The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things

by Carolyn Mackler

  As soon as Shannon switches off the light, she says, “Do you want to play Fairy Godmother?”

  “Sure.”

  We always used to play Fairy Godmother during sleepovers in junior high. The game goes like this: If you had a fairy godmother who could wave a magic wand over your head and grant you three wishes, what would you ask for? The only rule of Fairy Godmother is that you have to be completely honest.

  “You start,” Shannon says.

  “My first wish is easy. I wish I were thin. I wish I had the perfect body.”

  “Kazam,” Shannon says, tapping my forehead with her finger. “And your second wish?”

  “I want a boyfriend who loves me and accepts me and we’re great friends and he has a sense of humor and he’s totally hot. And please, Fairy Godmother,” I add, “if you decide to make him have green eyes and play shortstop for the Yankees, I wouldn’t have a problem with it.”

  Shannon giggles as she pats my forehead. “One ball-playing boyfriend, coming right up.”

  “For my third wish . . .” I let that thought trail off. Shannon and I haven’t talked about my brother at all since I arrived. I’ve been enjoying the vacation from all the drama in New York. It’s a relief not to have it occupying my brain every single second. Even so, the rules of Fairy Godmother are strict. You must be honest about your wishes.

  “I wish this whole ordeal with Byron never happened,” I say quickly. “I wish it would disappear and we could go back to the way things used to be.”

  When Shannon reaches over, I assume she’s going to touch my forehead, but she slides her arm under the covers and squeezes my hand.

  “Before I grant that wish, I want you to say it out loud. I’ve never heard you say it out loud.”

  “Say what?”

  “What your brother did.”

  I turn to face Shannon. The room is dark, so I can only see the silhouette of her profile. Could she possibly be right? I’ve been obsessing about the date rape so much these past six weeks, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually said those two words out loud. I guess we’ve all just followed Mom’s lead and called it “the ordeal” or “why Byron got suspended from Columbia.”

  “OK.” I take a shallow breath. “Rape. Date rape.”

  “Who? What?”

  “Byron. Byron date-raped a girl. No, not a girl. Annie Mills. Byron date-raped Annie Mills.”

  “And you wish it never happened?”

  “Yeah. I mean, shouldn’t I?”

  “Of course you should wish he never did it.” Shannon pauses before adding, “But he did.”

  I’m quiet for a long time. I think about that quote Shannon read me from the tea box, about how everything in life is tied together, that nothing stands by itself. She shared it with me the morning after I found out about the date rape so I was like, What on earth are you talking about? But now it hits me how much I’ve learned about Byron since then. I mean, it’s not like he’s done to me what he did to Annie Mills, but he hasn’t exactly been the perfect big brother these past few years. And I probably wouldn’t have even realized that if it hadn’t been for this big-time wake-up call.

  “Did you ever think Byron could do something like this?” I ask.

  “I never considered date rape,” Shannon says. “But I can’t say I thought he walked on water, like you did. Maybe it’s different because he’s not my brother, but I’d hear the things he’d say to you or watch the way he’d blow you off all the time.”

  “I know, Shan. I’ve been thinking about that so much recently.” I choke up, making it hard to talk. “It’s just . . . I don’t know . . . it’s just confusing to see this all so clearly for the first time.”

  I’m really crying by this point. My nose is running and my stomach is heaving. Shannon wraps her arms around me.

  “I’ve missed you, Virginia,” Shannon whispers.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I say, wiping my wet cheeks on the sheet. “More than you can imagine.”

  It’s Saturday afternoon. Shannon and I are sitting on a pier sipping hazelnut lattes and watching ferries shuttle to Bainbridge Island. Over the past two days, we’ve done everything under the sun. Or I guess I should say rain. It rains constantly in Seattle. The hotel loaned us a huge black umbrella and, fueled on various coffee concoctions, we explored Pike Place Market — an open-air market on the waterfront where fish vendors fling salmon through the air. We trekked back up to Capitol Hill. We even had Liam and Nina drive us to the neighborhood where Bill Gates supposedly lives in his multi-million–dollar mansion.

  I took a picture of the area for Froggy in case he ever talks to me again. It’s been over a month since the incident at my locker, and he still hasn’t said a word to me. Shannon thinks he’s probably licking his wounds, that guys have sensitive egos that way. I’m convinced that Froggy was legally blind in September but sold his trombone so he could get laser surgery on his eyes. Now that he can see what I actually look like, he can’t believe he ever came near me.

  Yesterday Shannon and I rode an elevator to the top of this futuristic tower called the Space Needle. The skies were clear, so we got a stunning view of Puget Sound, the Cascade Mountains, and the Olympic Mountains. Looking south, I was blown away by Mount Rainier. It’s the tallest, widest mountain I could ever imagine, just like those snowcapped peaks I drew when I was a kid. As I gaped at Mount Rainier, I was both speechless and elated.

  That’s how I’ve been since I arrived in Seattle. Not speechless as much as elated. For the first time in months, I’ve been laughing at even the silliest things. I’m not distracted all the time. And being around Shannon, who rarely talks to strangers for fear of stuttering, makes me more outgoing. I’ve been babbling to every person on the street, asking for directions or striking up random conversations. The strangest thing is that I’m not thinking about food all the time. Rather than constantly munching, like I do at home, I’m just eating when I’m hungry. I’m not back on my diet, but I may have lost a few pounds because my Fat Pants are feeling a little loose.

  Shannon and I have decided we want to do something special to commemorate this weekend. That’s what we’re discussing now, down at the pier.

  “Friendship rings?” Shannon suggests.

  “Too overdone.”

  “Toe rings?”

  “My toes are really sensitive,” I say. “It would drive me crazy.”

  I hear a foghorn blaring in the distance. A guy wearing combat boots passes our bench. He’s got a shaved head, dozens of studs in his ears, and a ring through his nostril.

  “Hey, you!” I shout to him.

  I don’t know who looks more surprised, the guy or Shannon. He freezes in his tracks and stares at me.

  “Where do you get body piercing done around here?” I ask.

  Shannon grabs hold of my hand and squeals.

  “Lots of places.” He scratches his bare head. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” I lie.

  Shannon digs her fingernails into my palm.

  “Unless your parents come along, most places won’t pierce you until you’re eighteen.”

  Shannon and I must look devastated because the guy sits down on the bench with us. Shannon adjusts the umbrella so it’s covering him as well.

  “I know a guy named Sage at a place on Capitol Hill,” he says. “It’s called Holy Moly. He’s the one with the lime-green Mohawk. If you tell him I sent you, he’ll hook you up.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “X,” he says.

  “X?” Shannon and I ask in unison.

  The guy smiles sheepishly. “My real name is Matthew, but don’t tell Sage that.”

  Shannon and I walk to the corner, where we hop on an electric bus that’s attached to overhead cables. On the ride to Capitol Hill, we discuss the factors of a potential piercing.

  There’s the legal issue, but we both agree that we won’t be deterred by age limits. It’s not like they can send someone to jail for getting a n
ose ring.

  Then there’s the parental factor.

  “Liam and Nina will love it. They’re always saying they want matching bellybutton rings.” Shannon gives me a sympathetic look. “What about yours?”

  “They’ll hate it,” I say. “But they can’t exactly make me live in a refrigerator box, so what’s the worst that can happen?”

  Then we discuss the most pressing element — bodily location. I’ve decided to get an eyebrow ring. I want something on my face, but nose rings are too gross, what with the booger factor. Chin studs look like zits. And I’m worried a lip ring would get torn out by my braces.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  Shannon stares out the bus window. “My tongue,” she says quietly.

  “You’re getting your tongue pierced?”

  Shannon nods. “I’ve spent my entire life hating my tongue because it makes me stutter. It’s time to start bonding with it.”

  We find Holy Moly right away. Sage, the only person in the shop with a lime-green Mohawk, is discussing aftercare with a woman who has just gotten a stud through her cheek. We linger around the counter for a few minutes, admiring tattoo templates. When Sage finally comes over, we explain our situation and tell him that X thought he could help us.

  “For X,” Sage says, “I’ll do anything.”

  Sage starts by examining what he calls “the webbing” on Shannon’s tongue, which he proceeds to deem pierceable. Then, as he reviews prices and procedures, I count my money. With the cash from Dad, I’ve got enough for the eyebrow ring. Sage writes down our names and tells us to return in a half-hour.

  We walk over to Broadway and grab some pepperoni pizza. Sage recommended that Shannon eat a fortifying meal, since she might not be able to deal with solid foods for a few days after the piercing. Once we’re done, we wander into a funky vintage shop. Shannon buys a plastic ring. I buy a polyester orange shirt with horizontal green stripes. Mom’s always telling me I should stick to neutral colors. And definitely no horizontal stripes, since they reveal extra poundage. But something about the shirt beckons me. Besides, it’s only five bucks so I can always toss it if I change my mind.

  On our way back to Holy Moly, Shannon asks, “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Surer than ever.”

  Twenty minutes later, I have a silver ring in my left eyebrow and Shannon has a stainless steel barbell through her tongue. The pain wasn’t bad, at least for me. Sage fastened on clamps to hold the skin in place and told me to take a deep breath. It felt like a sharp pinch when the needle went through. I definitely flinched, but it was over pretty quickly.

  Shannon went next. As Sage marked a dot on her tongue, she was trembling like a dog during a thunderstorm. I didn’t blame her for being anxious because although Sage reassured her that he was quite experienced, he did explain that there are risks involved when piercing a tongue, like hitting a vein. It hurt so badly that Shannon teared up. I held her hand as she winced in pain. Sage said it’ll be healed in no time, like six weeks, so she took some comfort in that.

  Then he launched into a lecture about cleaning and maintenance. I promised him I would be scrupulously sterile, but even so he warned me that it’ll take three months to heal.

  I don’t care if it takes three years because I love my eyebrow ring. I loved it the second Sage held up the mirror so I could see the new addition to my face.

  “I can’t believe it,” I kept repeating as I stared at my reflection.

  It was like I was seeing myself for the very first time.

  “Here’s to facial ornamentation!” Liam raises a glass of water in the air.

  “Here, here.” I clink with him.

  “Heee, heee,” Shannon says. It’s hard for her to talk with a swollen tongue.

  Nina sips her beer. “Will you please tell your parents we had nothing to do with this?”

  I dip a piece of bread into olive oil. “I’ll take all the blame.”

  “Tell them we’re furious with Shannon,” Liam says as he studies the menu.

  We’re eating at a restaurant called the Pink Door. It’s on Post Alley, which is walking distance from the Claremont. There’s no sign outside, so you just have to look for the pink door.

  While we’re waiting for the waitress to come over, I tell them the story of Sage and X. Shannon nods and makes guttural noises.

  “After I’ve finished my book on onions,” Liam says, “I’m thinking of proposing a book about people with unusual names.”

  I consider mentioning Froggy Welsh the Fourth, but then the waitress arrives to take our order.

  After dinner we head right back to the hotel. My flight leaves at eight-thirty tomorrow morning, so Nina is giving us a wake-up call at five-thirty. They’re going to drive me to the airport and then continue on to Walla Walla. Nina makes both of us take Advil before we go to our room, in case the pain increases overnight.

  Shannon switches on the television and starts sucking an ice cube. I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I glance into the mirror. I can’t believe how much I love my eyebrow ring. It makes me look unique and interesting. I stare at my reflection for about five minutes, checking out my face from every possible angle.

  I step into the shower. It’s one of those contoured tubs with a detachable nozzle. As I run the nozzle over my chest, I think about Froggy. I’ve been thinking about him a lot since I’ve been in Seattle. Whenever I do, I get this pang in my stomach. I wish I could make things better. I miss kissing him, but I also just miss the way I felt in his presence — sort of giggly and girlish.

  I probably shouldn’t have denounced everything having to do with the opposite sex. What Byron did was horrible, but I have to remember that that was date rape. And forcing yourself onto someone is completely different than consensual fooling around, which is what Froggy and I were doing. I think I got them jumbled together in my head.

  I lower the nozzle so it sprays a stream of warm water between my legs. This is the first time I’ve touched myself like this in months. I don’t hold the nozzle there for long, just enough to send a tingling sensation through my body.

  That’s when it dawns on me.

  At some point over the past few days, I’ve stopped feeling numb.

  Mom and Dad are waiting for me at the airport. I think they’re even smiling. Liam and Nina overnighted them fresh salmon packed on ice, so maybe that cushioned the blow of my running away to Seattle.

  As I get closer, Mom’s smile fades. “What’s on your face?”

  My hand wanders to my eyebrow. I’m about to touch the ring when I remember that Sage told me not to fiddle with it. “An eyebrow ring.”

  “I know what it is. But what it is doing on your eyebrow?”

  “I like it,” Dad says.

  “Don’t encourage her, Mike.”

  Dad reaches for my suitcase.

  “Let’s go,” Mom says. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  None of us talk much on the ride home. Mom says they appreciated the salmon from Liam and Nina. Dad asks if I went up in the Space Needle. I tell them that we stayed on Virginia Street. Dad says he bought capers to eat with the salmon. Mom asks when the Space Needle was built. I repeat that we stayed on Virginia Street.

  As soon as we get back to the apartment, Mom grabs a book and disappears into their bedroom. Dad joins Byron on the couch, where he’s watching a Knicks game. I go into the kitchen and devour two slices of leftover pumpkin pie drenched in homemade whipped cream.

  As I’m heading into my bedroom, Byron calls out, “Welcome home, Gin.”

  “Thanks.”

  In the old days, I would have paraded over and shown him my eyebrow ring. If he liked it, I would have been the happiest person on the planet. If he said it looked dumb, I would have taken it out instantly. But now I couldn’t care less what Byron thinks.

  I’m on my way into school the next morning when I run into Ms. Crowley.

  “A true Seattle babe!” she exclaims, admiring my eyebro
w ring.

  I give her the quick scoop on my trip, promising to fill her in at lunch.

  As soon as the bell rings, I scurry up to global studies. We’re midway through the terrorism unit. Mr. Vandenhausler spends the first several minutes explaining how the best way to trap terrorists is to get inside their heads, to understand the nuts and bolts of their operations. His mustache twitches like a rattlesnake’s tail as he instructs us to break into small groups and pretend that we are masterminding a terrorist attack.

  I wind up in a group with Alyssa Wu and three guys. The guys are debating whether to hijack an airplane or go the biological-warfare route. Alyssa is knitting. She must have noticed me watching her because she leans toward me and whispers, “I love your eyebrow ring.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you get it done downtown?”

  “No, it was at a place in Seattle. That’s where I went over Thanksgiving.”

  “Lucky,” she says. “All I did was go to Delaware, where my family fought for four days and my dad was only thankful that he wasn’t the turkey.”

  I crack up.

  “Alyssa Wu! Virginia Shreves!” Mr. Vandenhausler marches over to our desks. “Terrorism is not a laughing matter. Do you think the FBI and the CIA are giggling right now? As a matter of fact —” Mr. Vandenhausler stops when he notices my eyebrow ring. “Virginia, when did you get your eyebrow pierced?”

  “Over Thanksgiving break.”

  Mr. Vandenhausler’s mustache twitches ever so slightly. “Did it hurt?”

  I nod.

  “Serious pain?” he asks.

  “Not that bad.”

  Mr. Vandenhausler looks disappointed. “Well, get back to terrorism, girls. You’ve got a world to save.”

  That’s how it’s been all day. People who I never thought noticed me before have been telling me how great my eyebrow ring looks. It’s funny. I always assumed an Iron Rule of the High School Way of Life is that only the cool crowd is allowed to take fashion risks and if a regular/dorky person does something wacky, then everyone will call them a poseur or a wannabe. But the strangest thing is that that hasn’t been happening at all.