a stronger penalty,” Dad said.

  “Or provoke the girl to take it up with the police department,” Mom added.

  I picked at a small scab on my knuckle where my braces had torn the skin the night before. I wanted to chime in that “the girl” has a name and it’s Annie Mills.

  By Friday Byron descended into a depression. He was just getting out of bed when I got home from school. I half waved into the kitchen, where he was slurping down a bowl of Cheerios, but I didn’t say anything and neither did he. That’s how it’s been since he moved back. To be honest, I don’t know what to say to him. It’ll be all right? Not for Annie Mills. I’m sorry? For Annie Mills, but not for you. How’s the weather? It sucks — cold, gray, and drizzly.

  The skies finally cleared last night, but even so, Mom and Dad bailed on their golf tournament. The Yankees and Seattle are three and two in the playoffs. This afternoon’s game could determine who’s going to the World Series. Dad decided to take Byron as an attempt to bolster his spirits. When I learned that, I was stunned. That’s the game I had originally been invited to. Besides, my parents have been anticipating their golf tournament for months.

  But what really blew me away was what happened with Mom. As soon as Dad and Byron left for Yankee Stadium, she dashed outside and returned an hour later with bags of groceries and a loaf of Italian bread wrapped in white paper.

  I watched as Mom washed her hands and rolled back her sleeves. Then she unpacked fresh mozzarella, a bunch of basil, tomatoes, garlic, and a slab of meat. I was completely speechless. Mom denounced cooking when Anaïs left for college five years ago.

  “I’ve paid my motherly dues,” she’d said as soon as they returned from dropping my sister off at Dartmouth. Then Mom slapped a pile of takeout menus onto the kitchen counter. “We’ll let the delivery guy pick up the slack.”

  Over the past five years, Mom has only cooked on special occasions, like Thanksgiving or Christmas or if we’re having company over.

  But I can’t for the life of me figure out how this constitutes a special occasion.

  “Phyl, you’ve outdone yourself!” Dad exclaims. He drains his first glass of red wine and pours himself a second.

  I eye Dad taking a long swig. Ever since Byron’s been home, Dad’s been drinking more than usual.

  “I thought a home-cooked meal would cheer everyone up,” Mom says. “But it doesn’t look like you need it.”

  Dad and Byron were in high spirits when they arrived home an hour ago. I boycotted watching the game for obvious reasons, but when they came through the door singing “New York, New York,” I knew we were headed to the World Series.

  “To th
e Yankees.” Dad raises his wineglass.

  Mom and Byron clink with him.

  I survey the candlelit table. Mom made veal Parmesan, linguine, and a mixed green salad. I only took a sliver of meat and a heap of salad, no bread or pasta. I still act like I’m on a diet when I’m around my parents, which is such a joke because I’ve been gaining weight again. I can only fit into my Fat Pants, the ones I save in the back of my closet for when I’m really bloated.

  We’re just finishing dinner when Dad says, “Guess what Byron and I were discussing this afternoon?”

  “What’s that?” Mom picks at the lettuce on her plate. In the past week, Mom has been munching a lot — pretzels and Veggie Booty and even some of Dad’s olive oil potato chips. Last night Dad joked about Mom plumping up for winter. When he said that, Mom spit her mouthful of chips into a paper towel. Now I guess she’s back to her usual regimen of lettuce and water.

  Byron wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’d have to double-check with your lawyer about the legal implications, but I’m thinking about going to Paris until the beginning of next semester.”

  “When would you leave?” Mom asks.

  “As soon as possible. In the next two or three weeks.”

  I do some quick calculations. That would have Byron out of town by mid-November. I set down my fork. “But what about —”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” Mom says, cutting me off. “You’ve always wanted to spend time in Paris, and you could probably use the change of scenery.”

  I clench my fists. “But what about Thanksgiv —”

  “Virginia,” Mom says. “We’re talking about completely different circumstances.”

  “But —”

  Dad jumps in. “Hey, Ginny, maybe I could take you on that shopping spree we were talking about, get you something nice to wear for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Dad has this lopsided grin on his face. I think he’s had too much to drink tonight. “Have you gotten any closer to the body goal that Mom was talking about?”

  I stare at my empty plate.

  “I’m going to take off,” Byron says, pushing back his chair.

  As Byron heads toward his bedroom, Mom raises her eyebrows at me. “I hope you’re still taking this diet seriously.”

  Dad rises from his chair, using the edge of the table to steady himself.

  “Make us proud,” he says.

  Mom gathers together some dishes. “Make yourself proud.”

  They head into the kitchen. I hear water running. I stare at the flames flickering atop the candlesticks.

  How is it that Byron is allowed to go to Paris for Thanksgiving and I can’t visit my best friend who I haven’t seen in over three months? He gets kicked out of college for date rape and still gets a Yankees playoff game and a change of scenery? All I’ve done is gain a few pounds and suddenly I’m the one being penalized.

  I feel bile stinging my throat, anger seeping through my body. Before I know it, I’m holding my hand over a candle. It’s warm on my fingertip. I lower it until my pointer is touching the flame. I can smell the stench of burning flesh.

  I hear Mom approaching the dining room so I pull my hand away.

  “What’s that smell?” she asks. “Does something smell funny in here?”

  I don’t answer. She leans over and blows out the candles.

  As Mom heads into the kitchen again, I rock back and forth, cradling my hand in my lap. My finger is searing in pain. But at least the pain is concentrated in one spot rather than dominating my entire body.

  I’m having a hard time writing to Anaïs. Her twenty-third birthday is on November fifteenth. Mom is putting together a care package to send to Africa, so I want to include a letter. It’ll take a few weeks to arrive in Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso, and several more days to make it to her rural hut.

  There are two reasons why writing this letter is impossible. For one, my finger is burned pretty badly. It’s been eleven days and it’s still raw and blistery and oozing. It hurts all the time, especially when I’m on the computer. That’s why I’m handwriting Anaïs’s letter. For the past hour, I’ve been sitting on my bed with a stack of stationery on my lap. I’ve churned out four attempts, but I keep crumpling them up and tossing them onto my rug.

  Which ties into the second reason why this is so difficult. When I told Mom I wanted to include a letter in my sister’s package, she asked that I not mention Byron being home from Columbia.

  “Keep it upbeat,” Mom said. “Anaïs is witnessing disease and poverty on a daily basis. The last thing she needs is something else to worry about.”

  I was tempted to say, So you want me to lie?, but I kept my mouth shut.

  I’m already on Mom’s bad side because I’ve been begging on a daily basis to go to Seattle. It’s three weeks away, so I’m still clinging to a shred of hope that she’ll change her mind.

  But that doesn’t make it any easier to write to Anaïs. In my first four attempts, I embellished on my life so lavishly I could have won a Pulitzer Prize for fiction. They all made me queasy. Recently, I’ve been finding it harder to pretend that everything is A-OK.

  I begin attempt #5.

  Dear Anaïs,

  Here’s a juicy peice of news! I had a fling this fall. His name is Froggy Welsh the Fourth. He’s also a sophomore at Brewster, and he’s in my French class. At first, I didn’t think he was that cute, but the more I got to know him, the more he grew on me. Has that ever happened to you? Well, it doesn’t matter because those days are over. Byron date-raped a girl at Columbia and now I’m repulsed by sex or anything leading up to it. I told Froggy to get lost and now he won’t even look in my direction or talk to me . . .

  I fling the paper onto my carpet and embark on my sixth attempt.

  Dear Anaïs,

  Tomorrow is Halloween! I’ve decided to go as the woman who sings the arias at the Metropolitan Opera. Yes, the FAT LADY. I was on a diet, but those days are over. I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. Even when I’m wearing my Fat Pants, I have to keep the top button undone. I’ve been pigging out so much, ever since Byron got kicked out fo Columbia for date rape and . . .

  Another crumpled letter on the floor. I take a deep breath and flex my hand a few times.

  Dear Anaïs,

  The Yankees won the World Series!! Normally, I’d be freaking out, but those days are over. My heart wasn’t in it this year. I watched a few of the games with Dad and Byron, but every so often I’d glance at our brother and I’d be filled with intense anger. How can a date rapist casually munch a handful of pretzels and sip a beer when a girl’s life has been destroyed?

  I crumple attempt #7.

  Then I grab my jacket and walk over to Cardeology. I check out a dozen cards before finding the right one. It’s got two smiling girls on the front, one with blond hair and one with brown hair. They’re embracing each other amidst a field of wildflowers. On the inside it says Hugs and kisses on your birthday.

  When I get home, I write:

  Dear Anaïs,

  I hope all is well in Burkino Faso.

  I miss you.

  Love,

  Gin

  I’m sitting in the auditorium waiting for the annual awards ceremony to begin. They hold it on Halloween every year. It was originally intended to be a costume contest, but it’s evolved into an occasion to spotlight Brewster’s best and brightest. This is the day they give out plaques to all the Model Brewster Students.

  Woo-hoo. I’m sure I’m totally in the running.

  We had to report to our last period class before heading downstairs. Most likely Brewster’s ploy to get us to climb more stairs. I’m sitting next to Alyssa Wu, the girl who had to sing “Frère Jacques” in French that time. She’s in all my classes. She’s nice, but definitely a strange bird. She’s got long hair, almost down to her butt, and tiny bangs snipped across the top of her forehead. And she’s always knitting, even at her desk.

&nbs
p; I was relieved to get out of math today. Math is my second favorite subject, after language arts, but my mind has been wandering a lot recently. It’s actually to the point where my grades are starting to slip.

  I scan the crowd. The right quadrant of the auditorium is the popular section. Brie Newhart is dressed as a queen, complete with a tiara and a velvet cloak lined with faux fur. Brinna and Briar are wearing skintight cat suits and headbands with pointy ears. They must see Halloween as a prime opportunity to flaunt their own personal skeletons.

  The front row is all faculty and staff. Mademoiselle Kiefer is attempting to flirt with the sexy male physics teacher. The only problem is, he’s ogling Teri the Tiny Gym Teacher, who’s dressed as a high school cheerleader. I’m trying to determine whether Teri is shaking her pompoms at the physics teacher when I spot Froggy.

  He’s seated to my left, surrounded by a group of his friends. That’s when I notice that Froggy is sitting next to a ninth-grader named Sarah. She has a ski-jump nose and a slight overbite, giving her an overall rabbity look. I tighten my fists, even though it causes extreme pain to my burnt finger. I know I have no claim to Froggy. We’re not even talking anymore. But it’s not like I want to see him with another girl.

  “Byron Shreves is your older brother, isn’t he?”

  I turn to face Alyssa. She’s knitting an orange-and-brown square.

  “Yeah,” I say, tentatively.

  “Didn’t he win an MBS award every year he was here?”

  I nod.

  “That’s impressive,” Alyssa says. “I’ve heard he’s a great guy.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Lots of people.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  Alyssa misses a stitch.

  The principal strides onto the stage. She’s wearing a wizard’s cape, half-moon glasses, and a silver beard. I think she’s dressed as Dumbledore, the headmaster in the Harry Potter books. I’m relieved when she taps her wand on the microphone to signal the beginning of the awards ceremony.