The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things

by Carolyn Mackler

  Even Brie Newhart notices my eyebrow ring. We’re sitting in French, waiting for class to begin. I can tell she’s staring at my eyebrow, so I turn and smile at her.

  “I want to get my nose pierced,” she says, “but I’m scared of needles.”

  “It wasn’t that bad. It took under thirty seconds.”

  “Really? That’s all?”

  I nod.

  If someone told me a few months ago that Brie and I would have a normal humanly exchange, I would have been like, Yeah, right. But I’m not so floored now. I guess I’m feeling a little different about things, like how outside appearances can be deceiving and sometimes people aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Speaking of appearances, Brie looks pale and worn out, like a T-shirt that’s been in the dryer too many times. She’s not quite as intimidating as she was back in September.

  Mademoiselle Kiefer claps her hands together. I glance at Froggy. He got a haircut over break, reducing his cowlick to a little ridge on his forehead.

  If only Froggy would notice my eyebrow ring. Now that would make my day.

  It’s the second to last day in November. I just got home from school. I’m in my bathroom cleaning my eyebrow. I’ve been following the aftercare instructions to the letter. I start by removing crusty matter around the pierce hole. There’s not a lot, just a few flakes of skin. I dip a Q-Tip into warm water, wet down the area, and apply a smidgen of Dial.

  The door to the bathroom is cracked open. No one’s home, so I have Z100 pumped in my room. I’m singing along with the radio as I lather the antibacterial soap.

  Mom peeks into the bathroom.

  I stop singing. “What are you doing home?”

  “I have to pick up some files,” she says. “Can you talk for a minute?”

  I continue soaping my eyebrow. Z100 has just announced that they’re doing an hour-long tribute to women hip-hop singers.

  Mom sits down on the toilet lid and takes a ShrinkBreath — in through the nose and out through the mouth. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your recent rebellions,” she says. “Buying that ticket to Seattle and now this.” Mom gestures in the direction of my face.

  Ashanti starts singing “Foolish.” It’s on loudly, so Mom has to raise her voice to be audible.

  “I realize that the teen years are a time to assert your autonomy, to establish an identity separate from your family. Anaïs went through this stage, just a few years later.” Mom takes another ShrinkBreath. “I just want you to think carefully about your actions. I don’t like to see you being so impetuous.”

  “Impetuous” is on my SAT Hot 100 list. It means “sudden and spontaneous,” which is exactly what I’d like to be. I decide not to inform Mom of that. Instead, I lean over the faucet and rinse my eyebrow.

  “Having a ring through your eyebrow seems so barbaric,” Mom says. “I can hardly look at it without wincing.”

  Ashanti is singing about how she keeps running back to someone even though he treats her badly. I carefully slide the ring back and forth to make sure the pierce is clean.

  “When women first started getting their ears pierced, everyone thought that was barbaric,” I say. “But now it’s as normal as necklaces. I think it’s the same with facial piercings. It’ll just take time to get used to them.”

  “The two aren’t comparable, Virginia. Piercing your ears is easy and relatively painless. Getting a hole through your eyebrow . . . that’s just, well, unattractive. You looked much better without it.”

  “In your opinion,” I say. “Besides, my eyebrow was easy and relatively painless, too.”

  Mom clenches her jaw. “Look, I just wanted to say that I’d like you to —”

  I cut her off. “If you’re trying to convince me to take out my eyebrow ring, I’m sorry. It’s here to stay.”

  Mom stands up so quickly that a towel hanging on the shower rack slips to the floor. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I don’t like it.”

  As she marches out of the bathroom, I pat my eyebrow with a cotton ball.

  “I’ll tell you what’s gotten into me,” I call after her. “I’m finally having a little fun in my life.”

  But Ashanti has launched into a chorus of “never gonna change,” so I don’t think Mom hears me.

  One of the side effects of not being numb anymore is that I’m starting to realize what I want, and I’m sticking to it. Which pisses the hell out of Mom.

  I’m dreading our shopping trip today.

  It’s been over a week since the bathroom showdown, and Mom and I are still on pins and needles. We haven’t had a blowout, though we’ve been making a lot of snippy comments back and forth. But the Lowensteins’ annual holiday party is less than two weeks away, and Mom is insisting that I get something new to wear and that it come from Saks. I know what that means. Salon Z. The plus-size floor.

  It’s Sunday afternoon. Dad and Byron are at a Knicks game. Mom and I are riding the elevator downstairs.

  “Why can’t we go to Strawberry?” I ask. Strawberry is a funky discount store that I’ve browsed in before, but I’ve never had the guts to buy anything there. I like that they have cool clothes in every size, from extra-small to extra-large. And they’re all mixed together, so the fat girls aren’t banished to the fat floor where the dresses look like gunnysacks and the mannequins resemble embalmed grandmothers.

  “Strawberry?” Mom scrunches her nose. “It’s so cheap-looking. We’re going to a holiday party, not the Jersey Shore.”

  “What about Old Navy?”

  “Too casual,” Mom says.

  We step onto Riverside Drive. There’s a bitter wind whipping in from the river. The doorman flags a cab. Mom tells the driver to take us to Saks.

  Saks is swamped with holiday shoppers. We weave our way to the elevator bank. Mom presses the button for the tenth floor. Salon Zit. Salon Zero. Salon Zaftig.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe we can check out the teen section instead?”

  “But . . .” Mom glances uncomfortably at the other shoppers in the elevator.

  I press the button for the fifth floor. I’m not sure what’s come over me. I guess I just want to wear something more fun for my holiday outfit this year. More colors. More curves. Maybe even a little flesh exposure.

  When the elevator arrives on the fifth floor, I head into the teen section. Mom hesitantly follows.

  The only way to compare the teen styles to the Salon Z styles is likening it to Madison Avenue and the South Bronx. Completely different universes only an arm’s length apart.

  “Do you really think we’ll find something flattering for you?” Mom asks as I eye a stretchy black dress with sequins around the chest. “I mean, these aren’t exactly . . .”

  “You never know,” I say, plunking the black dress off the rack.

  I gaze at a row of sparkly red velvet gowns. They’re really glamorous, like something a movie star might wear to the Academy Awards.

  “I don’t know, Virginia,” Mom says. “Red isn’t really your color. Why don’t we find something a little less attention-grabbing?”

  “I like red,” I say, taking the gown in two different sizes.

  Mom digs a Certs out of her purse and pops it into her mouth.

  I’m just checking out some silky kimono-style dresses when Mom holds up a pale green satin number. It’s very roomy. And very pale green.

  “What do you think?” she asks.

  “It looks like a bridesmaid dress,” I say.

  Mom grinds the Certs between her teeth so loudly I can hear it three racks away. “You don’t have to try it on.”

  “No, I will.”

  Once we’ve selected five dresses, we follow signs to the dressing room. It has an abundance of mirrors, which are thankfully outside the stalls. They’re piping an orchestral version of “Silent Night” over the sound system. I settle into a stall and strip down to my undies and socks.

  I can hear Mom pacing nervously outside
my door. I try on the black sequined dress. Even though it’s stretchy, I can barely tug it over my hips. I wriggle out of it, toss it on the little bench, and move on to the largest of the red velvet gowns.

  “So?” Mom asks.

  “Still trying.”

  The red gown is too snug. So is the kimono. The only one that actually fits is Mom’s pale-green selection. And even with that one, I can only zip it halfway up my back.

  I glance down at myself. I look like an overgrown avocado.

  “Any luck?” Mom asks. I hear another Certs crunch in her mouth.

  “None are quite right.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They don’t exactly fit.”

  I hear the saleswoman suggesting we check out Salon Z.

  “Honey,” Mom says, “let’s go up to Salon Z. That’s where we should have started in the first place. We can look for something a little more layered.”

  “I don’t want to go to Salon Z,” I say, sitting on the bench and folding my arms across my chest. I sound like a brat, but I don’t care. I mean, do I have to write it in blood? I. Do. Not. Want. To. Wear. Any. More. Ugly. Clothes. From. Salon. Z.

  “Why not?” Mom asks. There’s an edge in her voice, like she’s losing her patience.

  “Because the clothes make me look like a dumpy old great-aunt.”

  Mom takes a few steps closer to my stall, so she’s right against the door. “With your body type, Virginia,” she whispers, “it’s better to go for layers. I should know.”

  “Salon Z has a lot of attractive plus-size clothing,” the saleswoman chimes in. “You’d be surprised at the . . .”

  “What body type are you talking about?” I ask, standing up. I’m on the verge of tears.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” Mom says in a hiss-whisper.

  I fling open the door, even though I’m half squeezed into the avocado dress. “Why can’t you say it out loud, Mom?” I shout. “I’m fat, OK? F-A-T. But that doesn’t mean I have to hide beneath layers of fabric. That doesn’t mean I’m exactly like you used to be, ashamed of showing my body. That doesn’t mean I have to get my dress from stupid old Salo —”

  Mom cuts me off. “I’ve had quite enough of you this afternoon,” she says curtly.

  I slam the door and start crying. My face is hot and my nose is streaming.

  “Meet me at the elevators as soon as you’ve changed,” Mom says through the door. “We’re going home.”

  Mom’s footsteps recede from the dressing room.

  I kick the wall of my stall. It leaves a small indentation. I kick it again, harder this time. I’m only wearing socks, so I bash my toes pretty badly, sending a jarring shock through my whole body.

  As the orchestral “Silent Night” hits the sleep-in-heavenly-peace part, I collapse to the floor and sob for five minutes straight.

  I think the second toe on my right foot is broken. It hurts so badly that I can’t put any weight on that foot without shrieking. When I e-mailed Shannon about it, she instructed me to go to the emergency room immediately. But Dad left for a business trip yesterday evening, and Mom is so angry that if I asked her for anything, she’d probably go after my nine intact toes.

  On Monday morning I hobble to school and wince my way through first period. When I arrive in gym, Teri takes one look at me and sends me to the nurse’s office. Paul hands me an ice pack and tries my parents’ office and cell phones. He can’t reach Dad and Mom is with patients all morning, so her secretary gives him the number for my doctor.

  Dr. Love’s office says they can fit me in right away. I give Paul my locker combination. He retrieves my jacket and backpack, helps me outside, and loans me cab money.

  Now that I know this can get me out of school so easily, I’ll have to make a career out of breaking my toes.

  That’s a joke.

  Sort of.

  As soon as Dr. Love enters the examination room, he compliments my eyebrow ring.

  “How’s it healing?”

  “Pretty well,” I say. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Dr. Love washes his hands. As he approaches the table, I pull aside my eyebrow ring so he can get a better look at the pierce.

  “What happened to your finger?” Dr. Love asks.

  I lower my hand to my side. “I burned myself.”

  “How?”

  “Truth?”

  Dr. Love nods.

  “On a candle.”

  As he examines my finger, his face looks concerned. “You should rub vitamin E oil on it every night. That’ll reduce scarring.” Dr. Love checks out my eyebrow ring and then sits on his rotating stool. “So what’s up with your toe?”

  “I think it’s broken.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I was pissed at my mom so I kicked a wall in Saks.”

  “If you’ve got to kick somewhere,” Dr. Love says, laughing.

  I crack up, too.

  He gingerly unlaces my sneaker and rolls off my sock. After examining my toe, he says that while he’s almost certain it’s broken, he’s not going to send me for x-rays because either way he’ll just have to tape it up.

  “Speaking of your mom,” Dr. Love says as he tapes my wounded toe to my third toe, “I owe you an apology.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “When you were here for your last visit, I regretted involving her in that discussion. Weight is such a dicey issue, especially for mothers and daughters. I firmly believe that it’s about feeling good, regardless of your body type. I’m not sure your mom understands that.”

  I choke up. I can’t believe what a relief it is to hear this out loud, like I’m not a factory defect or something.

  Dr. Love hands me a tissue. “Going through a hard time with your family right now?”

  I nod.

  “I bet you’re pretty angry.”

  I blow my nose.

  “Anger is a healthy emotion,” Dr. Love says, “as long as you can find ways to channel it where you don’t hurt yourself in the process.”

  I glance at my burnt finger, my broken toe.

  “Have you ever tried kickboxing?” Dr. Love asks.

  I wipe my eyes. “Is it like aerobics? Because that’s really not my thing.”

  “No, it’s nothing like aerobics. Kickboxing combines traditional martial arts with boxing, stretching, and breathing techniques. A friend of mine teaches a class geared for teenage girls.” Dr. Love pulls out his prescription pad and jots down the name and address of the gym. “It’s a great way to release anger, not to mention build strength and flexibility.”

  “It sounds interesting,” I say.

  “Give your toe a few weeks to heal and then check it out.”

  By the time I leave Dr. Love’s office, the temperature has plummeted. My toe feels a little better now that it’s taped up. I zip my jacket and limp toward the subway station.

  That’s when it hits me. I’m three blocks from Columbia. I haven’t been to Columbia since late September, when I surprised Byron in his dorm room.

  My heart is pounding as I reach the main entranceway to the campus. I stare up at the imposing gate, topped with golden crowns and flanked by toga-wearing statues.

  Somewhere inside of there, Annie Mills is living, breathing, suffering.

  I shuffle through the gate and nimbly navigate the brick pathways, which are slick with ice. It’s hard to imagine that Annie Mills is a real person. No one in my family ever talks about her, so she exists only in my imagination, a tragic figure whose life was destroyed by my brother.

  My heart is punching against my chest as I stop a woman on the path and ask where I can find a student directory. She points me toward a glass building and tells me to look for the computers near the café.

  By the time I make it into the building, my ears are frostbitten and my neck is stinging. I thaw out for a second before heading to a computer. I click the box on the sc
reen labeled “student directory” and enter A-n-n-i-e M-i-l-l-s.

  It pops up on the screen, just like that.

  Her phone number and room and everything. My knees are buckling. Annie Mills lives in Wallach, the same dorm as Byron. I glance nervously over my shoulder before scribbling the information onto the back of the paper from Dr. Love. Then I close the screen, grab my backpack, and hobble off campus.

  As soon as I get home, I put the prescription paper in my cedar box, strip down to my T-shirt, and crawl into bed, where I remain for the rest of the day.

  My toe has healed steadily over the past ten days. Even so, I’ve been excused from gym. Brie Newhart has been complaining of dizzy spells, so Teri won’t let her participate either. Some mornings we set up cones or inflate volleyballs, but usually we just do our homework together.

  Brie has been helping me understand the difference between a relative pronoun and an object pronoun in French. And I have a better grasp on the books we’ve been reading for “Ostracism and Oppression,” so I give her pointers for her language arts papers. It’s not like we chat much, but I think we’ve established a silent peace treaty. At least I have. I’m not so obsessed with what she said about me in the bathroom anymore. I mean, I’ve heard her puking in that same stall three times now, so I hardly think she’s in a position to judge me. Mostly, I just appreciate her help with my French homework.

  I’m really suffering in French. I may get my first C ever. My mind wanders so much during class. I can’t stop looking over at Froggy. I’ve spotted him walking out of school with Sarah, the freshman girl with the ski-jump nose. Seeing that she’s most likely Froggy’s girlfriend, I shouldn’t spend French class pining after him. But I just can’t help it.

  I wish I could memorize French pronouns the way I’ve memorized Annie Mills’s contact information. I take the paper out of my cedar box all the time just to look at it, to think about how Byron once called that number, maybe even visited that room.

  Speaking of Byron, he’s in a good mood today. It’s Wednesday afternoon, a week before Christmas. I’m watching Total Request Live and munching on chocolate-covered pretzels when the buzzer rings.