The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things

by Carolyn Mackler

  A guy with a bushy ponytail sets up a video camera.

  Joy Lassiter squeezes my shoulder and exclaims, “Aren’t you a lucky girl!”

  “Lucky?” I ask.

  “To have Dr. Shreves as your mother. She really understands what it’s like to be a teenager.”

  Mom? Mom refuses to even talk about her own adolescence. And as far as my teen years, I wouldn’t exactly say Mom understands what I go through every day. But rather than telling Joy Lassiter that, I mumble, “Thanks.”

  As the interview begins, I settle into a chair near the front. It’s impressive to see Mom in the spotlight. Joy Lassiter asks about how she became a therapist and then highlights her career accomplishments. The audience is enraptured; some people are even taking notes.

  When Joy starts addressing the nitty-gritty of relating to teenagers, I shift uncomfortably in my chair and attempt to follow the conversation.

  Joy Lassiter: What are the most important things for parents of teenagers to keep in mind?

  Mom: Above all, it’s important to have open and honest communication. You can’t talk enough with your teenagers — even if it’s hard for you, even if the subjects are controversial or taboo.

  Joy Lassiter: How would you recommend doing all this open and honest talking?

  Mom: What I always tell parents of my patients is that they must remember that their children aren’t children anymore. They’re complex, independent individuals with needs and desires that must be acknowledged and respected.

  I can’t believe this. First of all, there’s very little open and honest communication going on in our family. No one even says the phrase “date rape.” We just refer to it as “the ordeal.” And if Mom viewed me as an independent individual whose desires must be acknowledged and respected, I’d totally be on a plane to Seattle in three days.

  I feel like I can hardly breathe. I suck in some stale air, but all that makes me do is cough.

  I need to get out of here.

  I grab my jacket and tiptoe toward the exit. I trip over the literary agent’s black leather satchel on my way, but I don’t stop moving until I’ve hit the lobby.

  It’s chilly outside and the air smells like snow. I stand on the front steps, watching my breath emerge in cloudy puffs. My braces are icy against my gums, so I run my tongue over the brackets.

  I walk down to East Eighty-sixth Street, where there’s a bustling strip of movie theaters and restaurants. As I weave through the throngs of people, I think about how hypocritical Mom sounded back there, acting like she’s this cool parent who partakes in cozy gabfests with her children.

  A few summers ago, Anaïs and Mom got in a big argument. Anaïs called Mom Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. I didn’t understand why that made Mom so furious until I realized that Anaïs actually said Queen of Denial. As Mom stormed into her study, Anaïs shouted after her that she always brushes everything under the carpet and never deals with what’s really going on.

  When I think about it now, it makes sense. Like how Mom’s been acting like life is normal even though Byron got kicked out of college for date rape. Or how she never talks about her childhood. Or how she always finds ways to skirt around the fact that I’m heavy. It’s like Mom wants our family to be perfect even when we’re not.

  I’ve always had so much respect for Mom — how she looks so together, how she has a successful career. But maybe I haven’t been seeing her for who she actually is. That is, the Cleopatra part.

  I don’t think I’ve been seeing Byron for who he is either. I’ve spent fifteen years considering him the ideal human being. But when I stop to think about it, I remember a lot of less-than-ideal things, too. Not the date rape, but smaller incidents, things he did to me. Like when I surprised him with Rice Krispie treats up at Columbia and he acted so unwelcoming. Or how he’s always making little remarks about my body. Or that day we took those photos at Grand Central Station. I’d ridden back from Connecticut with him so we could hang out that evening. But as soon as we arrived at the apartment, he got a call from a rugby buddy inviting him out that night. Before I could say dissed and dismissed, Byron was in the shower and out the door.

  There’s a guy on the corner selling hot drinks from a cart. As I reach into my pocket for some bills, I remember something Ms. Crowley told me last week.

  Don’t be so quick to doubt yourself, Virginia.

  As I sip my hot chocolate and walk uptown again, I finally understand what she meant when she said that.

  Mom is standing on the front steps of the Ninety-second Street Y. She glances around to make sure no one is watching and then hisses, “Where the fuck were you?”

  I take a few steps backward. Mom only swears when she’s really upset.

  “I needed some fresh air,” I say.

  “My interview ended twenty minutes ago. I’ve been standing here in the freezing cold, wondering where the hell you went.” Mom’s face is pinched and she’s jabbing her finger in my direction. “Also, Joy announced that my teenage daughter was in the audience and asked you to stand up. She kept calling out your name. Everyone was looking around. A newspaper reporter joked about how teenagers are so unpredictable. It was mortifying.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was going to do that. I just —”

  Mom flags down a passing cab. As it pulls up to the curb, she slides to the far end of the back seat. I get in after her and stay over on my side.

  As the cab takes off, Mom starts rambling on about how she’s worked so hard to get to this place in her career and how it’s important to present the image of a solid family and why did I think I was entitled to chase after whatever whim came over me, especially when I should be honored that she invited me to such an important event?

  I watch the traffic lights changing, the cars darting in front of each other. It’s not like I’m about to tell Mom that I’ve realized she’s a Queen of Denial who doesn’t practice what she preaches.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” Mom asks.

  I count the different license plates within view. Three New Yorks. One New Jersey. Another New Jersey and a Connecticut.

  “Say something, dammit.”

  “OK,” I finally say. “I’m going to Seattle for Thanksgiving.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I turn to face Mom. “I’m going to Seattle for Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s three days away! There’s no way you could get a ticket at this point, even if Dad and I gave you permission.”

  “I already have one,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I bought a ticket. I’m leaving on Thursday morning. I’ll get back on Sunday evening. I won’t miss any school. And I’ll pay for the cab fare to and from the airport, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the cab fare or the ticket! You are not going to Seattle.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Mom lowers her voice. “Virginia, I forbid you to go.”

  I take a deep breath, count to five, and say, “I’m going.”

  I’m on the plane to Seattle.

  I can’t believe this.

  The pilot just announced that we might encounter turbulence. I double-check my seat belt. The flight attendant collects our trays. Today is Thanksgiving, so they served dry wedges of turkey and powdery mashed potatoes. It seemed like a strange menu, since everyone will be eating the same meal tonight, but they could have given me raw Brussels sprouts and I’d still be elated.

  I slept for the first leg of the trip, from New York to Denver, but I’m wide awake during this stretch. At first, I tried memorizing words from my SAT Hot 100 list. We have a huge vocabulary test the day after break. But after reading the definition of “pedantic” twelve times, I decided that I’m too wired to think about SAT words, so I put away my homework and stared out my bubble window. I watched as the plane glided over jagged expanses of the Rocky Mountains. Now we’re flying over a patchwork quilt of green-and-brown earth, roads that
stretch for hundreds of miles. I think it’s Idaho or maybe Oregon.

  The Rocky Mountains. Idaho. Oregon.

  I really can’t believe this.

  I was convinced that I wouldn’t be allowed to come. On Monday night, after I dropped the news, Mom got on the phone with the airlines, only to confirm that my ticket was nonrefundable. Then she left a frantic message on Dad’s cell phone. And then she called Shannon’s parents in Walla Walla. Liam and Nina must have been reassuring because Mom seemed calmer by the time she hung up.

  “Well?” I asked. I was lingering in the hallway, ready to dash into my bedroom in the event of a major eruption.

  “Well, nothing.” Mom headed into her room without saying good night.

  I slept fitfully all night. The anticipation was gnawing at me. But when I woke up on Tuesday morning, Mom had already left for yoga. As I was pouring myself a bowl of cereal, Dad entered the kitchen.

  “Mom and I talked last night,” he said. “We’ve decided to let you go to Seattle.”

  “Daddy!” I flung my arms around his waist.

  “Mom wanted me to tell you that she’s still not happy with the way you handled this.”

  Dad was trying to look stern, but I could tell he was suppressing a grin.

  Dad has been coming through a lot recently. He insisted on getting the car out of the garage to drive me to the airport this morning. He invited Mom, but she said she was too busy preparing Thanksgiving dinner. I think the real reason is that she’s angry I’m going to Seattle. Mom likes to call the shots in the Shreves household, after all.

  Dad and I didn’t say much on the drive out of Manhattan. He listened to the weather forecast on 1010 WINS. I watched the shadowy city streets come to life. But as we hit the Triborough Bridge, Dad reached into his wallet and pulled out some twenties.

  “Have fun in Seattle,” he said, handing the bills to me.

  I stuffed them in my backpack. “Thanks.”

  Dad turned down the volume on the radio. “I know it’s been a difficult last few months, with everything going on with your brother. I just hope you’ve been OK.”

  I fiddled with the zipper on my bag.

  Dad continued. “Our family doesn’t talk about things very much. It’s hard for Mom.” He paused. “It’s hard for all of us.”

  I thought about Dad’s recent drinking. He’s curbed it a lot in the past few weeks, but this whole ordeal must be taking a toll on him, too.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think maybe we could . . .” I paused for a second, trying to figure out how to put it. “Do you think maybe you and I could try to communicate a little more about everything going on?”

  Dad was quiet for a long time. I was about to say forget it when he turned to me. There were tears in the corners of his eyes.

  “I would love to, Ginny,” Dad said quietly. “Let’s make a deal, you and me, to try to talk about things more.”

  I squeezed Dad’s shoulder. He reached up and rested his hand on top of mine.

  The pilot announces that we’re beginning our descent into Seattle. We’ll be landing at the Sea-Tac Airport in approximately thirty minutes. My ears feel like they’re clogging up, so I yawn a few times to clear them. I tap my fingers up and down the tray table. My finger doesn’t hurt anymore, but there’s still a splotch on the tip that’ll probably become a scar. I unwrap a piece of Trident and grind it between my teeth. I cross and uncross my legs. I continue tapping my fingers along the armrest.

  I guess I’m anxious about seeing Shannon. I’m nervous that Walla Walla has changed her, that her new friends have made her snobby or sophisticated or something. I mean, Shannon is the most grounded person in the world, but you never know what three thousand miles will do to someone.

  The first thing I notice when I enter the airport is a small figure with long hair as bright as a new penny. She’s waving a big, round object over her head. It looks like a softball, but as I get closer I realize it’s an onion. Shannon sprints toward me, places it in my hands, and squeals, “Welcome to Washington State!”

  We wrap our arms around each other and start crying.

  “Did you know that some people eat a Walla Walla onion like an apple?” Shannon asks.

  As I hug Shannon, my anxiety evaporates. Her hair has gotten longer and she may have gained a few freckles, but this is definitely the Shannon Iris Malloy-Newman that I know and love.

  “When do we get a go at Virginia?” Nina asks.

  I daub my eyes. Liam is wearing a T-shirt that says FEMINIST CHICKS DIG ME. Nina is wearing a baseball cap that says VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS. I have to laugh. Liam Newman and Nina Malloy are the complete opposite of my parents.

  We hug and kiss and cry some more. Liam grabs my suitcase and the four of us walk, arm in arm, to the short-term parking lot. As Nina pulls onto the highway, Shannon explains that if it weren’t so drizzly, we’d be able to see Mount Rainier, the nearly 15,000-foot mountain southeast of Seattle.

  I clutch my onion and look out the back window. Holy shit. I’m in the Pacific Northwest — land of mountains rather than skyscrapers. I’m three thousand miles away from New York City, Mom, Dad, Byron, everything.

  I really can’t believe this.

  As we approach the Claremont Hotel, Shannon bounces around in her seat.

  “What?” I ask.

  “My lips are sealed,” she says, sliding her finger and thumb across her mouth.

  “We stayed at the Claremont in August,” Nina says as she switches on her left blinker. “It’s in downtown Seattle. And you wouldn’t believe this, Virginia, it’s on —”

  “Neen!” Shannon catapults through to the front seat. “Don’t you remember anything? That’s a surprise.”

  “What?” I ask again, but Shannon shoots me a mysterious look.

  We pull up in front of the brick building. As Nina gives the keys to the valet and Liam checks in, Shannon steers me toward the street.

  “Look where we’re staying.” Shannon gestures up to the sign.

  “We’re on the corner of Fourth Avenue and —” I suck in my breath. “We’re staying on Virginia Street!”

  “I know!” Shannon shrieks.

  Shannon and I start singing, “We’re staying on Virginia Street! We’re staying on Virginia Street!” I bought a disposable camera in the Denver airport, so I pull it out of my backpack and Shannon gets a few shots of me standing under the street sign.

  Liam summons us into the lobby. “Rules for Seattle,” he says, handing Shannon our room key. “Stick together all the time. I know you girls run around Manhattan, but we’re talking about an entirely new city. Rule number two. Make sure you have a cup of coffee every day. Even if you don’t like coffee, you’ll love it here. And lastly, paint the town red by daylight, but meet us in the lobby every night at six.”

  “Are we excused?” Shannon asks, rolling her eyes.

  Liam swats her with a Seattle guidebook. “You’re excused.”

  Our room is small but elegant, with antique cherry furniture, two double beds, plush white bathrobes, and a collection of miniature Neutrogena products. Shannon and I flop onto one of the beds and talk for over an hour. Around five-thirty, Shannon pulls out a tube of silver glitter and we roll streaks onto our temples and cheeks. As I brush my hair, Shannon braids hers into pigtails. We decide not to change our clothes because Nina said the dress code in Seattle is casual with a capital “C.”

  When we arrive in the lobby, Liam and Nina are sitting on a couch in front of the fireplace. Liam is reading the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. Nina is reading a manuscript. She’s a freelance copy editor, so she’s always buried in a stack of papers. Shannon is the physical clone of Nina, down to the red hair and the Milky Way of freckles, but when it comes to energy level, she’s totally her dad.

  “The glitter girls!” Liam gives us both a hug. “Do either of you feel like turkey? Because although Nina and I are having major Thanksgiving guilt, we’re craving Asia
n food.”

  “How unpatriotic,” Shannon says, wryly.

  Liam turns to me. “Virginia, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

  I shrug. “Anything’s fine with me.”

  “Not good enough,” Liam says. “We need an opinion. We need to be swayed.”

  “I had turkey on the airplane,” I say.

  “Then it’s settled!” Liam claps his hands together. “Neen! Put down that manuscript. We’re having Thai food tonight.”

  We drive up to a neighborhood called Capitol Hill. It reminds me of the East Village, with ethnic restaurants and tattooed twenty-somethings milling about. Liam leads us to a Thai place, where we devour a vegetarian meal and declare it our best Thanksgiving dinner ever. I can’t help but think about the traditional Thanksgiving that took place on Riverside Drive tonight — turkey and stuffing and Mom rambling on about how she’s thankful for a wooonderful family and wooonderful friends and a wooonderful life.

  After dinner we wander down Broadway, which is the main street running through Capitol Hill. Liam and Nina are holding hands and reading dessert menus at various cafés. As Shannon and I trail behind, we tally up the various bodily locations where we’ve seen piercings this evening. So far, it’s cheeks, eyebrows, lips, ears, chins, tongues, and one shirtless guy with a ring through his nipple. We’re just musing about below-the-waist possibilities when we stumble upon an arrangement of small bronze footprints embedded into the sidewalk. Upon closer inspection, we realize they’re marking the steps for the rumba. Shannon and I start following the numbered footprints, doing the rumba. As soon as Liam and Nina spot us, they join in and the four of us dance until we’re laughing so hard that our stomachs cramp up.

  When we get back to the hotel, Shannon and I scrub our faces with the tiny bar of Neutrogena. She strips down right in front of me, pulling a T-shirt over her head. I head into the bathroom to change into my flannel pajamas, but Shannon doesn’t make me feel self-conscious about the fact that I prefer to undress in private.

  We decide to share one of the double beds. Shannon pulls back the covers. I crawl in after her and slide over, so we’re lying shoulder to shoulder.