Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
As soon as I’ve read Body Outlaws, I think I’ll give my namesake another chance.
I can’t believe how much has changed in the first week back at school. I don’t know whether it’s Mr. Moony’s death or just my perception of things, but the climate at Brewster feels much warmer. Popular kids are waving at regular kids in the halls. Regular kids are helping dorky kids gather papers if they drop a notebook down the stairs. Dorky kids aren’t smirking behind their hands when a popular kid screws up in class.
When I pointed this out to Alyssa Wu, she summed it up as “the Postdeath Touchy-Feely Period.”
“It’s like how my whole family got along for a few weeks after my uncle died,” she said one morning as we were waiting for global studies to begin. “Don’t be fooled by it, though.”
“But isn’t it a good thing?”
“Rule number one of the Postdeath Touchy-Feely Period: Enjoy it while it lasts,” Alyssa said. “Rule number two of the Postdeath Touchy-Feely Period: It doesn’t last.”
I had to laugh. It was surprising to hear that someone else in this world thinks the way I do, in terms of lists and rules. I haven’t written a list in forever, not since everything happened with Byron. But I’m starting to feel ideas come into my head again.
“I still can’t believe I was in his class a few minutes before the heart attack,” I said.
“I know,” Alyssa said. “It was so scary. I kept thinking that I shouldn’t have listened to everyone. I should have gotten the school nurse at the beginning of the period.”
“There’s no way you could have known.”
“But still.”
I’ve been eating lunch with Alyssa and a few other girls every day, even though Ms. Crowley keeps reminding me that I’m welcome in her office. I’m really starting to like Alyssa. She comes across as a little weird at first, but she’s actually pretty cool. She fidgets constantly — her fingers, wrists, ankles — every joint is always in motion. That’s why she knits. She says she needs to be doing something with her hands, otherwise she’d drive herself and everyone in her vicinity crazy.
Alyssa is a pop-music junkie. She goes to Times Square almost every day after school to join the crowds cheering up at the MTV studios during Total Request Live. She invited me to join her yesterday afternoon. As we jumped and hooted and froze our butts off, I learned another thing about Alyssa. She can scream louder than anyone I know.
That’s why I’ve asked her to get everyone’s attention today.
It’s lunchtime. I’m about to make an announcement about my new webzine. Over the past week, I’ve filled out all the necessary paperwork to make it an official school club. I’ve even received a modest budget, enough to buy a domain name and get it hosted on the Web. The only things I need now are writers, editors, and people who can do graphic design.
Alyssa stands on a chair and cups her hands around her mouth to create the megaphone effect.
“Romans, cafeteria-men!” she bellows.
People pause midbite and glance curiously up at her.
She continues. “Virginia Shreves has an important announcement, so lend her an ear.”
I take a sip of Diet Pepsi, swish the taco shell out of my braces, and climb on a chair next to Alyssa. I tell everyone that I’m creating a webzine where people can bitch, rant, and rave about whatever is on their minds.
“The first meeting is in the computer cluster after school today,” I say.
Alyssa chimes in that it’ll look good on college applications, something that would inspire most Brewsterites to dance on scorching embers.
A few people visit our table to say they’ll swing by the meeting. One girl tells me she can’t make it, but jots her e-mail address on a napkin so I can let her know about future gatherings.
I’m tossing my tray into the trash when I spot Froggy. He’s heading out of the cafeteria with some friends. We’ve spoken a little since school started again. He complimented my purple hair in the hallway. I borrowed his Wite-Out in French. That’s about the extent of it. I did see him lugging his trombone up the front steps of school, so that ruled out my sold-horn-for-laser-surgery theory.
“Hey, Froggy,” I call out. “Wait up!”
Froggy glances over his shoulder. I can hear him telling his friends to go on ahead.
“What’s up?” Froggy asks. He looks pretty surprised.
I feel my cheeks turning pink. “I was just wondering if you were coming to my meeting today.”
Froggy tweaks his nose a few times. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“I could really use your Web design skills.”
Froggy doesn’t respond.
“More than that,” I add, “it would be nice to hang out again.”
Before I can say anything I’ll later regret, I turn and start toward my table.
“Virginia?” Froggy calls after me.
I spin around. “Yeah?”
“I’ll be there.”
I race to the computer cluster after last period. Krishna said we can hold our meetings there. He’s even offered to assist with the techie aspects of getting a website up and running.
I’m so excited about the turnout — eight kids, including me and Alyssa — that I won’t let myself feel bad that Froggy is a no-show. I glance at Alyssa, who gives me a sympathetic smile. I filled her in on the brief history of Froggy, so she had her fingers and toes crossed that he’d be at the meeting.
“One more minute,” Alyssa mouths, gesturing to her watch.
We wait for two and a half minutes. Finally, I sit on top of a desk, cross one knee over the other, and turn my notebook to a fresh page. I’m just introducing myself when Froggy walks in, his hands jammed in his pockets. I wave at Froggy, take a deep breath, and suggest we go around the room and say our names.
After everyone’s introduced themselves, I talk a little about my vision for the webzine. I make sure to add that it will reflect what’s going on in all of our heads. Basically, I want us to voice the things that people don’t ordinarily talk about.
Then I bring up the first order of business — deciding what to call the webzine. Froggy rolls his chair over to a computer station and volunteers to check which domain names are available.
“How about Rant?” suggests one ninth-grader.
Froggy types it into the computer. “Taken,” he says after a moment.
A girl named Nikki asks, “What about DirtyLaundry, since that’s what we’re going to air?”
“Good idea,” one kid says.
Froggy is quiet for a second. “Also taken.”
This goofy junior named Hudson says, “We should call it MBS, like Model Brewster Student, except it would really stand for Major Bullshit.”
“I wish,” I say, laughing, “but they’d probably cut our school funding.”
Alyssa is propped on the back of a chair, knitting something long and violet. “Do you have any ideas, Virginia?”
I’m quiet for a second. “What about something like Earthquake because we want to shake things up?”
A few kids nod, but after Froggy types “earthquake” into the computer, he says, “Taken by some science lab.”
“What about Earthquack?” Alyssa asks. “We’re shaking stuff up, but we’re also going to expose things for what they are and what they aren’t.”
We all crack up. Hudson makes a duck sound.
Froggy types “earthquack” and then turns in his chair so he’s facing everyone. “Surprisingly,” he says, grinning, “Earthquack is up for grabs.”
Everyone applauds.
“Let’s have a show of hands,” I call out. “How many people want Earthquack?”
The vote is unanimous.
Earthquack is born.
Life has become a blur of school, Earthquack, and wailing with Alyssa in Times Square. Even my parents commented that I’m rarely home anymore, and I didn’t think they noticed those kinds of things.
What shocked me more than anything is that I didn’t turn on the TV for three straight days last week. I didn’t even realize it until I went to watch Entertainment Tonight and couldn’t find the remote control. By the time I finally retrieved it from under a couch cushion, I’d gotten a brainstorm for Earthquack, so I ran into my room to scribble some stuff in my notebook.
I’ve been putting so much energy into Earthquack. We agreed to convene once a week, but the core group of us have been sitting together at lunch every day, so it usually becomes an informal meeting.
We’re shooting to launch Earthquack by the beginning of February. People have already shown me drafts of their ideas. Nikki is writing the uncensored story of Theo Brewster, with an emphasis on his alcoholic, rum-running days. Hudson is writing a humorous call-to-arms, urging the regular and dorky kids to infiltrate the popular courtyard armed with candy cigarettes. Alyssa is gathering lyrics to Mr. Moony’s favorite songs because we’re going to post a special tribute to him. She’s also writing a scathing essay about how because she’s Asian, the Brewster administration always calls on her when they’re taking pictures for their promotional fliers.
When she told everyone that idea, Nikki laughed and said, “You tell ’em!” Nikki is black, so she’s probably on the diversity roster as well. I was tempted to say something about how Brewster hasn’t shown any interest in weight diversity, but I’m not quite ready to go there yet.
One day at lunch, Froggy brought along Sarah, that ninth-grader with the ski-jump nose. I wanted to drown myself in an industrial-sized vat of chocolate pudding, but then I heard her tell Hudson that Froggy’s parents and her parents are old friends, so she and Froggy are practically siblings. It also turns out that Sarah is a grammar whiz, so she’s going to be our copy editor.
Froggy has put together some hilarious ideas for the design. My favorite is an image of a yellow duck taking a bite out of our planet. When it does, several ducklings jump out of the earth’s core and waddle across the screen, quacking wildly. He printed out what he called a “screen shot” — basically just a copy of the page — for me, and I taped it up inside my locker.
I have to admit I still have feelings for Froggy. But since I can’t imagine he’d ever want to go public with me, I’ll have to settle for just being friends. My hormones are telling me to obey the Fat Girl Code of Conduct and invite Froggy to fool around in private again. Then I remember how hiding our relationship made me feel lousy. Even so, whenever I catch Froggy looking my way in French class, I feel a thrum-thrumming between my legs.
Speaking of French, I’m considering dropping it after this year. It’s actually not that bad anymore because Mademoiselle Kiefer has undergone a 180-degree transformation. It all started when our new geometry teacher — the one who replaced Mr. Moony — delivered a dozen white roses to the language office. They were addressed to Joanne Kiefer, a natural woman. Mademoiselle Kiefer must have had a whopping case of sexual frustration because she’s now as sunny as Saint-Tropez. She’s even talking about doing a special unit on Valentine’s Day vocabulary. But I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that, regardless of my Shreves lineage, I’m simply not meant to parler français.
I arranged a special meeting with the Chinese teacher. He said that if I take an intensive course over the summer, I can join the sophomores in September and thus complete my three-year language requirement by graduation. Alyssa’s parents are from Beijing, so she’s offered to tutor me. She’s already taught me how to say hello, thank you, and fuck off in Mandarin.
I’ve gone to four more kickboxing classes. I love it, even though I’m so sore some days I can hardly sneeze. But it feels incredible to kick and sweat for a solid hour, to channel my aggression into a punching bag. I’m starting to feel stronger, to see my stomach and arms tightening up.
Dad must have noticed the difference. Last Sunday we went to a Knicks game together. I was surprised when he invited me because that’s something he always does with Byron. But Dad and I have been communicating a little more recently, ever since he drove me to the airport on Thanksgiving morning. A few weeks ago, I worked up the nerve to tell him I felt bad he didn’t bring me to that Yankees playoff game last fall, so maybe the Knicks tickets were his way of making it up to me.
We were at Madison Square Garden. I’d been cheering and springing up and down and lusting after a certain sexy brown-eyed forward. As I settled back into my seat, Dad turned to me.
“You know, Ginny,” he said, “you really look like you’re slimming down.”
A few months ago, that kind of compliment would have made my day. But I don’t want that kind of feedback from my parents anymore. I don’t want them to think they can discuss my body like it’s the weather forecast on 1010 WINS.
“Dad? We’re trying to be more open with each other, right?”
Dad nodded, but his forehead was wrinkled in confusion.
“Then I have to tell you that I’d rather you don’t talk about my body. It’s just not yours to discuss.”
Dad looked like he swallowed a basketball. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t realized . . .”
“It’s OK. Now you know.”
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why I overeat. I’ve decided that food is my ultimate comfort. If I’m lonely or depressed, a bowl of pasta or a plate of cookies will cheer me up. I know I have to learn healthier ways to deal, but it can’t happen overnight. And I can’t do it for anyone but myself.
That’s why I haven’t told Mom I’m taking kickboxing. I’m paying for it out of my own money and everything. I just don’t want this to become something I’m doing to please her, to make her proud of me.
I did tell Teri the Tiny Gym Teacher. She gave me a form and said that if I have Tisha sign it after every kickboxing class, I can place out of gym.
Thanks to kickboxing, I’ve been able to go to the computer cluster during gym periods. My grades slipped a little last fall, so I’m determined to bring them up again. Especially since I’ve decided I probably don’t want to go to college in the Arctic Circle. I think I’d like to apply to an artsy school with a good writing program, like Vassar or Wesleyan.
That’s what my language arts teacher was talking about the other day. I’m really loving language arts now. We started a new unit a few weeks ago called “Women and Power,” so we’re reading this amazing book called The Red Tent, which is about biblical stories retold from the perspective of women.
Only when I’m completely done with my homework do I let myself work on Earthquack. I’m writing a list for the webzine, my first one in months. It’s also the first list ever that I’m going to show people. No, not just people. Many, many people. The entire Web-surfing universe. I still can’t believe I’m going to take the plunge. It makes me jittery just thinking about it. But I’m tired of always hiding what’s going on and acting like things are OK even when they aren’t.
Here’s what I’ve written so far:
The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things
by Virginia Shreves
1. My best friend moved to the other side of the earth for the entire school year. I thought I couldn’t survive without her. While I still miss her like crazy, I think it’s good that I’ve had to venture out on my own.
2. Besides, if she hadn’t gone to Walla Walla (home of the big, round onion!), I wouldn’t have been able to run away to Seattle for Thanksgiving and get an eyebrow ring and escape my stress-filled home (see #4).
3. I’ve never been a fan of my butt. Too big, too round, blah, blah, blah. But when grooving outside the MTV studios in Times Square, it’s much more fun to shake your booty when you actually HAVE a booty to shake, not just a bony excuse for a rear end.
4. OK, so not all big, round things are great. Definitely not the meteor-sized lump I got in my throat last October when I found out my brother was being suspended from college for doing something horrible. But it gave me an important reality check about him, about my family, about myself. r />
5. Speaking of last fall, this isn’t round, but it’s definitely big. It’s an apology. Last fall I was really mean to someone special. I hope you know who you are (hint: Mondays after school). I wish I could say I was temporarily possessed by an evil alien, but the truth is just that I was going through a hard time.
6. Another big, round, not-so-pleasant thing: a head of lettuce. I’m going to state it — here, now, and forever. I hate lettuce. I’ve always hated lettuce. So maybe my mom is a skinny, lettuce-eating fiend, but I don’t have to be, too. There are ways to eat healthy that don’t involve rabbit cuisine.
7. And finally, let’s face it. If you had a small, puny present and a big, round present, which one would you open first? The big, round one, right? Who ever said smaller is better? NO ONE, that’s who!
It’s an unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon. One of those days when the air is mild, icicles are dripping outside my window, and I want to throw all my winter clothes down the garbage chute. Of course, there will probably be a blizzard tomorrow, but on a day like this, it feels like the balmy weather will last forever.
I’m crouched in front of my mirror, trying on the tiny gold eyebrow ring that Mom brought me from the Caribbean. When I first opened the velvet box, I thought she was giving me a pair of earrings, but then I realized there was only one ring inside.
“Is this an . . .” I was so shocked I couldn’t finish my sentence.
“If you’re going to have facial jewelry, you shouldn’t wear silver, not with your complexion.”
“That’s my Phyl,” Dad said, tickling her waist. “If you can’t beat ’em, at least make sure they have the right metal.”
Mom swatted him playfully and I cracked up. I’m realizing that sometimes it’s easier to laugh off annoying Mom-isms than get angry at them. Besides, it’s a cute eyebrow ring, much nicer than anything I could afford.
Byron is moving back to Columbia today. He’s not going to the dorms, though. He’ll be living in an off-campus basement apartment with a few grad students. It was Byron’s choice, but he made it with strong pressure from Dean Briggs. It sounds like the rugby team will take him back, but he’s been kicked off debate and has to undergo mandatory counseling for the entire semester.