“Do you own any black?” I asked, because her nonuniform wardrobe was an arsenal of colors and prints. Mine was the opposite: I bought clothes only in white, black, gray, or the occasional dusky purple. It made dressing efficient and uninteresting. Merri teased that I’d “had a uniform even before we went to a school that required it.”
The thing was, nothing about my clothing drew attention to itself. Nothing was sparkling or short or tight or low-cut. But it shouldn’t have mattered if they were all of those things. Harassment was a game of power—one I was constantly forced to play but could never win, since it stemmed from the harasser’s belief that their prerogative about someone else’s weight, religion, race, gender, sexuality, appearance, etc., trumped a person’s right to that identity.
And while Merri spent Saturday night at her boyfriend’s house camouflaging sauce stains with a shirt she’d stolen from Rory’s closet, I spent mine being hassled by a clerk in the grocery store.
He interrupted me while I was crouched and scanning the spice shelves. Coming closer and closer until I couldn’t ignore the scuffed brown loafers that had entered my personal space. “All those groceries in your basket—are you here with your boyfriend?”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m here with my shopping list.”
The man, who was around the same age as my father, wiped his hands on his green store apron and leaned down. “Ah, single. Well, here’s a tip: you can find single fellas by the frozen dinners.”
I stood and propped a hand on my hip. The aisle was empty, but the store was busy enough that it felt safe to respond with anger instead of escape. “I’m shopping for groceries, not a date. Also, I’m not impressed by your heteronormative assumptions.” I wanted to tell him to look up the term “amatonormativity” but decided not to waste my breath.
The clerk stroked his chin. It had a single dimple, like someone had poked him with a skewer while the doughiness of his face was still rising. The image was satisfying. “So you’re looking for a girl? My neighbor’s got a daughter that likes girls.”
“I’m looking for turmeric. And a new grocery store.” If there was ever a time to be an ice queen, this was it.
But doughface grinned like I was joking. “Top shelf. And think about smiling more—it’ll make you approachable.”
I didn’t need “approachable.” I needed the opposite of approachable. Because after the confusion I’d felt at the Cavendishes’ house and in the parking lot Thursday night, I’d done my best to freeze out Curtis in school on Friday: changing direction on a path, getting engrossed in my phone, starting an impromptu conversation with a startled girl from my history class whose name I’d never learned, ducking into the bathroom.
And yet, every time I shut a door or swiveled away, I caught him grinning in my periphery. Worse, when I could do so without being seen, I couldn’t help grinning back. Blast.
When it had been time for Friday’s Convocation, I’d gathered Merri and Hannah around me like human shields, sitting between them and instigating a conversation about a book series that had them both salivating. They’d talked across me and over each other about “cliffhangers” and “world-building,” and I’d leaned smugly against the bench.
Only to feel breath and words tickle the back of my neck. “Win wants a rematch—and Wink wants in. Says she’ll play one-handed if we let her join. So, want to make my siblings happy?”
My lips had twitched into a smile—a safe one, since he couldn’t see it. There couldn’t have been more than three inches from his lips to my ear. He must’ve been seated on the edge of his bench and leaning forward. If I’d shifted even slightly, my blazer would’ve brushed where his hands gripped the back of my row. Would they have felt as warm and electric as they had on his couch? I’d meant to look up an explanation for that—but then my parents/the Avery . . . and Frankenstein.
The words And what about you? had withered on my lips. I’d turned my head sharply to the left, probably lashing him with my ponytail as I’d ignored him and asked Hannah, “Do you know how many books are planned for the series?”
Standing beneath the fluorescent lights of aisle six, I pressed my teeth against the memory as I tossed a canister of turmeric into my shopping basket. In my mind, it bounced out and shattered on the store’s gray floor, causing an orange cloud of powder that choked the overzealous clerk.
Sometimes it felt easier to get groceries delivered; to do all shopping online, so it arrived at my door in boxes and without human interaction. Sometimes the isolation of my parents’ research base sounded appealing. Frankenstein’s monster would have understood this. He knew what it was like to be judged by his appearance—only his appearance. Like it was the sole thing that mattered or it told the observer everything they needed to know.
After I checked out, I stood beside my car—parked under a street lamp in a space close to the store—and wanted to scream. I yearned to demonstrate my understanding of the monster’s growing thirst for vengeance and his frustration with people deciding they could determine the measure of his person—his morality, his intelligence, his capabilities—based on the way he looked.
I wanted a world where I could wear whatever I wanted. Go wherever I wanted. A world that was designed to keep girls safe, instead of one where we had to adapt our behavior to accommodate the gaze and insinuations of those who felt entitled to others’ bodies or time or attention or smiles.
But it was dark. It was a parking lot. I was alone. So I clutched my keys between my fingers as I returned my cart and peered in the windows of my car before I got in and drove home.
11
I understood why others hated Mondays, but I was relieved to reach bedtime Sunday night. Even more relieved when my alarm went off Monday morning. Merri’s and my dynamic had shifted since she’d started dating Fielding. She spent a lot of weekends at his fencing tournaments and had this vocabulary and knowledge about a sport I’d never seen. I could’ve invited myself or accepted her invitations, but it felt like a duo activity. I was no longer the default other half of Merri’s duo.
Her priorities hadn’t shifted; they’d expanded. Mine hadn’t. Which left days where I spent too much time in my head. Too much time alone.
But drives to school were still ours.
“How’s my favorite scientist?” Mr. Campbell asked as I walked into the kitchen. He held up a finger, asking me to hold on, then flicked the switch to run the garbage disposal. I was grateful for its loud, mechanical grinding, because it gave me time to process his words. His favorite scientist. He meant it. Even though I wasn’t as accomplished or brilliant as the doctors Gordon and Fergus.
I didn’t think I was my parents’ favorite anything. Nancy had known since Thursday about their upcoming trip home, but it had taken them until yesterday to acknowledge it with me.
I’d read their short email until I’d had it memorized, hoping I’d find a way to interpret their words differently. To find some hidden excitement about seeing me.
Eliza,
I trust you’ve heard we acquiesced to judge the Avery Science Competition. Presumably you’ve realized it would be a conflict of interest for us to judge your project, so we’ll abstain and let the rest of the judging panel evaluate it instead. We’ve included some links to articles about past winners. As you know, this competition is a feeder for the International Science and Engineering Fair—that should be your end goal.
Mr. Campbell flicked the disposal off and twisted the faucet. “Sorry about that. What’s new with you? Merri’s on the phone, and I’d holler up or tell you to barge in, but she’s talking to Senator Rhodes about how to use early feminist writings in modern political messaging. Something about showing both progress and lack thereof?” He reached for a dishcloth to wipe down the counter. “She can explain it better. Or maybe you already know—it’s her project for English. What are you doing?”
Merri had already started her project—and it was an important one. I could barely make myself keep turning pages. T
his made two projects I was behind on, since I hadn’t figured out anything for the Avery either. “I don’t know.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever heard those words come out of your mouth.” He put down the towel and faced me. “Want to talk about it?”
If I pulled up the link to past Avery winners, I knew how he’d react—with a whistle and a request I translate those long jargon-y titles “out of sciencese.” That was what my parents expected from me: a project no one beyond a select circle would understand. What I wanted from them? To be understood.
Rory had left a sketchbook on the counter, with supplies on top. I picked up her kneaded eraser and began to twist it. “There’s a scene about a hundred pages into Frankenstein—that’s the book I’m reading—where the monster describes how he spent a winter living in a hovel and spying on a house and its inhabitants. From them he learns what a family is, but not how to be part of one. Sometimes I feel like that—with you all, with my classmates. That I’m an excellent observer, but not a member of anything.”
I didn’t tell him the rest. How the monster hadn’t just observed the family but eventually tried to infiltrate them. His presence so horrified them that they’d packed up and fled in the middle of the night. He ruined them. And from there he begins a streak of destructive vengeance: burning houses, committing murder . . .
“Can I give you a hug?” I liked that he asked—both because consent, and also because I desperately needed one. Mr. Campbell was short and soft. He smelled like dish soap and coffee and dog. “Eliza, you know Jennifer and I consider you to be practically a Campbell. You have parents, and I don’t mean them any insult, but you are the fourth daughter we would’ve loved to have. You are part of this family and our community. An important part.”
“Thank you.” I whispered the words into the weave of his thick sweater. He acknowledged them with a pat on my back before he let go.
“I know I’ve offered this a dozen times, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or add pressure, but the invitation to move in stands. You are always welcome here. As much as it pains me to admit it, Lilly’s assured me she has no post-marriage plans to move back. Though we’d take Trent too—wouldn’t we, Gatsby? Wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have another guy in the house.” He bent to extricate Merri’s dog, who was snout-deep in the trash can.
“That’s kind, but . . .” I shrugged and flailed for a new topic. I couldn’t handle one centered on my parents right now. I’d emailed them back—reminding them I wasn’t allowed to enter science fairs.
They’d forgotten. They’d entirely forgotten about fourth-grade me being humiliated in front of the entire school. Worse, once I’d reminded them, they’d responded like it was funny.
The judges back then probably didn’t understand the title of your project, never mind the content. Ha. Rest assured these judges can keep up. Even if your peers still can’t.
What was so great about elitism? It was my least favorite thing about the science community—the way it found joy in using vocabulary that excluded people. Maybe we wouldn’t have such problems with climate-change deniers or anti-vaxxers if people understood the science behind them. Or like the podcast Mr. Campbell had given up on—it had the opportunity to educate him on one of the greatest breakthroughs of the last hundred years, but instead he’d turned it off because it made him feel not smart enough. I didn’t want a project that fell into that trap.
He might not have a Nobel Prize, but he knew me well enough that he’d never have written a postscript like my parents’: One other thing: make sure to check the application box that denies permission to include your image in press or advertisements. Otherwise you’ll likely end up on the cover of next year’s brochure looking like some Barbie doll in a lab coat.
They didn’t know about my charter-school nickname, how cutting those words were. But standing in this bright kitchen, my hurt was dangerously close to the surface.
“Thank you.” My words were watery, but Mr. Campbell wasn’t the sort to run from tears. He gave me a nod, seeming to read that I couldn’t stomach another hug or the verbal equivalent. I didn’t have enough practice with affection to tolerate it gracefully.
“Gah!” Merri slid into the kitchen in mismatched socks: swords on her left foot, hearts on her right. Her socks never matched, but this pairing was a tribute to Fielding. She took out a box of toaster pastries. “I hate Monday mornings. And Senator Rhodes said my idea for mandatory three-day weekends was no go.” She turned to me with a smile and held out a packet of roasted chickpeas. “If you were a senator and I were a senator, you’d cosign that bill, right?”
I didn’t know who I was more disappointed in: myself for nodding because it was easier than explaining why a seventy-two-hour weekend sounded nightmarish, or her for not knowing me well enough to recognize the truth. Me for not speaking up and saying I’d missed her this weekend, or her for not having missed me and called.
I couldn’t remember a time I’d lied to her before, but it felt like a tipping point or a test—one we’d both failed.
12
On Tuesday I asked Merri to ride with Toby, because I was headed to school early. It wasn’t just Curtis I’d avoided since last week; it was Ms. Gregoire too. I wasn’t fooling her with my ducked head and lack of class participation. She’d intercepted me on the way out of class yesterday to simply say, “Remember, my door is always open.”
And so Tuesday morning I stood in front of it, debating whether to knock or walk away.
“Come in, Eliza.”
I blinked. The classroom door that was metaphorically “always open” was currently closed. It didn’t have windows. Maybe she could see the shadow of my shoes? There had to be a logical explanation.
Ms. Gregoire was seated at her desk when I walked in. “You are not Frankenstein’s monster. Before we begin any conversation today, I want to state that.” She put down her pen and raised her eyes to meet mine. “Do you hear me? More importantly, do you believe me?”
“I—” I glanced at her desk. My response journal was on top of it.
Last night, after I’d submitted the assignment to our class drop box, I’d pulled the suggested book list—the one that somehow had ended up in my copy of Frankenstein—from my desk drawer. Any title on there had to be less painful than what I was reading, but there was one that stood out. And not just because it had been underlined in green pen.
“You were right. I need to switch books.” The words slid out of my mouth smoother than I’d expected, but now I needed a rationale. “It’s . . . is Mary Shelley worried her readers have never seen a tree or mountain or lake? There’s a tedious amount of nature description.”
She smiled. “I don’t think this is your real issue with the book.”
It wasn’t.
There’d been illness and murder and innocents executed—but the monster and Victor had finally met up again. And in the middle of the monster’s confessions of his deeds, he’d issued an ultimatum: Make me a companion and I’ll leave humanity alone.
I wasn’t sure if I was horrified or jealous that Victor had agreed, but either way, I needed to be done. As Ms. Gregoire had said, I was not the monster—and yet he was the one I was rooting for. That could not end well.
“May I switch books?”
“Of course.” Ms. Gregoire moved the stack of papers out of the way so she could lean forward. Her rust-colored dress was printed with old-fashioned suitcases. “Would you like a suggestion?”
“No suggestions!” I blurted. “I’d like to choose.”
“Let me grab a copy of the list.” While Ms. Gregoire rummaged through her desk, I studied the books stacked on top of it. A bright green cover caught my eye. I spun it around to reveal its title and froze. It was the same one that had been underlined on my list. The same one I’d come here to request: Anne of Green Gables.
“This is set on Prince Edward Island. Does it count as Brit Lit?”
“I give it the ‘Commonwealth close-enough.�
�� PEI only became confederated the year before Lucy Maud Montgomery was born, and she was an officer of the Order of the British Empire.” With a push of one finger, Ms. Gregoire slid the novel smoothly out of the middle of the stack. The other books didn’t wobble. I blinked as I tried to figure out the physics behind that feat. It had to be something about force and motion—like when magicians yanked a tablecloth from beneath an elaborate dinner spread without disturbing the dishes. She flipped casually through the book, and I fought the strangest urge to yank it from her hands as she asked, “Have you read it?”
“No, but I spent a summer there when I was in elementary school. My parents were studying the prevention of parabolic dune erosion.” I didn’t mention that it was my best summer, because the local scientist they’d been working with had a daughter around my age. For two months I ran down beaches and splashed in waves and danced to fiddle music at cèilidhs. Dr. Rostine and his husband had brought me to the wharf where I’d chosen my own lobster from the traps being unloaded off boats, and I’d eaten it with roasted new potatoes and sweet blueberries I’d stained my fingers picking. I’d had mosquito bites and freckles and sunburns. Red clay beneath my nails, tan lines, jellyfish stings. My hair had been snarled from blowing freely and highlighted with sun streaks, and the taste of salt water had radiated from my skin.
Dr. Rostine had been a force of nature—and while he’d never managed to get my parents on a golf course, and they’d drawn a firm line in the proverbial sand about me jumping from the Basin Head bridge, they’d also taken off their shoes, rolled up their pants, and walked along the beach with me at sunset. Granted our conversation had been about dune erosion, not the golds and pinks that streaked the sky or the red clay rocks I skipped in the waves—but it was nearly perfect. I’d almost read Anne of Green Gables back then, but each time I picked it up, my parents had swapped it for a scientific journal.
“Could I switch to this book?” I reached across her desk, and I swore it started moving toward me too—like my fingers were magnetic and it was a metal object within their field of pull—until she stopped it with a hand on top.
Talk Nerdy to Me Page 8
