Byron jogs into the foyer, humming a song that was just on TRL.
“Who’s here?” I ask.
“Some friends called earlier to see if they could swing by.”
It turns out to be that guy I met in Byron’s dorm, the one who looks like a hamster. He’s holding hands with an Indian woman wearing a knee-length skirt and tall black boots. Byron offers to get them something to drink, but Hamster Boy coolly explains that he just stopped by to get those DVDs he loaned my brother last fall.
They’re in and out in less than five minutes, not enough time for the slush from their boots to melt into puddles.
As soon as they’re gone, Byron knocks around the kitchen, clanking dishes and slamming cupboards.
“Could you keep it down?” I grab the remote and pump the volume on MTV.
“Get off my back,” Byron barks from the kitchen.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Why do you care?”
“I care because you’re interrupting TRL,” I shout. They’re about to announce the top video of the day and I don’t want to miss it.
“Fine.” Byron stomps into the living room. “I was interested in that girl and Shawn, the little prick, chased after her as soon as I was out of sight.”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “Well it’s not like anyone will want to go out with you anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” I give him a knowing look. “Annie Mills.”
Byron pales. “Don’t go there, Gin.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s none of your fucking business.”
“Maybe it’s none of my fucking business,” I say, “but I’m just saying that I’m probably not the only person who thinks you’re an asshole for date-raping someone.”
Byron lurches toward me. I tumble over the back of the couch, truck into my bedroom, and turn the lock.
Byron pounds on my door. “Come out, you fat piece of shit!”
“Fuck you!” I shout. I’m trembling all over.
“No, fuck you!”
Byron goes into his bedroom and blasts his music. I dig that photo strip of us out of my cedar box, tear it to shreds, and chuck it into my trash. I’m looking around my room for other remnants of my brother when I spot a paper clip on my desk. I’m tempted to unbend the wire and run it across my wrist until I break the skin. I can picture the blood oozing to the surface, releasing the anger inside my chest.
That’s when I remember what Dr. Love said about not hurting myself anymore. Instead, I grab my jacket and hurry out of the apartment before Byron hears me and pummels me to a pulp.
I take the subway up Broadway and walk across Columbia’s main campus. The sky is hazy and snowflakes litter the air. They’re forecasting a blizzard this evening, four to six inches of snowfall.
I find Wallach right away, but I have to wait on the front stoop for nearly twenty minutes, shivering and rubbing my hands together, until enough students are crowded into the entranceway for me to slip past the security guard.
Annie Mills’s room is 209, so I take the narrow stairs to the second floor. I make my way down several hallways, past the 230s and the 220s. As I get closer, my heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s going to crack my ribs.
Room 212 . . . 211 . . . 210 . . .
There it is. Room 209.
I raise my hand and knock on the door.
“Who is it?” a voice calls from inside.
Is that Annie Mills? Or maybe her roommate?
I knock again.
I can hear footsteps crossing the room. The woman who opens the door has amber-colored eyes and tangly brown hair that reaches her waist. She’s wearing an off-white undershirt, overalls, and no makeup.
“May I help you?” she asks.
“Are you Annie Mills?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Virginia Shreves. My older brother is By —”
“Byron Shreves.” Annie frowns. “What are you doing here?”
I chew on a fingernail, even though it’s already ground down to the skin. I prepared what I was going to say on the subway, but now my mind is blank.
Annie twists a long strand of hair around her finger. “I’m not exactly sure you should be . . .”
“You’re right.” I choke up. “I’m sorry . . . it was a stupid idea.”
I turn and take off. Once I reach the stairwell, I plunk down on the top step. I’m shaking all over — from nerves, but also from being cold. My hair is damp and my sneakers are soggy and freezing. I can’t believe I’m sniffling and shivering in a dingy stairwell of a dorm.
That’s when it hits me. I came to Columbia for a reason. Partially, I needed to see Annie, to confirm that she’s a real person. But I also wanted to apologize to her. I know I’m not responsible for Byron’s actions, but she deserves to have some sympathy from one of the Shreves.
I stand up, take a few deep breaths, and head back toward room 209. When I reach her door, I wipe my eyes and nose, take a calming breath, and knock.
The door opens right away.
“Hey,” I say.
Annie looks confused.
“I’m sorry to bother you.” I stare down at my wet sneakers, willing myself not to cry. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what my brother did to you. If it makes any difference, I think he’s an asshole for wrecking your life like that.”
Annie doesn’t respond, so I quickly add, “Well, that’s all. I guess I’ll head . . .”
“Wait. You look freezing. Do you want a cup of tea or something?”
I shiver and hug my arms to my chest. “Are you sure?”
“Mint or apple spice?”
“Apple spice,” I say, “if it’s not a problem.”
Annie opens her door a little. “Come on in.”
I unlace my sneakers and leave them in the hallway before stepping into Annie’s room. The first thing I see is one single bed. How strange. I always pictured Annie having a roommate.
As she fills an electric kettle with bottled water and plugs it into the wall, I settle onto her rug. It’s a cozy room, with a fuzzy beanbag chair, a lava lamp, and photos of friends plastering the walls. I notice a half-packed suitcase by the closet and a banner running across her screen saver that says ONE MORE DAY TILL BREAK!
“Do you want honey in your tea?”
“Sure.”
“That’s how I like it, too.”
Annie hands me a mug.
“Thanks.”
“Virginia, right?” Annie says, settling onto the beanbag chair.
“Yeah.”
“Virginia, it was brave of you to come up here, though I have to admit it weirded me out at first.”
I attempt to sip my tea, but it’s still too hot.
“How did you find my room?” Annie asks.
“The student directory in that glass building.”
Annie is quiet as she blows the steam off her tea. “Can I say one thing about your . . . about Byron?”
Annie pronounces “about” the Canadian way: a-boot.
I shrug. “Sure.”
“What you said at the door, about him wrecking my life . . .”
“Yeah?”
“He hasn’t.”
“Really?”
Annie shakes her head and her hair spills over her chest, like a shawl. “What Byron did was awful. That’s why I reported him to the campus authorities. I don’t want him to think he can ever do that to another woman.” Annie pauses and looks around her room. I can tell this is hard for her to talk about. “But as much as this has been a horrendous experience, my life isn’t wrecked. I won’t let him have that kind of power over me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had no control over what Byron did that night,” Annie says. “But what happened the next morning, what will happen every morning for the rest of my life, that’s up to me. I think people can choose to be victims or they can choose
to be empowered and to carry on. That’s what I want. To be empowered.”
I stare at Annie. I’m completely speechless. I can’t believe how much I identify with what she said — just with how things are in my family, how I’ve always let myself get treated.
“May I play a song for you?” Annie asks. “It’s an early one by Ani DiFranco.”
I nod.
Annie crawls across her floor. She slides a CD into her stereo and clicks until she reaches the right track.
“It’s called ‘Gratitude,’” she says. “It’s really helped me get through this semester.”
It turns out to be a song about a guy who invites a girl to sleep in his bed, promising it’ll just be platonic, and then starts pressuring her to fool around. You can tell that Ani is angry, but at the same time she’s also funny and strong and sassy.
By the time the song is over, I’ve got goose bumps on my arms.
“You remind me of my older sister,” I say. “You’d like her a lot.”
Annie smiles. “I bet I would. Because I already like her sister.”
It takes me a few seconds to realize that she’s talking about me.
As soon as I get home, I write a letter to Anaïs. I tell her about Byron, my crash diet, my burnt finger, Seattle, my broken toe, Annie Mills. I write and write until I’ve filled nine sheets of pale pink stationery. Then I fold the pages into an envelope and head into Mom’s study to search for my sister’s address.
Mom’s desk is covered with papers and Post-its and books on adolescent psychology. After poking around for a few minutes, I locate her address book. I flip to the S’s and there it is: Anaïs Shreves, care of the Peace Corps.
I always thought Mom was the gatekeeper to my sister, that I couldn’t write her without Mom’s permission. But Anaïs’s address has been here all along. I just had to look.
The day before winter break has dragged more slowly than a snail on sleeping pills. I’m so exhausted that I’ve spent the entire day in a state of perpetual yawn. I stayed up until two in the morning studying for today’s global studies exam. We had to regurgitate everything we learned all fall, complete with names, dates, and puncture wounds.
I set my alarm for five-thirty this morning so I could memorize the various nationalities in French for our test today, but I didn’t rouse until ten to seven, so I skipped my shower, rushed to the bus, and bombed the quiz. The only nationality I could remember was chinois, which is Chinese.
In language arts we had to write an in-class essay about “Ostracism and Oppression,” comparing and contrasting the various books we read this fall. In chemistry we were tested on stoichiometry, which I can barely pronounce, much less define.
I’ve decided that Brewster teachers definitely missed the lesson on holiday spirit.
Even Mr. Moony scheduled a test for today. I spent all of lunch memorizing circle theorems, but as I arrive in last period, Mr. Moony is sleeping at his desk. Behind him on the chalkboard, he’s written:
Class—
I’m not feeling well this afternoon. The examination is rescheduled for after break.
Happy Holidays,
Clive Moony
A few kids fling their notebooks into the air. One guy erases “after break” and writes “never.” Alyssa Wu suggests we send for Paul the School Nurse, but she’s outvoted by the rest of the class, who point out that he might report it to the principal, who might replace Mr. Moony with a new geometry teacher who might actually make us work. As everyone rearranges their desks into clusters of three or four, I forge Mr. Moony’s signature on a pass and take the back staircase down to Ms. Crowley’s office.
I didn’t see her during lunch period because she had a holiday party with the other language arts teachers, so I want to make sure to give her the card I bought for her. It has a picture of eight Great Danes pulling Santa’s sleigh across a rooftop. Ms. Crowley and her husband are total Great Dane freaks. I wrote a long note inside, thanking her for being there for me this fall.
Ms. Crowley explodes into laughter as she slides my card out of the envelope.
I smile. “I thought you’d like it.”
As she reads my note, I fiddle with my eyebrow ring. I was in a gushy mood when I wrote it, so I hope I didn’t go too far.
“Oh, Virginia,” she says, patting my arm, “it’s been such a pleasure having you up here so much.”
“Thanks.”
Ms. Crowley traces her finger along the spine of the card. “I hope I’m not out of line saying this . . .”
“Saying what?” I ask, my shoulders tensing up.
“I’ve enjoyed spending all of these lunch periods together, but I want to make sure you’re not isolating yourself from your peers. There are lots of nice kids at Brewster, if only you reached out, gave them a —”
Adrenaline surges through my body, propelling me to my feet. “I thought I was welcome here.”
“You were.” Ms. Crowley makes an uncomfortable face. “You still are. I’m just saying this because I care about you.”
“If you cared about me, you wouldn’t say something like that!” I shout.
I storm out of Ms. Crowley’s office and race down the stairs, two at a time. I’m almost at my locker when I smack into Paul the School Nurse.
“Are you OK?” he asks.
“Perfect!” I shout.
I’m about to add lovely, fine, and great when I notice that Paul is wringing his hands together and staring anxiously out the front doors of Brewster, which are propped open.
That’s when I see the ambulance parked on the street.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Clive Moony,” Paul says. “A student in his last-period class called 911 from her cell phone because he complained of chest pain.”
I suck in my breath. I was up there only fifteen or twenty minutes ago. It must have happened right after I left. I can’t believe it. I wonder who called 911. I wonder who ran down and got Paul. I wonder what the other kids did.
“Do they think it’s a heart attack?” I ask.
“No one knows for sure,” Paul says.
Paul and I walk to the front stoop. The air is so bitterly cold that it’s hard to breathe. We watch as two paramedics slide a stretcher into the back of the ambulance. There’s an oxygen mask on Mr. Moony’s face. One person crawls in after him. Then the other jumps in and slams the door shut. Seconds later the ambulance is speeding down the street, lights flashing and siren wailing.
The final bell rings.
Winter break has begun.
My parents’ friends, Marcia and Brad Lowenstein, always have their holiday party on the Saturday before Christmas. She’s Baptist and he’s Jewish, so it usually lands on one of the days of Hanukkah. They’re raising their twin boys in both faiths, so they adorn their Connecticut house with dreidels and menorahs, Santas and mangers, five-pointed stars and six-pointed stars. Everyone gets dressed up. The parents drink too much eggnog. The teenagers pretend they’ve drunk too much eggnog. I wind up in the kiddie room with the preschool crew, watching The Lion King and wishing I could get run over by a reindeer.
And it’s all happening tonight.
I still don’t have a dress. Ever since the Saks incident, Mom hasn’t mentioned my holiday outfit. But I’ve decided I want something new to wear, so I wait until Mom has left for her step-aerobics class to ask Dad if I can borrow his credit card.
I take the subway down to Strawberry, where I try on about thirty dresses before finding the perfect one. It’s purple stretch velvet, low cut, snug around my chest and loose in the tummy-hip-thigh region. The saleswoman tells me that if I pass it up, I’ll regret it forever. I study my reflection in the mirror. I’ve never worn anything this risqué, but it strikes me that my breasts actually look vaguely sexy when they’re not lost beneath layers of baggy clothing. I decide to go for it.
As soon as I get home, I slip on the new dress and peek into my parents’ room. Mom is unpacking her gym bag.
&nb
sp; “What do you think?” I ask, spinning around her room. The skirt billows out like an upside-down tulip.
“Very nice,” Mom says.
“Thanks.”
“It’s not your usual style, is it?”
Actually, Mom, I want to say, it’s not YOUR usual style.
“That’s what I like about it,” I say.
“Where did you get it?”
“Strawberry.”
Mom places her sneakers in the rack hanging over her closet door. “Do you really think you should have gotten purple?”
I stop spinning. “Why not?”
“Purple doesn’t go with your hair. Blonds should wear yellow or beige, something that isn’t so domineering.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mom leaves for a hair appointment. That’s when I decide to have a little hair appointment of my own. I zip up my jacket and walk down to Ricky’s, this wacky store that specializes in leopard-print undies and glittery makeup. The sales guy recommends a brand of hair dye called Special Effects. He explains that it lasts for three to six weeks, possibly longer with light hair. I select the shade “Pimpin’ Purple.”
As soon as I get home, I dig some rubber gloves out of the supply closet and lock myself in the bathroom. I turn on the shower, strip down, shampoo my hair, and follow the instructions on the Special Effects bottle. Forty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom. My hair resembles a wad of grape-flavored Bubble Yum.
“Oh my god!” Mom gasps upon entering the apartment a few hours later.
I’m in the kitchen making a cup of hot chocolate. I’m wearing one of Anaïs’s old Dartmouth sweatshirts and my flannel pajama bottoms.
“What have you done?” Mom clutches her collarbone. She appears to be asphyxiating.
“You said my hair didn’t go with my dress,” I say, matter-of-factly.
“Please tell me it’s not permanent. That’s all I want to hear.”
“It’s not permanent.” I pour boiling water into my mug and watch the mini-marshmallows bob to the surface.
“Really?”
“No. You just asked me to say that.”
Tendons are straining out of Mom’s neck like taut violin strings. “How long will it last?”