“Why does Penelope want to meet Chris and me all of a sudden?” asked Alex.
“I think she has for a while. Your father was dragging his feet because he felt bad about not having told you about her sooner.”
“That’s why he didn’t come out here with you to help me move in,” Alex said flatly.
Her mother regarded her. “He did have to work, but you’re right. He was being a coward.”
“What’s he expecting Chris and me to do?”
“I think he hopes you’ll be willing to meet her. He said to tell you that he’ll call you tonight to talk about everything.”
“No, tell him not to. I don’t want to talk about it. Not right now. I have to think about my classes.”
“You’re going to do better this year, sweetie. The first year is always hard.”
Alex shook her head. “No, it’s not. I was a fuckup. My classes weren’t that hard at all. I just didn’t do enough work.”
“Don’t swear, honey.”
Alex laughed in a harsh burst. “Why not? You’ve heard it before.”
“I know I have, but I don’t need to hear it again. Not from you anyway.”
A few weeks before the end of the spring term of her freshman year, Alex drank so much at a junior boy’s twenty-first birthday party that she was sick for three days and probably should have gone to the hospital, but Cathy, her roommate, managed to get her to drink water and eat saltines and eventually she was able to keep down peanut butter on toast, then Cheerios with skim milk, and after that, she could take a shower without feeling dizzy and weak. It also helped that Jennifer, their RA, was out of town for the weekend; otherwise, Jennifer might have called for an ambulance, and Alex’s parents would then have been notified and they might have forced her to go to a school much closer to home instead of allowing her to return to her expensive quasi–Ivy League college in Washington, D.C., where a year earlier, to her and her friends’ surprise (and in some cases, envy), she’d managed to get in two weeks before classes started because by then her number was high enough on the waitlist, and her parents hadn’t yet mailed in the tuition check to the University of Illinois.
Something else that happened while she was at the junior boy’s birthday party, something she couldn’t confirm, having only a dim memory of the later hours of that night, was that two, possibly three, boys had taken her into one of the bedrooms at the apartment where the party took place and had sex with her. She didn’t think, however, that she could call it rape. Not exactly. She did not remember a struggle, nor did she have bruises anywhere on her body. She also wasn’t sore between her legs the next day, but there was some stickiness, and she knew that something had happened, something she probably wouldn’t have allowed if she were sober. Even in her reduced state the next morning, she remembered laughter and whiskers biting into her cheeks and chin and two or three boys whispering to each other and a door being shut and she herself giggling and later feeling sick and throwing up in the bathroom before she left the party. Her roommate, drunk too but less drunk than Alex, had half-carried her home with the help of another boy who lived in their dorm, one who had been out with friends who lived next door to the guys having the party.
After she recovered, Alex avoided the boy whose birthday they had celebrated, and he, it seemed, was also avoiding her, not meeting her eyes when they passed in the student union, only perfunctorily saying hello, and she could see that it took an effort for him even to do this, and Cathy had confirmed that at the party, Alex had gone off with him and another boy for a little while, but Cathy wasn’t sure who the second boy was, except that he was cute, cuter even than the host, whose name was Carlyle, though everyone called him Carl. As far as Cathy knew, there was no third boy, unless he was already in the bedroom, waiting. What made matters more complicated was that Alex had slept with Carl once before, just after returning to school for the spring semester on a night when she was more sober than on his birthday. If she had done it once, it seemed likely that he might have reason to expect her to have sex with him again.
Cathy thought that Alex should go to the school clinic to get screened for STDs, but Alex did not go until she was home for the summer and could discreetly take herself to the county health clinic. The results of her tests had all been normal, which she discovered upon opening the clinic’s envelope, one with no return address, her hands shaking as she worked at the flap. Cathy also thought that Alex should confront Carl and ask him what exactly had happened, but Alex didn’t want to. It embarrassed her, and what if nothing had happened, or at least nothing too serious, and then what if Carl thought she was a lunatic for accusing him of raping her? She worried that he would talk about her with other people and they would all say what a freak she was, what a freshman whore, what an idiot lush too—couldn’t she learn how to handle her liquor like most everyone else did? No one was forcing her to drink either. Why didn’t she just stop drinking before she got drunk if she was so worried about guys raping her?
Other girls, spreading the rumor, would probably be even crueler to her than the boys. The ones who were jealous of her, the ones who said nice things to her face but behind her back made faces and said catty things about her hair (which was fine) or clothes (fine too) or the way she laughed (a little high-pitched but not terrible), things she tried to ignore, knowing that the place they came from was small and ugly. She had places like this in her too, but she tried to keep them closed off as much as possible.
And now, her mother was compounding her anxiety by telling her that she had a sister, one hidden from view for the entirety of Alex and her brother’s lives. The start of the school year—so much stress already, especially because she was adamant about not falling into the same patterns that had ensnared her the previous year, and now she had to think about a girl named Penelope in New York who wanted to meet her, who thought that she had an unequivocal right to meet her.
But Alex supposed that it was her sister’s right, and privately, she did feel a little flattered, despite her irritation over her father’s cowardice and the fact that his long-held silence had been a kind of shortchange. Because if she were being honest, it might not have been too bad to have known all along that she had a half sister in France, one she might have been pen pals with, one she might have been allowed to visit. This older sister whom she could have talked to about boys, this sophisticated girl who would teach her how to tie a silk scarf and wear a beret, and maybe, Alex thought, though this was stretching it, maybe she would never have become a lush her first year in college and had sex with eleven guys, possibly twelve, during those nine months, in addition to the four she had slept with before college. She hoped it had only been Carlyle and one other guy in that darkened bedroom, that there hadn’t been a third guy waiting for her too.
Her brother, Chris, who was starting his senior year of high school, did not want to meet their sister. When Alex talked to him on the phone the night after their mother told her about Penelope, he said, “If she were to come here, what would we do? Go out for pizza and talk about how great Dad is? I mean, what am I supposed to say to her?”
“You just have to be nice to her,” said Alex. “That’s all.”
“So you’re going to meet her?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to if she comes down to D.C. and knocks on my door.”
“You live in a dorm. She won’t be able to get into your building.”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “What did Dad say when he told you?”
“I think he was kind of drunk. He just said, ‘This is a little tricky for me,’ and he kept clearing his throat until finally I said, ‘Are you dying or something? Is Mom dying?’ He kind of laughed and then he told me about her. Why did they name her Penelope? It sounds … I don’t know. It’s such a dumb name.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad. She probably goes by Penny.”
“See? You like her already. I bet you guys will be friends.”
“She wants to m
eet you too. Probably more than she wants to meet me.”
He snorted. “I bet. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to meet her.”
“You might change your mind.”
“You sound like Mom and Dad.”
“Well, they might be right.”
“Whatever. I don’t want her to come here. I’ll leave if she does.”
“I don’t think they’ll force you to meet her.”
“We’ll see if they try.”
* * *
After her mother left campus, Alex tried not to be absorbed into the familiar, now-ominous scene: classes by day, ambitious drinking by night. Her friends would drink anything too: Boone’s Farm, malt liquor, the cheapest vodkas and tequilas and beer—anything they could find someone to supply for them, usually an upperclassman but sometimes one of their own with a convincing fake ID. The point wasn’t the flavor of the alcohol, only the blurry euphoria, the sloppy, ephemeral feeling of godliness before the puking set in. The point was the stories that could later be told about these hazy, hilarious scenes. She had trouble convincing her friends that she was, in fact, serious about her intention to avoid the series of bad decisions that might lead her to the dispiriting squalor of some boy’s dorm room with its piles of dirty laundry and clattering empty beer bottles and its distinctive, cloying smell: half sweet, half repulsive, one that Alex had never encountered anywhere else. She wasn’t sure what accounted for it—soiled T-shirts and socks? Leftover food moldering under a bed or in a closet? Whatever it was, it now made her want to run heedlessly in the other direction.
Cathy, Alex’s roommate, seemed to understand her sudden and startling abstinence, because she was one of the few people who knew about what had probably happened to Alex at Carlyle’s party, but her other friends’ responses ranged from bemused skepticism to outright hostility. What, did she think she was better than they were? Had she turned Mormon or become a Jehovah’s Witness or something over the summer? Just what was so wrong with wanting to go out and get shit-faced once or twice a week when college would be such a drag otherwise? Did she really think that she would be able to stand around and drink Diet Coke while everyone else was having a great time playing quarters?
Cathy was also smart enough to recognize that the boozy parties weren’t the best way to spend her time, but she was not as popular as Alex and not very confident intellectually either, despite her good grades in high school and the obvious fact that she was there, enrolled at their elite university, one that received many thousands of annual applications, not even a quarter of these applicant-supplicants accepted. Cathy told Alex to ignore the kids who gave her a hard time, and also said that she would show her support by going to fewer parties herself. “I could stop going altogether if you wanted me to,” Cathy said.
“I don’t want you to have to do that for me,” said Alex, though she did. “You should go out whenever you want to. I’ll still go to some things.”
“You should,” said Cathy hopefully. “I’ll make sure you don’t get too crazy whenever you do go out.”
Alex knew that she probably wouldn’t but said nothing. Cathy was a well-meaning, nervous girl with a soft heart and wealthy parents who seemed mostly to want her out of their hair and firmly established in her own independent adult life. But Cathy did not want to be an adult, not yet. She still slept with a blond-furred teddy bear and ate animal crackers with the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she made for herself in their room when she stayed up late studying. She collected heart stickers and flowery stationery and used a pen with purple ink when she sent birthday cards to her friends, most of whom had stayed in Tallahassee and enrolled at Florida State. Alex felt a sometimes-painful affection for her, along with a desire to protect her, but she was also occasionally irritated by her roommate’s artless enthusiasms and unforced wholesomeness. Cathy seemed to like everyone and did not understand why some of their classmates were not particularly nice to her. And about Alex’s abrupt acquisition of a sister, Cathy was predictably enthusiastic. “Could I meet her too?” she asked. “I think she sounds so cool. Growing up in France, how awesome is that?”
“I guess you could meet her,” said Alex. “But maybe I should meet her by myself first.”
“Oh, sure,” said Cathy, blushing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to seem pushy.”
“You’re not,” said Alex. “You’re so sweet sometimes it kills me.”
Her roommate looked at her uncertainly. “I guess you mean that as a compliment?”
It was a Friday afternoon, the end of the second week of classes, when Penelope called from New York, no trace of a French accent in her voice, which sounded more girlish than Alex had expected from someone who was raised in France and had attended college at chic NYU. The warmth of her message also surprised Alex: “I’m just so glad that you know about me now, Alexandra. I’ve known about you and Chris most of my life and it was so strange to have you guys out there, completely unaware of my existence. I hope we can meet soon. I’m going to be in D.C. next Thursday through Sunday and I’d love to take you out for dinner and whatever else you think might be fun, if you have time. Please call me back as soon as you have a chance. I can’t wait to talk to you.”
Alex listened to her sister’s message five times, her stomach leaping each time she hit repeat. She’d had one stilted conversation with her father (their father, Alex realized with a start) since the lunch when her mother had told her about Penelope. On the phone, Mr. Fiore had sounded almost defiant, as if he had had nothing but good intentions in keeping the news of Penelope’s existence to himself until now. As if Alex and Chris would have been grievously scarred by the knowledge that they had a sister, that their father had had sex with another woman before their mother’s advent. It wasn’t until the end of their conversation that he had said something self-effacing and sincere. “I didn’t want you and Chris to think badly of me,” he said quietly. “I know it was cowardly to wait so long to tell you.”
For several seconds, Alex said nothing. Her father eventually cleared his throat, about to speak again, but Alex interrupted him. “You didn’t tell me,” she said. “Mom did. But I guess I understand why you wanted her to do it.”
He sighed heavily. “… if you knew how much anxiety all of this has caused me. I almost started seeing a therapist.”
“Maybe you should have.”
“Yes, maybe so.”
“You still could.”
“I know,” he said patiently, as if he and Alex’s mother had argued many times over his reluctance to make an appointment. “Do you want to see one? Your mother and I will pay for it if you do.”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“If you change your mind, the offer won’t expire.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll see.”
She hadn’t told him or her mother or brother, only Cathy, that she did plan to see a therapist, that on the first day of classes, she’d called the counseling service on campus and made an appointment, but none of the therapists, most of whom were Ph.D. candidates in psychology, could see her right away. She had to wait until the following Friday, which, as it turned out, was the same day that Penelope called for the first time. It was upon her return from her first meeting with Dr. Abbott that she was greeted by her sister’s warm, almost giddy, message.
Alex’s intention had been to talk with Dr. Abbott (who looked only five or six years older than Alex, wore her hair in a long, dark braid, and, startlingly, had clear braces fastened to her teeth) about her decision not to drink at parties anymore and that she still thought about Carlyle’s party and the hazy events of that night more than she wanted to. But when she had taken her seat across from Dr. Abbott—Sylvia, she had told Alex to call her if she wanted to—she hadn’t wanted to talk about the party. It was too embarrassing, and Dr. Abbott would probably dismiss her as a nitwit drunk, as Alex knew others would, the date-rapists in particular. She was thinking of them in these terms now, more and more. But she wanted to mak
e a good impression on Dr. Abbott, make this solemn young woman like her. Alex wanted to seem smart and sophisticated, as if she were courting her—something that she could also imagine herself doing with Penelope. It was she whom Alex talked about instead, this unexpected half sister, and her father’s cowardice, her mother’s collusion, her brother’s disaffection.
Dr. Abbott nodded sympathetically as Alex spoke, saying that she understood, of course it was hard, of course Alex was surprised and disoriented and a little angry at her parents. Dr. Abbott would not tell her what to do though; she would only ask questions or nod encouragingly as Alex spoke. “Do you think I should be happy that she exists?” Alex asked.
But Dr. Abbott would not say. Instead she said, “I want to know how you feel. That’s all that matters. My opinion isn’t important.”
“I think I’m glad,” Alex said after a disappointed pause. “I think I probably am.”
Dr. Abbott nodded, crossing her legs, which were covered by a navy blue skirt, and looked expectantly at Alex.
“Why do you think she wants to meet my brother and me?” Alex asked.
Dr. Abbott hesitated. “I suppose she likes the idea of having siblings. A lot of people do. But I shouldn’t be speaking for her. You can ask her if you meet her. Do you plan to?”
Alex nodded.
“Do you think you can forgive your father for waiting so long to tell you and your brother?”
The Virginity of Famous Men Page 20
