“Phyllis,” Dad warns. “Take it easy.”
“Now you’re the back seat driver,” Mom mutters.
It’s funny how on the ride here Dad dissed my generation for being on their phones and now my sister is dissing Mom’s generation for pigeon-holing sexual orientation. I wish people wouldn’t lump together whole generations. Honestly, it’s about individual people. Also, I’m struck by what my sister just said, that love is love is love. It makes me think about Sebastian and how we’re falling for each other even though we totally shouldn’t.
“This actually has nothing to do with you,” Anaïs says. “This is my life.”
“When will you learn”—Mom takes a slow breath—“that this has everything to do with us? We are your parents. If you’re an actual lesbian, it’s one thing. But if it’s just a passing phase … then … don’t you realize that passing phases can affect your entire life?”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Anaïs says. “Besides, what’s up with Byron? Why didn’t he come?”
I clench my jaw tight. I’m trying to send subliminal messages to my sister not to mention what I told her about Byron’s arrest. As far as my parents are concerned, all Anaïs knows is that Byron was suspended last fall.
“This has nothing to do with Byron,” Mom says. Her voice has an icy edge as if to say, Conversation over.
We drive on in silence. I reach into my bag for my water bottle. I’m sipping water and looking out the window at a massive cemetery, endless rows of graves, when Mom blurts out, “Did you know that Virginia has a boyfriend?”
I choke on a mouthful of water. As Mom glances at me in her mirror, I realize I’m an idiot, that she meant Froggy. For a horrible second, I thought she was talking about Sebastian.
It’s been such a crazy few weeks that I haven’t filled her in on the fact that Froggy and I are over. Mom and I don’t have cozy fireside chats, but I do tell her the bare bones of my personal life, mostly so she doesn’t worry that I don’t have a personal life and then harass me to get one.
“Oh, that’s great!” Anaïs says. “Who is it?”
“No,” I say quickly. “We broke up.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” Mom says. “When did you and Froggy break up?”
“It was an end-of-the-year thing,” I say. “He’s going to band camp in Maine for eight weeks.”
Dad chuckles when I say “band camp,” which annoys me. Dad is in his fifties, for God’s sake. When will he get over shaming the band geeks? Dad was probably an asshole just like Byron back when he was in high school, one of the popular guys who called their friends “chubby chasers” if they checked out curvaceous chicks.
As we near the city, Dad glances briefly at my sister. “Are you still a vegetarian? Mom made a reservation at Strip House tonight, but Virginia was reminding us how you were a vegetarian before you left.”
“Not anymore,” Anaïs says. “It was too hard to get nonmeat sources of protein in Burkino Faso.”
“So that passing phase is over,” Mom murmurs.
Anaïs doesn’t grace that with a response.
When we get home, Anaïs goes into her old room and closes the door. Dad leaves to put in a few hours at the office and says he’ll meet us at the steakhouse. I eat a nectarine in the kitchen and lie on my bed. Between waking up at five in the morning, working so much at the gym, and having long afternoons with Sebastian, I’m exhausted.
Around three, a text comes in. I yawn and pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s from Tisha, my kickboxing teacher. Oh yeah. Today is Friday.
We missed you last Friday, she’s written. You didn’t mention you’re away this summer, so I assume we’ll see you today? Let me know.
I think about Brie showing up at kickboxing and how awful she made me feel that day and every day. I’m tired of feeling awful. This positive self-image stuff is definitely superior.
I ignore the text from Tisha.
I can hear Mom and Anaïs having a heated conversation in the living room. They’re talking in French, which is the official language of Burkina Faso and Mom’s preferred tongue even though she’s from Arkansas. Since I don’t do French, I have no idea what they’re saying. I hope they’re not on round two of fighting. I smooth my shirt around my stomach and head out to the living room to see what’s up.
I’m shocked to find them both in shorts and jog bras, stretching their hamstrings and laughing.
“Hey, Ginny!” Anaïs says, switching to English. “Were you sleeping all this time?”
I nod. “Where are you going?”
“For a run,” Mom says.
“I got really into running in Kensington Gardens last week,” my sister says. “I might do a half marathon at the end of the summer.”
Mom brightens at the mention of torturous amounts of exercise. “Let me know when and I’ll sign up, too. We can train together.”
“Wonderful!”
I watch, confused, as they pull on racer-back tanks, lace up their sneakers, and jog out of the apartment.
18
I wear Sebastian’s straw hat on the drive up to Connecticut and also the red-checkered tank top I had on the first time I met him. For most of the ride, Anaïs is telling us about life in Africa. No, not Africa. She was very clear about her annoyance at people who refer to Burkina Faso as the entire continent of Africa. Also, I’m noticing that most of what Anaïs says starts with “I can’t believe” followed by “in Burkina Faso.”
For example:
“I can’t believe you guys leave the water running while you brush your teeth,” she said as we were getting ready this morning. “In Burkina Faso we transported drinking water from another village five kilometers away.”
Or, as we were walking to get the car:
“I can’t believe the way Americans hurry so much. In Burkina Faso I spent hours sitting under a tree with my host mother pounding millet and chatting.”
After Dad pulls over to use a restroom at the little stone building off the highway, my sister says:
“I can’t believe the way you guys can just go in and use the bathroom. In Burkina Faso, it was a big deal when we dug ten new latrines. That’s what Lindsey’s crew was doing.”
“She was digging latrines?” Mom asks.
I know from her letters that Anaïs was doing health-care education and also helping in a women’s clinic. I somehow assumed Lindsey did that, too.
“In Burkina Faso, at least in the remote villages, latrines are a big deal. When we didn’t have a latrine, we had to go aboveground.”
“You’re going to have a requisite adjustment period,” Mom says in her TherapistVoice. “I’ve had several patients return from developing countries, and it takes a while to get used to being back.”
“Pooping outside.” Dad nods like he’s impressed. “Like in your Outward Bound days.”
Here we go again. I have no idea why pooping outside is such a point of pride. I feel no shame that I prefer to take care of business on a toilet.
“Burkina Faso is nothing like Outward Bound,” Anaïs says. “That’s a country club for spoiled rich kids. This is real life.”
I want to steer the subject away from Outward Bound, so I ask Anaïs about Lindsey and how they fell in love. She tells me that they were friends for a long time but realized in the past few months that it was something more. Since Burkina Faso is a socially conservative country, they didn’t tell anyone until last week in London.
“How’s Caleb doing?” Mom asks. He was Anaïs’s boyfriend back at Brown. Mom’s biggest dream in life was that Caleb would become her son-in-law.
“I got a few letters from him while I was there,” Anaïs says. “He’s just finished his second year at law school. Cornell.”
Mom sighs. “I miss Caleb.”
“Mom,” Anaïs warns.
“I know, I know,” Mom says. “I’m sure I’ll love Lindsey, too. Just give me a few days for it to sink in.”
“In Burkina Faso,” Dad says, “
the mother sits for hours and pounds millet with her daughter’s new girlfriend.”
“Shut up!” Anaïs shrieks.
But she’s laughing and so is Mom and so am I.
When we get to the Connecticut house, Byron isn’t home. Mom sends me to the garage to look for his bike. It’s gone, which means he’s out for a ride. When I see my parents’ skis and Anaïs’s and Byron’s snowboards lined up on the far wall of the garage, I have to smile. I’m thinking about the first time I met Sebastian and told him that skiing and snowboarding are Horrible Things. That was before I knew him and before I knew that strapping someone like Sebastian to a snowboard and sending him down a mountain is a terrible idea.
After they carry their totes inside, Mom and Dad get back in the car. They’re going to the farmers’ market to buy vegetables to grill tonight, and they’re also swinging by the golf club. I know they’re nervous about whether their golf buddies are going to shun them because of Byron’s arrest, but a summer without golfing is an even worse prospect.
Anaïs and I are chatting in lounge chairs on the back porch when Byron comes through the sliding doors. He’s still wearing his bike helmet and he’s super tan, several shades darker than when I saw him last Sunday.
“Hey,” he says, hugging Anaïs. “Welcome back to civilization. I hear you’re a dyke now.”
I suck in my breath, but before I can tell him not to be an asshole, Anaïs shoots back, “And I hear you’re a felon.”
“Touché,” he says.
I stare hard at Anaïs like please don’t give away our secret. She nods reassuringly at me. I’m guessing Mom told her about Byron’s arrest on their run yesterday.
“Hey, Gin,” Byron says to me. “What’s up with that straw hat?”
I raise my hand self-consciously to Sebastian’s hat. All along, I’ve been thinking it looks nice, but maybe I’m wrong. I quickly take it off and drop it on the picnic table.
“It looks nice,” Anaïs says to Byron. “Leave her alone.”
Byron unclips his helmet and swings it around his wrist. “I’m going to go take a shower. Welcome back from Africa.”
“Burkina Faso,” she calls after him.
Once the sliding doors are closed, Anaïs turns to me. “I guess he’s the same dick as always.”
I nod gratefully, relieved to finally have a family member with whom I can discuss Byron.
“But he’s our dick,” Anaïs says.
As she goes inside to call Lindsey’s aunt’s house from the landline, I consider what she said, that Byron is our dick. The thing is, I’m not sure I agree. Saying he’s our dick means we have to put up with him however he acts.
I carry Sebastian’s straw hat inside and try it on in front of the mirror. It’s not perfect and maybe it’s a little small for my face—
Stop.
I like it and Sebastian likes it and that’s all that matters.
That evening, at dinner, everyone is in a good mood. My parents got in four hours of golfing, and it sounds like Byron’s arrest wasn’t an issue at the club. Plus, while Dad was grilling chicken and zucchini, Mom got a voicemail from the parent of one of her patients who canceled, booking an appointment for next Tuesday. So maybe her career isn’t over after all.
As we gather at the picnic table on the back porch, Dad raises a wineglass.
“To the five of us,” he says.
We all clink. The four of them are drinking white wine and I’m drinking water. Dad offered me wine, too, but Mom shot it down. I wasn’t sure whether it was the underage-drinking thing or the fact that wine has calories. I’m guessing it’s the calories because my brother isn’t the legal drinking age either and yet my parents usually offer him wine.
“To the five of us,” Mom says as we set down our glasses. “Together again.”
Dad offers me butter for my corn on the cob, but I shake my head. It’ll just get Mom started. I opt for salt and pepper instead.
As Mom passes the chicken to Dad, she points to the backyard. “I was thinking of having a yoga studio built. Something small. Can we get a contractor over here to price it out?”
“Where?” Dad asks.
“Over there,” Mom says, “by the pine trees.”
“Since when do you do yoga?” Byron asks.
“I’ve always done yoga,” Mom says. “Virginia has seen me come in for classes at Whole Fitness. Right, Virginia?”
I nod and help myself to a skewer of zucchini. I don’t want to get pulled into a conversation about Whole Fitness. I don’t see that going anywhere productive, especially if they start asking me if I’ve been using my free time to work out.
“When is that tree woman coming back?” Mom asks. “I’ll ask her about taking down a few small trees, making room to build a yoga studio.”
“Frances,” I say.
“I have the tree woman set up for next Saturday,” Dad says. “She has to prune the rest of the medium-height branches on the sugar maples.”
“Frances,” I say again. “That’s her name.”
“It’s so different here,” Anaïs says. “It’s like you guys have nothing to worry about, so you talk about yoga studios and golfing and tree women. In Burkina Faso we had to work hard for water and food and all our basic needs, but it made everything so much more meaningful.”
I glance at Mom, assuming she’ll be offended, but instead she smiles at my sister. “As I said, it’s going to take time to adjust. But soon you’ll be taking the MCAT prep course and applying to medical school and it will all start feeling normal again.”
“I foraged for vegetables at the farmers’ market,” Dad says, grinning. “Doesn’t that count?”
As Mom and Byron laugh, Anaïs stares down at her plate. She butters her corn, sprinkles on some salt, and eats quietly for the rest of the meal.
In the morning, everything goes south.
Byron is still sleeping, but the rest of us are in the kitchen having breakfast when Anaïs informs us that she’s not taking the MCATs because she’s not applying to medical school.
Mom and Dad stare at her in shock. I’m shocked, too. Ever since I can remember, Anaïs has wanted to be a doctor.
“The thing is,” Anaïs says, “Lindsey and I want to continue giving back. We’ve talked a lot about it. We’re going to look into volunteer programs in refugee camps for Syrians.”
“No way,” Mom says. “I already paid for that MCAT prep class. It wasn’t cheap. And how can you be ‘Lindsey and I’ already? You’ve only been together for three months.”
“Aren’t you listening to me?” Anaïs asks. “I’m telling you I don’t want to go to medical school. I didn’t ask you to sign me up for a class.”
Dad clears his throat. “You have to think about your safety. About terrorism. That’s a dangerous part of the world.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Anaïs says. “But life is more than your immediate wants and needs.”
“Anaïs!” Dad says. “That’s enough.”
“I agree,” Anaïs says, grabbing Mom’s phone off the table. “It is enough.”
She slides her feet into her sandals and starts toward the door. I stand up and hurry out after her. At the end of the driveway, my sister is pacing back and forth, staring at Mom’s phone, trying to dial a number.
“No signal,” I tell her.
“Still?” she asks. “Not even down here?”
I shake my head and sit cross-legged on a big boulder. We have a row of large rocks in the front yard with flowers planted around them. I remember when Dad hired a rock guy to deliver them in a dump truck. Tree woman. Rock guy. Maybe our existence really is trivial.
“You’re going to a refugee camp?” I ask. “What about medical school? And Dad’s right about terrorism. I don’t think it’s very safe there right now.”
Anaïs shakes her head angrily. “You sound just like them,” she says, gesturing her chin toward the house.
I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying. I’m not like
them. I’m nothing like them. I can’t believe she would ever say that.
“Listen,” Anaïs says as she twists her hair in a knot on the top of her head. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m freaking out about being back, and I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’ve changed so much these past two years, and everyone here is still the same.”
I don’t happen to agree with that. I’ve changed a lot these past two years, too. Even these past two weeks.
“I’m guessing Mom told you about Byron,” I say, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
“Yeah, she told me yesterday. She said that Byron’s lawyer is making progress with the district attorney. It sounds like they might be able to settle on some kind of plea bargain without going to trial.”
“Really? No one told me that.”
“I think on some level Mom and Dad want you to believe that everything is perfect and normal.”
When she says that, my stomach rolls nervously. That sounds like the old Anaïs, cutting through the bullshit and talking to me about how it really is. But then I remind myself that a minute ago she was accusing me of being just like them. Honestly, I have no idea what to think of anything right now.
“What plea bargain are they settling on?” I ask. “And did Mom say anything about a civil suit? Like, you know, the girl’s family suing us?”
My face flushes when I say “the girl’s family,” and I dig my toes into the grass, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.
“Mom didn’t say anything about a civil suit or them suing,” Anaïs says. “She just told me that the lawyers are in preliminary discussions, but the plea bargain might be something like weekend jail time and no SORA. That means he wouldn’t have to register as a sex offender and he could still go to school on weekdays.”
“Weekend jail time?” I shudder, thinking about Byron in jail on weekends. I hadn’t even realized people do that. Would he have to change into an orange jumpsuit every Friday night? Would he write his papers and study for exams from a jail cell? “Does Byron know about all that? He seemed fine at dinner last night.”
The Universe Is Expanding and So Am I Page 15
