Mom drops her hand to her side and her mouth falls open.
“He’s right, Phyllis,” Dad says. “It is awful, and let’s not pretend it isn’t.”
Mom stares wordlessly at Dad. Byron isn’t saying anything either. I’m still pressed against the fridge, barely blinking and only taking oxygen when absolutely necessary.
“You know what makes me angry?” Dad says. “I know what Byron did was wrong, but it was a twenty-minute mistake. A drunken mistake that could quite possibly ruin his life.”
A twenty-minute drunken mistake???!!!!!!
Okay, that’s not cool.
Hearing Dad put it that way, as a mistake, is CRAZY. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a horrible, mean, entitled choice, and Dad shouldn’t frame it as some kind of accident. I clench my hands into fists. I’m starting to feel anger building up in my ears and shooting down my arms.
“What I don’t understand is this,” Dad continues. “Byron was already punished last semester. Isn’t that enough? Why did that girl have to take it to the police?”
Before I can stop myself, I’m saying, “Did any of you think she went to the police because what Byron did was wrong? And her name is Annie Mills. Not ‘that girl.’ ”
Dead silence.
“Virginia Shreves,” Mom finally says, “whose side are you on?”
“I’m not talking sides,” I say. “I’m just saying—”
“Don’t say,” Dad says, raising his voice. “Go to your room. Now.”
I haven’t been sent to my room since I was little. I reach over, grab a raspberry Danish, and storm down the hall. I don’t even bother closing my door. I hold the pastry between my front teeth while I toss things into my backpack—notebooks, novel, phone, money, gum. Then I wriggle my feet into my Converse and hurry out the front door.
I’m eating the raspberry Danish and riding the elevator down when it stops on nine. Mrs. Myers shuffles on. She takes one look at my overall cutoffs, leans into her cane, and says, “What kind of outfit is that? It looks like you’re wearing a tent that’s—”
“Please don’t comment on what I’m wearing,” I say sharply.
“Don’t interrupt me, young lady.” Mrs. Myers’s face tightens into a scowl. “When I was your—”
The elevator arrives at the lobby. I step through the doors and hurry out onto the street.
10
I know exactly where I’m going even though I’m aware that I would get in massive trouble if anyone found out. But they’re mad at me already, so what have I got to lose? I put on my music and walk up Broadway, past all the Starbucks and dollar stores and pizza shops rolling up their metal gates. When I approach 105th Street, I can see down the sidewalk to the gym where I take kickboxing. I wonder if Tisha is there. I consider stopping by to tell her how it’s going to ruin the class if Brie is in it. But what’s Tisha going to say, other than to call me a spineless wimp? She teaches kickboxing to earn money, so it’s not like she’s going to turn away a new client just because I’m scared of her.
I cross over to Amsterdam and walk until I get to Saint John the Divine. It’s crazy to think that meeting that guy and sitting in the garden with him only happened three days ago. So much has gone down since then, I barely even remember what it felt like to be that version of me, laughing and chatting and not feeling like my world is collapsing.
But I’m not here for reminiscing about buttered bagels on benches with boys.
I’m here because across the street from the cathedral is the Hungarian Pastry Shop.
Yep.
The Hungarian Pastry Shop is where Annie Mills works, or at least where she was working when I came in to buy an éclair back in March. As soon as I saw her, I reversed out the door and sprinted all the way to the subway.
Maybe she’s not even here now. Columbia is out, and most of the students have gone home. Then again, she’s from western Canada, so there’s a possibility she’s staying in New York City for the summer.
I’m standing under the red-striped awning of the Hungarian Pastry Shop, twisting my pigtails around my fingers and trying to figure out whether or not to do this completely stupid thing for which I have no plan. There are tables outside the café with droplets of water splattered across the tabletops and metal chairs. It rained hard last night. I smudge a few raindrops with my finger, sliding the water until it forms a bigger puddle.
Should I? Shouldn’t I?
I just want to ask Annie why she went to the police. That’s all. When I talked to her in December she said she was doing okay.
Okay. That’s my plan. Ask why. Then leave quickly.
I push open the door and step into the café. Heaps of cookies are jammed into display cases, and there’s a messy arrangement of chairs and wobbly tables and random paintings on the walls. I glance around the room at the grad students on laptops, parents sipping lattes, and toddlers picking at pastries. The guy behind the counter has long dreadlocks, and he’s tapping on his phone.
No waiters in sight, Annie or otherwise.
I weave through the café, finally settling onto a red-painted bench at the back. It’s far enough from the crowd that it will give me a good vantage point. I set my backpack onto the bench next to me and pull out Fates and Furies. I doubt I’ll be able to focus on Lotto and Mathilde, but I can pretend to read so I don’t look like a stalker.
“Leela? I was hoping to see you again even though you said it was statistically impossible. Cute ponytails. You look like Pippi Longstocking if her hair were purple and green.”
I look up fast. Even though this is the worst possible time for something as wonderful as this, my face breaks into a smile. Because right down the bench from me is the boy from the bagel store, the boy who wasn’t an ax murderer, the boy who knew the importance of butter-to-dough ratios. There’s a mug on his table and a phone, a sketch pad, and a scattering of crayons.
“Do you actually draw in that,” I ask him, “or just carry it around like you did with the skateboard?”
“Real funny, Leela,” he says, tucking his hair behind his ears. “I also carry around a hammer to look like I build houses.”
“But still no ax?”
He cracks up. “This is actually awesome. I needed to see you again because I started a sketch from the other day but I couldn’t remember the color of your eyes, so I left them blank. Yes, them. I gave you two eyes.”
He flips a few pages back in his sketch pad and then rotates it so I can see.
Color me stunned.
Inside this beautiful boy’s sketch pad, drawn by this beautiful boy, is me. I’m wearing the denim shorts I had on last Thursday and the checkered tank top and I’ve got my backpack over my shoulders and one fist pumped in the air. I can’t be positive, but it looks like I’m clutching a bagel. My hair is swept into a high purple ponytail, and I’m grinning but my eyes are blank.
“Blue,” I say, pointing to my eyes. “And what about my bangs? Don’t you have a green crayon?”
“Leela has all purple hair, so I deleted your green bangs. Artistic license. And they’re not crayons. They’re oil pastels. Sennelier.”
“Sennelier?” I ask. That sounds suspiciously French.
“He’s the guy who created pastels for Picasso. And if they’re good enough for Picasso …”
“Snob,” I say, grinning.
He leans into me, so close I could touch his cheek. “Gray-blue, Leela. Very pretty eyes. I’ll have to mix a few shades for that. And I hadn’t realized you have an eyebrow ring.”
I watch him selecting his pastels and testing out streaks on another page of the sketch pad.
“What’s with the ‘Leela’?” I ask.
His face is fixed on the drawing. “She’s a superhero,” he says after a moment. “Turanga Leela. From Futurama. An animated series? The guy who made The Simpsons made that for a while. She’s a kickass Cyclops who’s strong and awesome but gets insecure because of her one eye.” He adds a thin swirl of gray to my right eye, then my lef
t. “She’s the main character’s love interest. His name is Fry. Yes, I’m a dork.”
A purple-haired superhero? I had no idea.
“But you gave me two eyes,” I say, gesturing to his drawing.
He looks up for a second. “You’re too pretty to have one.”
That word again. Pretty.
“Can I take a picture of it?” I ask. Seriously, I want proof that on this day in my life a beautiful boy called me pretty and wanted to draw me.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. I didn’t get your chin right.” He smudges at the peachy-pink line of my chin. “If you put your number in my phone, I’ll text it to you when I’m done.”
He unlocks his phone and hands it to me, then gets back to work. It’s a tarnished phone with a picture of a brown-and-white dog on the home page. Of course he has a dog. I bet it’s a rescue dog. I bet they go hiking together and her name is Bailey or Mya.
“I know we’re not doing details, but whatever. I’m Virginia.” I add my number to his contacts. I can’t believe he’s asking for my number. “Not Leela.”
“Virginia,” he says. “Like the state.”
“And Woolf.” I set his phone back on his table. Mom named me after the author Virginia Woolf. My sister is named after Anaïs Nin, and my brother is named after Lord Byron. Mom wasn’t fooling around with her aspirations for her offspring. I try not to take it personally that Anaïs Nin was a sex goddess and Virginia Woolf killed herself by filling her pockets with stones and walking into a river.
“She wrote A Room of One’s Own,” he says.
“You know that?” I ask. Most people, especially most guys, haven’t heard of Virginia Woolf’s book of feminist essays.
“I have a sister,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve also heard of Lena Dunham and Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.” He glances at the waitress approaching his table and says, “Speaking of my sister.”
“Hey, Sebastian!” she says. “Sorry it took me so long. A big catering order just got picked up.”
Oh no. Oh no no no no no.
The waitress is Annie Mills. She’s smiling as she sets down a plate of cookies on his table. Then she notices me sitting on the bench and her face goes pale.
11
After a few nauseating seconds, Annie turns to him—to Sebastian—and hoarsely asks, “Do you two know each other?”
Sebastian, who hasn’t clued into the tsunami of tension crashing in, grins and says, “Oh, sure. We go way back, Virginia and I.”
I lift my backpack onto my lap and hug it tight.
Annie is looking between Sebastian and me like she’s trying to puzzle it together. She seems different from the other time I met her, back in December, or even when I spotted her in March. She’s got shadows under her eyes and her cheeks are splotchy with acne and her hair is cut short, the front portion wrapped in a charcoal headband.
“What’s going on?” Sebastian asks, reaching for a rainbow-striped cookie. He downs it in one bite. “You’re being kind of …” He shrugs his shoulders as if to say Fill me in.
Annie leans close to his ear. I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that she’s telling him who my brother is. Sure enough, as soon as she pulls back, he gapes at me and then shakes his head at his sister.
“No way.” Sebastian closes his sketch pad and sets it on the table. I wonder if he’s going to crumple the portrait of me or shred it into a million pieces. I shove my book in my backpack.
“Listen,” Annie says. “You shouldn’t be here.”
My throat is tightening, and my phone starts going off in my pocket. I reach in and silence the ringer. “I just wanted to come and ask you about—”
Annie crosses her arms over her chest. “So you knew I’d be here?”
“No, that’s not it. I knew … because I once saw you … I didn’t know that he …” I glance toward Sebastian. Sebastian. Even his name. And his accent. Now I realize it’s a Canadian accent. I learned last fall that Annie is from Saskatchewan, which is a province out west, above Montana.
“Stop,” she says. Her eyes are also blue-green, but they’re stormy, not tranquil like sea glass.
“Annie,” Sebastian says. “I don’t think you’re being fair.”
I glance gratefully at him. My phone is ringing in my pocket again. My parents are probably furious.
“Listen, I don’t want to talk about this here.” Annie looks around the café. There’s a waiter in the front taking an order, but other than that it’s pretty quiet. “You know what? Let’s go outside for a second.”
Annie grabs her purse from behind the counter, says something to the guy working, and then pushes through the door. I don’t even look at Sebastian as I strap on my backpack and hurry after her. I wish I could say good-bye, to explain that I never would have talked to him if I knew he was Annie Mills’s brother. But I can’t look at him because I don’t want to see his expression, to see that he’s disgusted by me and my family and what my brother did and even the fact that I came here today.
Even so, I hate walking through the café and knowing I’ll never see him again.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Annie says once we’re on the sidewalk. Her face is tight and she looks mad. “You realize this is completely inappropriate. And you knew I worked here?”
She’s close enough to me that I can smell her breath. It’s sour, like coffee, and her bottom lip is cracked.
“I saw you working here once …,” I start to say, but my voice catches in my throat. My legs are jelly. And it doesn’t help that my phone is vibrating with calls and texts. “I just wanted to—”
“No, don’t say anything, actually. I need a second to think. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. The DA would … this is so messed up.”
I’m close to tears, but I can’t cry, because I have to be strong. Annie was the one who inspired me to be strong back when I visited her dorm room last winter. Her long brown hair—now cut short—hung down her back, and she made me a mug of herbal tea. As the snow flurried outside the window, she said that she wasn’t going to let Byron turn her into a victim. Even though he physically overpowered her, she wouldn’t give him mental power over her. This Annie now seems so different, almost like another person entirely.
Annie closes her eyes for a long second. “Okay,” she says, opening them again. “You can talk. I’m sorry … this is all just really hard.”
I swallow back tears and quickly say, “I wanted to ask why you went to the police. I thought you were letting Columbia take care of the punishment. Did you know that Byron got arrested on Friday? He’s out on bail, but this is only the beginning. I’m not saying he should be let off the hook, but I’m confused because I thought you were moving on with your life.”
I suck in a shallow breath. Not the most eloquent of speeches. I didn’t go into the stuff about how my brother could get kicked out of Columbia or have to register as a sex offender. But I said most of what I wanted to say and I avoided crying.
Annie shakes her head. The freckles on her nose are washed out, graying like dishwater. “I’m not sure I understand. Are you trying to say I shouldn’t have gone to the police?”
“I just thought you said you were okay,” I mumble, looking down at my feet. I notice my ankle is swollen from where I tripped in our lobby yesterday. The weird thing is, I’m not even feeling the pain, like my head is detached from the rest of my body. “Remember how you said you’re not a victim and you’re not going to let him make you into one?”
Annie reaches into her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, smacking it against her palm. I watch her, totally shocked. Sure, people at school smoke cigarettes, mostly the popular kids, and it’s mostly for show. But Annie Mills made me herbal tea and had a yoga mat in her room! She didn’t seem like the smoking type.
Annie lights the cigarette and takes a long draw. “It’s horrible, I know. This is just sort of where I am right now. Not a great place.”
I’m beginning to
feel like it was a mistake to come here. I hope it hasn’t made her feel even worse.
“I told everyone I was okay last fall,” Annie finally says, “but I was actually a mess. Did you know that Byron and I were friends? And I trusted him? That’s why I went to his room that night. Now it’s completely messed with my head. I can’t go out, not even to a small party. And forget about guys. Never again.” Annie chokes up. “He took away a part of myself that I’ll never get back. Sorry it’s your brother I’m talking about, but you should know what you’re dealing with.”
Annie clears her throat and then raises her cigarette to her lips. That’s when I notice that her hand is trembling.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’m just so confused about this.”
Annie nods. “Did you know that people on campus yelled things at me, accusing me of crying rape and ruining Byron’s life so I could get attention? But do you know what really got me? When your brother came to school this semester, I’d see him around with girls. Younger girls. Freshmen. And all I could think was, Please don’t let it happen to them.”
Annie makes a gagging sound and turns away.
I lower my head. I’m done. I get it. I was wrong to come, and now I need to go somewhere and crawl in a hole and never come out.
“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming,” I whisper to her. “No one told me you work here. I just saw you up here once. I’m sorry.”
Annie points her cigarette in the direction of the Hungarian Pastry Shop. “What’s up with you and my brother?”
“I didn’t know he was your brother,” I say. Just thinking about Sebastian makes me feel quivery.
“Either way, it’s not okay.”
I shrug my shoulders and mumble, “Okay, well … I guess I should go.”
“Yeah,” Annie says. “Probably a good idea.”
The Universe Is Expanding and So Am I Page 8
