“Three to six weeks, possibly longer.”
“Well,” Mom says after a long silence, “at least you didn’t dye it green.”
Special Effects had a particularly offensive shade called “Iguana Green.” I kick myself for not going that route.
Everyone at the Lowensteins’ party gushes over my hair. With that and my cleavagey dress and my eyebrow ring, I make an impressive entrance. Dad escorts me around the room, commenting that the purple hair comes from his side of the family.
While we’re in the buffet line, Byron makes a sniping remark about how I look like one of those Teletubby characters. He emphasizes the word “tubby.” Before I can stop myself, I kick him in the shin really hard. I can tell it hurts because he looks like he wants to smack me. He slams down his plate of latkes and stomps away. I help myself to one of his potato pancakes.
Near the end of the evening, I’m trapped in a corner with Nan the Neurotic Nutritionist. She’s spent the past ten minutes warbling on about organic produce and the chemicals they put into prepackaged foods.
“Speaking of chemicals,” Nan says, gesturing to my purple head, “how did you decide to take the plunge?”
I glance at Mom. She’s standing a few feet from me, sipping spiked punch and talking to a small, bespectacled woman. I can hear her explaining how Byron took time off from Columbia to reevaluate his life, how it’s hard always being an overachiever.
“I’m taking time off to reevaluate my hair color,” I say. “It’s hard always being a blond.”
We’re in the car on the way home from the Lowensteins’. Dad is driving. Byron is up front keeping him company. Mom drank too much punch, so she’s resting in the back with me. I’m staring out my foggy window, checking out Christmas decorations in people’s yards.
“Ginny?” Mom says.
I turn toward her. Mom hasn’t called me Ginny since I was five or six. “Yeah?”
“Remember what you said when we were shopping, about how you’re not like me when I was younger?”
I nod as I think about that scene in Saks. My toe is nearly healed, so I’d rather not dwell on it anymore.
“I wish I’d had the nerve to dye my hair purple when I was your age.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “You like my hair?”
“I’m not saying that much.” Mom smiles sheepishly. The punch definitely has loosened her up. “But I do admire your chutzpah.”
I stare at Mom. She stares back at me. We sit there for a second, staring and smiling at each other.
“Did Mom just use the word ‘chutzpah’?” Byron laughs hoarsely. “Ms. Ozark, Arkansas, goes to a Hanukkah party and suddenly she’s speaking Yiddish.”
Mom looks out her window.
I look out mine.
“I like the word ‘chutzpah,’” Dad says. “It means courage and strength, but it sums it up in a way that only Yiddish can do.”
“But Mom speaking Yiddish? She’s so white bread.”
I wipe the condensation from my window just in time to spot a huge plastic Santa propped on a rooftop, his tomato-red cheeks blinking in the night.
Yes, Mom.
Speaking Yiddish.
About me.
Christmas has never been very deck-the-hallsy around the Shreves household, and this year is no exception. I give Mom a gift certificate to Banana Republic. I give Dad a gift certificate to Sports Authority. I give Byron a gift certificate to Tower Records. He gives me the same gift certificate for the same amount, so we both keep our own. I use my gift certificate to buy Like I Said, the Ani DiFranco album with the song on it that Annie Mills played for me.
My parents give me a digital camera. That’s what I asked for. I’ve been mulling over the idea of building a personal Web page, so I thought a digital camera would come in handy. At the very least, I can e-mail Shannon shots of my purple hair. She’s already sent me some goofy pictures of her sticking out her completely healed tongue.
The day after Christmas, Mom and Dad fly to the Caribbean, where they’re spending a week at a tropical golf resort. As soon as they leave, Byron takes over the apartment, strewing towels on the bathroom floor, leaving the TV on all the time, clogging the kitchen sink with crusty dishes.
I relocate to Mrs. Myers’s apartment on the ninth floor. She’s visiting her grandnephew in Florida, so I’m feeding her Siamese cats. I don’t sleep in her bed, but I spend all my waking hours down there reading magazines, baking brownies, and watching reruns. The only times I go up to our apartment are to sleep or shower or e-mail Shannon, since Mrs. Myers doesn’t have a computer.
I haven’t spoken with anyone from school, so I don’t know what happened with Mr. Moony. I don’t know if he had a heart attack or if he’s in the hospital or what. I still can’t believe I saw him a few minutes before he was rushed off in an ambulance.
I considered calling Ms. Crowley to see what she knows, but then I remembered that she’s spending the break with her in-laws in Vermont. I feel awful that I stormed out of her office last week. I know she only wanted to help me, but I guess it struck a raw nerve. As they say, the truth is always the hardest thing to hear.
It’s New Year’s Eve afternoon.
I’ve just arrived at the kickboxing class that Dr. Love recommended. For my New Year’s resolution, I’m vowing to do something good for my body and soul. A daily hot fudge sundae almost won out, if it weren’t for the body aspect. Then I considered another crash diet, but that seems to trash my soul.
It’s a small class, only nine other girls. They’re all around my age. The teacher’s name is Tisha. She’s got cornrowed hair, a full figure, and an orange spandex outfit. She looks like she could kick some serious ass.
Tisha has us jump rope and do jumping jacks to warm up. After we stretch, she hands out gloves and this long, black cloth material. She shows newcomers how to wrap the material around our hands, to protect them. It’s supposed to go around each finger, our knuckles, and our wrists, but it’s so confusing that one girl jokes by binding her hand to her foot, which makes us all crack up.
We spend the rest of the hour learning how to punch and kick various bags. At one point, as we’re punching what she calls the “heavy bags,” Tisha tells us to visualize someone who pisses us off and let them have it. I think about Byron and end up punching so hard that Tisha has the other girls pause to admire my efforts.
After class I’m drenched in sweat, but I feel energized. It’s strange how taking all that anger out on the punching bag actually makes me feel better than I have in a long time.
“I’m thrilled to have you join us,” Tisha says to me as I pull my sweatpants on over my shorts. “I can tell you have a lot of potential.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Tisha and I discuss the schedule and fees and then I head to the subway with two other girls from the class. They introduce themselves as Sammie and Phoebe. Phoebe is really small and chatty. She says she started this class a few months ago, after her parents insisted she take up an athletic activity. Sammie is much quieter, but she smiles at me a few times and I can tell she’s nice, just more on the shy side.
We all chat for a few stops on the subway. They both rave about my purple hair. Phoebe gets off at Ninety-sixth Street and asks Sammie to call her as soon as she gets home. Sammie and I ride down to Seventy-ninth Street together. She tells me how her dad is in town for the holidays, so she’s showing him around the city.
When we get to my stop, I wave goodbye.
“See you at the next class,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Happy New Year!”
Shannon and I have promised to call each other tonight, have a bicoastal celebration, ring in the New Year.
I call Shannon around ten. Liam and Nina have just left for the evening, so our first order of business is intoxication. I carry the cordless phone into the kitchen because Dad keeps the vodka in the freezer. I squeeze the phone between my ear and shoulder, pour some vodka into a glass, and fill the res
t with orange juice.
“I’m taking some white wine,” Shannon says, giggling, “and mixing it with cherry Kool-Aid.”
“Shannon Iris,” I say, “you are such a boozer.”
Neither of us has ever raided our parents’ alcohol supply before, so we’re totally buzzed just from the excitement of it. I carry my drink into my bedroom. Shannon and I chat for about an hour and then we decide to take a quick bathroom break.
“I’ll call you back in five minutes,” Shannon says. “That way we can split the phone bill.”
“Make sure to fill up your wineglass!”
“Who’s the boozer now?”
I teeter a little when I stand up. After peeing, I head into the kitchen and pour another shot of vodka. This time I mix it with cranberry juice.
“Go easy on Dad’s vodka,” Byron calls from the living room. “It’s not cheap stuff.”
Byron is slumped on the couch, watching the ball drop on TV. He’s been grumpy all day because no one invited him out tonight.
“Whatever,” I say, pouring some additional vodka into my glass.
The phone rings, so I spring for it.
“Shan?”
“Drunk yet?”
“Getting there,” I say.
“Me, too!”
Shannon and I giggle and tell stupid jokes until the clocks hit midnight in New York. Then we shriek and scream and jump on our beds. We’re both a little sloshed. And it doesn’t help that we’ve been pretending to slur our words for the past twenty minutes.
“Happy New Year, shhhwweeetheart,” Shannon garbles.
“Shhhame to you, Shannon Ireeeeesh.”
After we hang up, I make my way into the kitchen to get some water. I’m so wobbly that I have to clutch the walls. My cheeks feel flushed and I’m smiling for no reason in particular.
“Feeling OK?” Byron asks. He’s clutching a fork and staring into the open fridge.
I scowl. “Why should you care?”
I attempt to pour a glass of water, but half of it splashes onto the counter. Ever since our argument a few weeks ago, there’s been some serious tension between Byron and me. In the past I would have been the one to back down, but now I’m more than happy to keep my pistols drawn.
“It’s just that your first time drinking can be the worst,” Byron says.
“How do you know it’s my first time?”
“I’m remembering back from when I was in high school.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
Byron shrugs as he takes a container of potato salad out of the fridge. “It’s crazy thinking about high school, Gin. I thought I had my whole life set, but then one wrong turn and look at me now.”
I hold on to the dishwasher to steady myself. “Do you regret what you did to Annie Mills?”
Byron stabs a potato chunk with his fork. “Of course I do.”
“Well, you definitely let me down,” I say. Normally, I wouldn’t be this honest with Byron, but the vodka is doing strange things to my brain.
“What do you mean?”
I stare at my brother. In the past several months, I’ve been so upset because he hurt Annie Mills. But it hits me that I’m angry on my own behalf, too. Partially because of the date rape, but mostly for how Byron has acted toward me over the past several years.
“I used to worship you,” I say, “even though you didn’t treat me with the same respect that I treated you.”
“You can’t put people on pedestals.” Byron snaps the lid back on the container. “They’ll just disappoint you.”
“You let me put you up there, so you’ve got to take some responsibility.”
Byron leans against the counter. He doesn’t respond, but I know that he heard me.
I head into my room and collapse on my bed. The walls start spinning around me. I feel like I’m in that twister scene from The Wizard of Oz, but instead of farmhouses and witches on bicycles whizzing through the air, it’s ideas.
I’m thinking about Ms. Crowley’s comment about how I isolate myself from my peers. I’m thinking about my new digital camera. I’m thinking about how much I’ve enjoyed trying new things, like my eyebrow ring and my purple hair. I’m thinking about those girls from kickboxing and how easy it was to meet new people, much easier than I always thought it would be.
All of a sudden, I feel nauseous. I stumble into the bathroom, open the toilet lid, and puke.
Happy New Year, I think to myself as I swish a mouthful of water and spit it into the sink.
I’m actually excited about starting school again. Today is our first day back, so I’m wearing the polyester orange shirt that I bought at that vintage shop in Seattle. I wore it once over break and I like the way it looks.
I factor in some extra time to do my hair. It’s faded a little, so I want to jazz it up for school. I experiment with a few styles before settling on two antenna-like pigtails sprouting from either side. I rub purple glitter around my eyes to add to the cosmic effect.
I’m on my way to my locker when I pass Alyssa Wu. She’s wearing a cream-colored sweater and a matching cap. I bet she knitted them herself. They look great with her shiny black hair.
“Cool hair!” she says.
“Thanks.”
Alyssa walks to my locker with me. As I turn my combination, I ask, “How was your break?”
“Fine. Boring. Same as usual,” she says. “What about you?”
The principal’s voice comes over the PA system. She summons us to the auditorium for an assembly before first period.
I slam my locker shut. “Do you know what that’s about?”
Alyssa shrugs. “Not a clue.”
As Alyssa and I settle into some aisle seats, I notice that Brinna Livingston is sitting in Brie’s usual Queen Bee spot. To her right is Briar Schwartz, Lady in Waiting #1. To her left is a skinny sophomore named Brittany Felsen.
I glance around for Brie, only to see her sitting a few rows back. She looks awful — pale and small, like a flutter of wind could blow her away. I wonder if she’s been bumped from her position of power, if Brinna now holds the throne, if Brittany Felsen is the replacement Bri-girl.
The principal walks onto the stage and taps the microphone a few times.
“Welcome back, students and faculty,” she says. “I’m sorry to start the new year with tragic news, but as most of you know, Clive Moony had some heart trouble the day before break.” The principal daubs her eyes with a tissue. “It turned out to be a major heart attack that took a toll on his body. Mr. Moony passed away on New Year’s Day.”
The auditorium is completely silent. I glance at Alyssa, but her face is sinking into her hands. My eyes and nose sting like I want to cry, but the tears won’t come. The principal launches into a speech about how Mr. Moony taught math for forty-one years, directed the school choir for thirty years, won Model Brewster Teacher seven times. When she tells us that condolence cards can be sent to his widow, I’m shocked by the realization that Mr. Moony had a life outside of the Pythagorean theorem.
“In honor of Clive Moony,” the principal says, “I’d like to have a moment of silence.”
As we sit in silence, I can’t help but feel like something is wrong. I mean, Mr. Moony was never quiet, what with his never-ending parade of songs with our names in them.
Suddenly, a guy near the back belts out, “Mr. Moon, Moon, bright and shiny moon, oh won’t you please shine down on me?”
A few kids crane their necks to stare at him, but most people join in the song.
“Mr. Moon, Moon, bright and shiny moon, oh won’t you please shine down on me?”
Those who don’t know the lyrics hum or sway from side to side. I sing, even though tears are trickling down my face. Most people in the auditorium are at least sniffling, if not all out crying. I have a feeling we’re all thinking the same thing. We hated the way Mr. Moony serenaded us, but we’re going to miss it now that he’s gone.
As I’m filing out of the auditorium,
I pass a teary-eyed Ms. Crowley.
“Virginia.” She wraps her arms around me.
“I’m so sorry for how I acted before break,” I say. “I don’t know what —”
Ms. Crowley cuts me off. “No, I’m sorry. I completely overstepped my boundaries. I’ve been feeling horrible ever since I said it.”
“I’m glad you did. I needed to hear that, especially from someone I respect.”
Ms. Crowley squeezes my shoulder. “What have you got first period?”
“Global studies. Why?”
“I’ve got something for you. I was going to give it to you before break. Can you come up to my office? I’ll write you a late pass.”
On our way upstairs, I tell Ms. Crowley about my new idea. I’ve decided that rather than just building my own homepage, I want to start an online webzine where kids can rant about anything on their minds. I want to make it an official Brewster club, so I’ll need a teacher to sponsor the idea.
“I’d be happy to,” Ms. Crowley says as she hands me a wrapped present. “Just bring me the forms and I’ll sign away.”
I rip open the paper. Ms. Crowley has given me a book called Body Outlaws. There are several pictures of women on the cover — all shapes and sizes and races — flexing their biceps, chowing down, flaunting tattoos.
“It’s a fantastic book,” Ms. Crowley says. “All essays by young women who are rebelling against body norms.”
I thumb through the index. There’s a chapter called “The Butt” and another called “Fishnets, Feather Boas, and Fat.”
“Make sure to read the inscription,” Ms. Crowley adds.
I flip to the inside flap, where she’s written:
“I thought at last that it was time to roll up the crumpled skin of the day, with its arguments and its impressions and its anger and its laughter, and cast it into the hedge.”
—Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
I’ve never really gotten Virginia Woolf before, but this passage seems to make sense. It’s about throwing out old notions and reevaluating what you’ve always thought. At least I think so. I guess it makes more sense on an emotional level than on an intellectual one.