The Universe Is Expanding and So Am I

by Carolyn Mackler

  That evening, Mom is still excited about the towels. We’re in her bathroom. She’s drying her hair, and I’m borrowing some of her makeup. Alyssa is on break from camp and texted me that she’s in the city for twenty-four hours. We made a plan to meet for dinner at Dojo down near NYU. It’ll be good to see each other again after everything that happened with Froggy. At least I hope so.

  “I hadn’t even realized there was a towel problem at the gym,” Mom says. She shuts off the hairdryer and leans into the mirror, examining the hair around her temples. Mom gets honey-blond highlights every four weeks. If it goes even a day over she starts complaining that she looks like a senior citizen and coerces Talia to bump up her appointment.

  I take a dab of Mom’s fancy foundation and rub it on my face. Along with my period, I’ve gotten a lovely crop of chin zits. “Gerri didn’t want to do a towel-tracking system,” I say. “She didn’t want members to feel judged.”

  “So you solved it by letting people know they’re being watched and assuming they’d make the right choice.” Mom nods proudly at me. “It’s called the Hawthorne Effect. A lot of research has been done on it.”

  “Like at that resort in the Dominican Republic.”

  Mom shakes her head. “You know, I completely forgot about that.”

  As Mom continues blowing out her hair, I wonder what she’s thinking. Anaïs hasn’t given me any legal updates on Byron, so I’m guessing nothing has changed there. Mom made him go to the doctor yesterday for his cough, and he came home with a prescription for antibiotics and an order to sleep and eat better.

  “The doctor talked to me about self-care,” Byron muttered as he was telling her about the doctor’s appointment. I was collecting laundry from my room, but I froze to listen. “Just like all that self-care I’ll be able to do in weekend jail.”

  “Nothing’s been decided yet about weekend jail,” Mom said. “Besides … doing that might allow you to avoid SORA, which would be worth it. The sex-offender registry would follow you forever.”

  That’s the update I give Alyssa as we sit down at Dojo. It’s an airy Japanese restaurant full of college students. Alyssa and I decide to split a soy burger and a plate of edamame, and get our own lychee drinks as a treat.

  “But your parents hired a good lawyer?” she asks after we order. “I mean, they’ll make sure he doesn’t get, like, full-time jail?”

  “Hopefully,” I say, “but you never know.”

  As the waiter brings our drinks, we both go quiet. I’m wishing I could tell Alyssa about Sebastian. I also want to ask her about Froggy, how things are going, if they’re really together. But I somehow can’t think of how to say any of it. The thoughts are there, fully formed in my head, but I can’t transform them into words.

  She must be feeling the awkwardness, too, because she shrugs and sips her drink and checks her phone. I check my phone. She turns her phone over. I turn mine over, too. We smile uncomfortably at each other.

  Finally, I decide: fuck it. If I want our friendship to be real, then we have to talk about Froggy and about Sebastian, too. Not who his sister is, of course, but the fact that he exists at all.

  “Maybe it sounds crazy,” I say as the edamame arrives, “but I’ve been hanging out with this guy. Sebastian. He’s an artist. He’s just finished high school. No one in my family knows. It’s sort of … secret.”

  “Ooooh! I love his name.” Alyssa sucks on an edamame and spits out the shell. She’s grinning hard, and she looks genuinely happy. “Where did you meet?”

  “In line at the bagel store. He’s visiting the city this summer.” Before she can ask anything else, like if he’s related to someone who is pressing charges against my brother, I pivot over to her. “What about Froggy? How’s that going?”

  Alyssa smiles. No, she doesn’t smile. She beams. “Good. I mean, it’s just letters for now. Really long letters.” She pauses and then says, “Are you sure you’re not mad at me? Like, if we get together for real?”

  I lick the salt from an edamame and chase it with a sip of my lychee juice. “I’m sure. For real. I’m happy for you.”

  “Not that we should go on any double dates,” Alyssa says, giggling mischievously. “You and Sebastian, Froggy and me.”

  I crack up. “At least not yet.”

  The soy burger arrives. We’re still laughing as we push aside the edamame and Alyssa cuts the burger in half.

  On Friday, Mom picks me up outside Whole Fitness at noon and we drive straight to Danbury. Mom brings me a Caesar salad with chicken and actual, real dressing on the side and actual, real croutons. Despite the shocking caloric windfall, I take a few bites and push it away. Partially it’s hard to eat salad in the passenger seat of a car. Partially it’s hard to indulge in carbs and creamy dressing with Mom two feet away. But mostly I can’t eat because today is the day I’ve been dreading and fearing and hoping would never arrive.

  Yep, it’s here. July tenth.

  The appointment for my road test is at two thirty. We arrive twenty minutes early and pull into a line of cars waiting at the DMV. Mom is in the driver’s seat. She shifts into park and taps her fingernails on the steering wheel and checks her phone and pops a few cinnamon Altoids.

  She’s nervous. I think she might be more nervous than I am. My stomach is fluttery, but I’ve decided I’m going to do my best and #MyBestIsTheBestICanDo. Also, if I fail my road test, then I can take it again. Or I can take it never. One thing I’m glad about is that Dad isn’t here. Originally he was going to bring me, but something came up at work. Which is good. If Dad were here he’d be Dadsplaining until the very last drop.

  A tester steps into the passenger seat of the white Honda in front of us. After a few minutes, the car takes off.

  “We’re next,” Mom says. “Why don’t I get out and you get in the driver’s seat?”

  I nod, my hands instantly clammy. Okay, maybe I am a little nervous.

  Mom wishes me luck, climbs out, and sits on a green metal chair in the waiting area. I slowly walk around the car, get into the driver’s seat, and adjust the mirrors. I wipe my palms on my shorts and place my hands at ten and two.

  A full-figured woman holding a clipboard opens the door and slides into our car.

  “I’m Silvia,” she says, buckling her seat belt. “May I please see your permit?”

  As she scans my permit, I decide it’s a good sign that Silvia’s got some curves. Us curvaceous chicks stick together. Or maybe she doesn’t give a damn about my body type and just wants to see if I can drive.

  Holy shit.

  This is my road test.

  “Pull out whenever you’re ready,” Silvia says, jotting something on the clipboard and gesturing to the exit. “And take a right up there.”

  I shift into drive and press the gas. The car lurches a little. Shit. Breathe. I try to imagine that Silvia is Frances, wrapped in a blanket and rocking back and forth in the passenger seat. That helps a little. So does breathing.

  Over the next ten minutes, Silvia instructs me to turn right and turn left. I remember to signal every time. She has me parallel park behind a Prius, and I somehow do it. The three-point turn takes four points, but I slow at stop signs and yield to an SUV that arrives at the four-way intersection before me.

  When we get back to the DMV, I shift into park. Silvia hands me a slip of paper and is just turning to get out when I say, “How did I do?”

  “Look down,” she says.

  I glance at the paper in my hand. It clearly reads Pass.

  “Seriously? I passed?”

  Silvia nods and smiles. “Your permanent license should arrive in the mail in two to four weeks. You’re a good driver, Virginia. You have all the skills. You just need more confidence. Practice and time on the road will get you there.”

  So now it’s official. If I get stranded in the Sahara or Saskatchewan or anywhere in the world with a road, I can get myself home.

  That night, Dad takes the train up from the city. Mom goes to the
station to pick him up. She offered for me to get him, but I need a little break from being in the driver’s seat.

  When Mom and Dad arrive from the train station, I meet them at the door. Dad presents me with a bouquet of white roses and a card. As Mom carries the flowers into the kitchen, I tear open the card and read it.

  Dear Virginia,

  Congratulations on getting your license. I’m so proud of you, but I’m also not surprised. After all, no Shreves has ever failed their road test.

  Love,

  Dad

  I thank him for the card and for teaching me how to drive. A few months ago, a note like that would have pissed me off to no end. But right now I’m too happy to care.

  On Monday evening, Dad’s phone rings. We’re back in New York City. Dad, Byron, and I are watching the Yankee game. Mom and Anaïs are at the dining room table reading up on training regimens for half marathons. I think they’ve struck a careful peace. My sister and Lindsey still haven’t given up on their plan to volunteer in a refugee camp, but Anaïs has agreed to look into master’s programs in nonprofit administration for the year after next.

  “I don’t recognize the number,” Dad says as he lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  Byron and I watch as Dad stands up, walks into his room, and closes the door. I glance over at Mom, but she just shrugs and says, “No idea.”

  “I wonder if it’s Mark Levy?” Byron asks, coughing into his elbow. His face has gone pale and he looks terrified.

  “No,” I offer, “because Dad didn’t recognize the number.”

  A few minutes later Dad emerges from his room. He goes into the kitchen, pours a glass of vodka, and joins Mom at the dining room table. Byron reaches for the remote and mutes the volume on the game.

  “That was Dean Briggs,” Dad says, sipping his drink. “The dean of students at Columbia.”

  “I know who that is,” Mom says quickly. Her eyes are wide and she looks scared, too. “Should we go in the other room and talk about it?”

  Dad massages his temples with his thumbs. “This is going to affect all of us, so I may as well say it. Columbia is asking Byron not to come back next semester.”

  Mom sucks in her breath.

  “What the hell?” Byron says.

  “But he already completed Columbia’s punishment,” Anaïs says. “He was suspended last fall.”

  “Now he’s been arrested and there’s a potential trial pending,” Dad says. “The dean said he’s gotten a lot of e-mails from worried parents. They read about Byron’s case, and they’re threatening to pull their children and demand refunds. The dean was polite and expressed his concern about Byron’s situation. He said that if the case is dismissed they’d be happy to have him back.”

  Byron is slumped over on the couch, his head slung between his knees, his hands laced behind his neck.

  “What if we agree to a lesser charge?” Mom asks.

  “I’m going to call the lawyer about that now,” Dad says. He takes the remote from the couch, shuts off the game, and disappears back into his room.

  An hour later, I get a text from Sebastian.

  Amazing news, he writes. Can you meet?

  I’m in my bedroom with the door closed. I watched some Netflix, and now I’m googling public high schools in New York City. It sounds nice to have a fresh start without Brie or Cole or any of the other popular kids who feel justified making fun of me. Unfortunately, I quickly realize that the application process was last fall. Damn. Brewster it is.

  Meet where? I text back, glancing at the time. Like downtown?

  It’s after nine. I’m not even sure my parents would let me go downtown at night without a plan. Well, without a plan they know about.

  I was thinking West End Avenue, he writes. You can walk up and I’ll walk down.

  Do you really think it’s safe?

  It’s dark out. No one will see us.

  I stare at my phone, trying to figure out what to do.

  Please, Leela, he adds. I’ve got some really good news. I want to tell you in person.

  Okay, I write, smiling at the “Leela.” Walk on the west side. The side closer to the river.

  Leaving in five.

  Me too.

  I slide my feet into my Converse, glance in the bathroom mirror to make sure my chin zits are concealed, and shout that I’m taking a walk. Anaïs and Mom are in the kitchen cutting up a watermelon. Seeing them in there, chatting and slicing fruit, reminds me of how Anaïs said that she and her host mother in Burkina Faso would pound millet together. In a weird way, it’s not all that different.

  I walk from Riverside over to West End and start heading uptown. As I’m walking, I try to figure out what Sebastian is going to tell me. We’ve been talking about wanting to be alone together, not just outside in a park, so maybe he got keys to an apartment that’s not his and not mine and is five hundred miles from anyone we know.

  Ten minutes later, I see him coming toward me on West End Avenue.

  “Hey,” he says, grinning.

  I wave at him. “Hey.”

  We stand there, two feet apart, smiling stupidly at each other. We’re hungering to kiss, but we both know we shouldn’t. There aren’t any doorman buildings on this block and there’s just one guy walking his dog. But still. We are way too close to home.

  “Want to walk down?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  We walk side by side. It feels weird not to hold hands, but it’s still nice to see him. It’s nice to be in our neighborhood, not hiding in the Bronx or down in Chinatown. Also, West End is sort of enchanting at night. It’s a wide avenue without stores or banks or bus stops. It’s lined with grand prewar buildings. If there weren’t traffic lights or cars, it would feel like we’ve gone back in time a hundred years.

  “So guess what?” Sebastian says as we pause at the corner. Before I can answer, he continues. “My parents just told me that they’re going to let me go to Columbia this fall.”

  “What?” I ask, shocked. “For real?”

  “For real.” Sebastian takes my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “Virginia, I’m going to Columbia. It’s happening.”

  We stare at each other. We both know what this means. He gets to study with that children’s book illustrator. But also, we’ll be thirty blocks from each other. And not just that. We’ll be thirty blocks from each other and he’ll have a dorm room.

  “Do you know what changed their minds?” I ask.

  The second I ask it I know exactly what changed their minds.

  “No clue,” Sebastian says. “They just sat me down a half hour ago and told me they talked to the dean of students today and he reassured them that Columbia supported our family. I think it’s—”

  Sebastian stops midsentence and stares at me. I’m frozen on the street, my mouth hanging open.

  “What?” he asks.

  I tell him about the phone call from the dean and how my brother isn’t allowed to return to Columbia this fall.

  “Oh shit,” Sebastian says, his forehead creasing.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “You didn’t know.”

  “But I’m directly benefiting from your brother’s expulsion.”

  “Suspension.” I pause before adding, “It’s okay. I mean, it’s okay to be happy.”

  “I am,” Sebastian says. “But it still sucks.”

  We start walking again. After a block of silence, Sebastian points to a building. “I love how there are so many windows up there and all the windows are full of light and behind each of those windows is a home with a family and a story.”

  I follow his gaze upward. I try to imagine a family in one of those windows and what their life is like, all the problems and challenges and the good things, too.

  “And this is our story,” Sebastian says, putting his arm around me and kissing the top of my head.

  We stay like that for a second and then we step apart, both of us looking around guiltily, making sure no one saw us toge
ther.

  22

  “This is her,” Mom says, taking my hand. “Our younger daughter. Virginia.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” the woman says. She has the exact same honey-blond hair as Mom’s, and she’s wearing a similar cocktail dress, just pale pink where Mom’s is pale blue. “I’m Margaret. Our house is over in Sharon. Your mom and I golf together, and she gives me free parenting advice. My twins are a little younger than you.”

  “Virginia just passed her road test two weeks ago,” Mom says, smiling. “And she got high honor roll at Brewster. They want to talk to her about applying to Harvard.”

  Margaret nods, obviously impressed. The diamond ring on her right hand is practically the size of a golf ball. “That’s fabulous. Peter went to law school there, and I know they don’t take just anyone.”

  I glance sideways at Mom to see if she’s flinching at the mention of law school, like if it’s reminding her that Byron once dreamed about Harvard Law School. If Columbia won’t let him finish college, then the law school plan is going to be a challenge. But nope. Mom’s smiling and chatting it up like she’s having the time of her life.

  It’s early evening and we’re at a fundraiser for my parents’ golf club. The party is at a super-rich member’s house in Roxbury. They have an enormous backyard with a pool and a tennis court and a koi pond full of red and black fish. There’s a band playing, an open bar staffed by bartenders wearing tuxedos, and catered stations offering everything from grilled meats to strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.

  HYPOCRISY ALERT:

  This party must have cost a fortune to put on. Why didn’t they just take all that cash and give it to the golf club instead of spending money to have a fundraiser?

  No one else seems to find that baffling. As I glance around the landscaped yard, I see my parents’ friends, the Lowensteins. Other than them, it’s a sea of strangers. The women all have shiny blown-out hair in honey-blond, auburn-brown, or black, sparkling diamond rings, and pastel cocktail dresses. The men, with their khaki slacks and pink or lime-green shirts, all have closely cut hair.