The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things

  citigurl13: No. But I’m still in shock. I can’t talk about it.

  goddess_shannon: Talk.

  citigurl13: It’s too horrendous.

  goddess_shannon: Talk.

  citigurl13: Consider yourself warned.

  goddess_shannon: Warned.

  citigurl13: Byron was found guilty of date-raping a girl at Columbia.

  goddess_shannon: Holy shit.

  citigurl13: He’s suspended for the rest of the semester. He’s moving home tomorrow.

  goddess_shannon: Do you know who she is? Do you know when it happened?

  citigurl13: All I know is that it has something to do with this Virgins and Sluts party he went to a few weeks ago.

  goddess_shannon: Now I’M in shock. Date rape?

  citigurl13: I know. I can hardly breathe. I have a huge lump in my throat. I just ate half a box of Ritz crackers. Do you know how many calories that is?

  goddess_shannon: Screw your diet. Are you going to be OK?

  citigurl13: I’ll either be OK or I’ll drink a bottle of Clorox.

  goddess_shannon: Please tell me you’re not serious.

  citigurl13: I’m not serious.

  citigurl13: For the most part, anyway.

  I barely sleep all night. Every time I roll over, I grind against a Frosted Flake. But I don’t feel them. I don’t feel anything. I’m working extremely hard at being numb.

  I’m going to stay home sick today. I hardly have the energy to sleep, much less take a shower, get dressed, and deal with school.

  The phone rings around 6:45 A.M. It doesn’t sound like anyone is answering it, so I pick up my line. I’m surprised to hear Shannon’s voice on the other end, stuttering up a storm. For some reason, Mom always makes her nervous.

  “I’m c-c-c-calling for Virg-g-g-inia.”

  “I’m not sure she’s awake yet,” Mom says.

  I cut in. “I’ve got it, Mom.”

  “I’m so sorry for c-c-c-calling this early, Ms. Shreves. I mean, Doc-Doc-Doc-Doc —”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Virginia!” Shannon shouts as soon as Mom hangs up. “I set my alarm for the middle of the night, Walla Walla time, so I could catch you before you left for school.”

  “I’m not going to school today, but I’m glad you called.” It’s great to hear Shannon’s voice. It’s been awhile since we’ve had a real conversation. Shannon prefers e-mail because telephones make her stutter more.

  “I wanted to make sure you didn’t swallow any Clorox. I was worried.”

  “I’m still alive,” I say. “Unfortunately.”

  Shannon ignores my comment. “Why aren’t you going to school?”

  “I just don’t want to deal.”

  “Not to sound preachy, but you should go. Do you really want to be there when Byron moves in?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I’m definitely not ready to see him yet, to acknowledge that this whole thing is happening. “I guess not.”

  “Well, hurry along then.”

  “OK, Mommy.” I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder as I cross the room to my dresser.

  “Before you go, may I read you something?”

  “What?” I ask. As I root around in my top drawer for a pair of undies, my hand brushes against my cedar chest, the one where I keep my treasured possessions.

  “I came across this quote on a box of Sleepytime tea last night,” says Shannon. “Someone named John Muir. I think he saved forests.”

  I sit on the edge of my bed.

  “Here goes: ‘When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.’” Shannon pauses before adding, “I think it means that everything’s connected. Or maybe that no single incident stands by itself.”

  “Are you saying you think Byron has done this to other girls?” I ask, twisting the phone cord around my index finger. I can tell my voice sounds sharp, but this is my big brother we’re talking about, my hero, the person with whom I always wished I could be orphaned. I’m not ready to start thinking about him as a serial rapist.

  “No,” Shannon says quickly. “I just thought of you when I read it . . . but maybe I was a little dopey from the tea.”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Neither do I.”

  I can’t believe I make it to school. I’m in a total daze. All I want to do is crawl into my locker and fall asleep.

  My first class is global studies II. It should be called murder studies II. Last year in global studies I, we learned about every mass slaughter in history — from the Native Americans to the Holocaust. This year we’re focusing on contemporary world issues. We have to read the New York Times and surf CNN.com at least once a week. I thought it would be more upbeat than last year, but Mr. Vandenhausler has once again focused on death and destruction. We’ve just finished learning about the genocide of millions in the Congo. Next, we’re starting a unit on the war against terrorism.

  I’m settling into my seat when Mr. Vandenhausler skips to the front of the classroom.

  “I have something exciting to announce!” he sings. “I’m squeezing in a special mini-unit on Nepal.”

  My ears perk up. Nepal is a small country in the Himalayas, right on the border of China.

  Mr. Vandenhausler’s mustache starts twitching. Oh no. That’s what happens whenever he’s talking blood-and-guts. I brace myself as he adds that we’ll learn specifically about how the crown prince shot and killed the king, queen, and seven other members of the royal family during a Friday-night dinner.

  “It was such a shock,” chirps Mr. Vandenhausler. His mustache is vibrating so much it looks like it’s going to pop off his upper lip. “Prince Dipendra was their beloved firstborn son. No one ever expected he’d do anything as brutal as this.”

  I think of Byron, of last night, of the phone call from Dean Briggs.

  By the time the bell rings, my palms are slick with sweat. Mr. Vandenhausler has described the automatic submachine gun the prince used, the order in which the family members were shot, which parts of each body were penetrated. He even projected onto a screen video clips of wailing Nepalese people mourning the loss of their royal family.

  The last thing I can imagine doing right now is “Shoots and Ladders,” but I skipped gym on Monday so I can’t ditch twice in a week. I’ve just entered the locker room when Teri the Tiny Gym Teacher walks in. She’s wearing a slate-colored warm-up suit, cross-trainers, and a whistle dangling from a chain around her neck.

  “PEEEEE-PULL,” Teri bellows, blowing her whistle.

  She proceeds to tell us that a fuse blew in the gym, so we’re going to be sprinting up and down the hallway instead of doing “Shoots and Ladders.”

  Everyone groans.

  “Make sure to wear sneakers,” Teri adds. “Because we’re going to work you.”

  I want to strangle myself with a shoelace. I hate doing sprints. I hate being worked. I hate being worked doing sprints a thousand times more than I hate climbing ropes and hanging from rings.

  Teri turns to leave, but then stops and blows her whistle again. “I need one volunteer,” she shouts. “Someone to record times.”

  I shoot up my arm faster than a bullet from an automatic submachine gun.

  “Good reflexes, Shreves!” says Teri as she hands me a stopwatch and a clipboard.

  One point for Shreves.

  I get to be Teri the Tiny Gym Teacher’s trusty assistant, timing sprints and clutching the clipboard as my classmates heave and pant and sweat their way down the hall. At one point Brie Newhart stumbles into a locker, moaning that she feels faint. Her pale cheeks are splotchy and she looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

  But even that doesn’t make me feel much better.

  Third period is French. I don’t feel like seeing Froggy, having to smile and act like everything’s OK. He’s talking to another guy when I walk in, so I give him a quick wave and take my seat.

  Ten minutes into class, Mademo
iselle Kiefer distributes our weekly quiz. I scan the page. Passé composé as far as the eye can see. We have to list the seventeen verbs that use être in the past tense. I glance at Froggy and Brie and the other kids chewing their pen caps and scribbling answers. I know I’m going to bomb this quiz, so instead of attempting it, I write:

  Why Past Tense Makes Me Tense.

  I stare at my potential list, but nothing comes to mind. My brain feels as empty as the cereal and cracker boxes hidden under my bed.

  I spend the rest of the period drawing spirals and three-dimensional boxes on my paper so Mademoiselle Kiefer won’t notice I’m not writing and subject me to some form of torturous public humiliation. One time this girl named Alyssa Wu forgot her pen and had to sing “Frère Jacques” in front of the entire class.

  When the bell rings, everyone drops the quiz on the corner of Mademoiselle Kiefer’s desk. I slip mine into my notebook and dash out the door.

  I can’t handle another minute of school.

  I consider visiting Paul the School Nurse and feigning yet more menstrual cramps, but I already burned a favor with him this week. Ms. Crowley wouldn’t condone my skipping chemistry lab. Anyway, I think she’s got senior composition fourth period.

  I dump my notebooks in my locker and grab my backpack. Then I do something I’ve never done before. I walk out the front door of Brewster at a little before 11 A.M.

  I’ve left school early for a doctor’s appointment or to go home sick, but I’ve never ditched. There are kids who cut classes on a regular basis — the stoners, the rebels, the trench-coat wearers, but it always sounded vaguely dangerous, definitely not something I would ever do.

  That’s why I’m surprised it’s so easy to walk out. One moment I’m an inmate at Brewster Penitentiary, and the next I’m strolling up Eighty-fourth Street, the sun on my back, Bunsen burners and bubbling beakers a billion miles away.

  I head toward Central Park. It feels like a typical day, except that no one on the street is over five or under twenty. The sidewalks are bustling with stressed-out executive types jabbering on cell phones and sliding on lipstick.

  I walk in the direction of the Great Lawn and find a sunny bench to sit on. As I stare up at Belvedere Castle, this little castle in the middle of Central Park, I think of all the movies I’ve seen where kids ditch school. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, of course. And Mad Love with Drew Barrymore. If they made a movie about me, I’d want them to call it Citigurl.

  I pull a notebook out of my bag and am about to scribble that down when I catch sight of my hands. A queasy feeling surges through my body. Last night, when we received the call from Dean Briggs, I was in the middle of painting my fingernails. I’d only polished my left hand when the phone rang.

  I stand up and start walking again, but all my ditching-school excitement seems to have disappeared. I feel aimless and lonely and cold. I’d like to go back to our apartment, but Byron is probably moving in at this very moment and I just don’t want to be there for that.

  Where do you go in New York City when you can’t go home? I once read this book about a brother and sister who hide out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I always thought it would be more fun to stow away at Macy’s. You could sleep in their elaborately made-up beds, watch the gigantic wall of televisions, and take the escalator into the Cellar whenever you’re craving munchies.

  Munchies. I can go to the movies.

  I pull out my wallet. I only have three dollars and forty-seven cents, but my ATM card is tucked behind my school ID. I walk over to Citibank and withdraw money from my savings account. As the receipt is printing, I feel slightly guilty. Mom and Dad are always emphasizing that the one thousand dollars in my bank account is mine, to do with what I want. It’s mostly from birthdays and relatives and cat-sitting gigs. But I know they want me to put the money toward taking an Outward Bound course next summer, like Anaïs and Byron did after their sophomore year of high school. Some sort of trailblazing, pooping-in-the-woods occasion. Definitely not my idea of a good time. Not to sound like a city slicker, but I don’t like to go too long without TV or a computer.

  I head to the multiplex cinema near Mom’s gym. When I approach the counter, I ask the woman for a ticket to the first movie I see on the digital sign.

  “That started ten minutes ago,” she says.

  I push my money across the counter. She gives me a strange look as she hands me a ticket. Once I’m upstairs, I buy a tub of popcorn with extra butter.

  As soon as I’m settled into my seat, I space out. I barely follow the story, but it does the trick of numbing my mind. As the credits roll, I wipe my greasy hands on the chair. Then I dart out of the theater, march into the neighboring one, and slip into an aisle seat.

  Midway through my third movie, I run to the bathroom to pee. On the way back, I pay another visit to the concession island. This time I buy nachos with melted cheese, a jumbo pack of Sour Patch Kids, and a Diet Pepsi.

  Diet Tip #6: Do not discover that your beloved brother has been found guilty of date rape.

  I end up sneaking into seven different movies — some for the whole show, some for random snippets. It’s around 9:30 P.M. by the time I finally leave the theater. As I’m walking home, I realize that my stomach aches. My eyes ache. My ears ache. My tongue is raw and my braces are crammed with kernels.

  When I arrive home, it’s nearly ten. The apartment is quiet and dark. Mom and Dad must be out for the evening. I’m heading down the hallway when I notice a strip of light coming from under Byron’s door. My stomach flips nervously as I dash into my bedroom and burrow under my covers without undressing or brushing my teeth.

  Early in the morning I hear dishes clanking and coffee grinding, but by the time I get out of bed, nobody’s home. My parents must be in Connecticut already. They have that big golf tournament next weekend, so they’re probably hitting the green early. The door to Byron’s room is open. I peek inside. His bed is neatly made and there aren’t any suitcases scattered around, nothing out of place.

  I still feel popcorn in my braces, so I head into the bathroom and pull out the special dental floss that my orthodontist gave me. As I maneuver a string through my wires, I start thinking that maybe yesterday was just a nightmare, a blunder of my imagination.

  I spit some kernel shards into the sink. The next time I see Byron, I’ll have to tell him about it. He’ll be shocked by the scenario that my brain conjured up, but he’ll quickly find humor in the situation. He’ll say something like, You’ve been smoking too much weed, Gin. Then we’ll have a good laugh at my expense.

  As I swish out my mouth with water, I think of ways to convince Mademoiselle Kiefer to let me make up the French quiz from yesterday. And I bet I can stay after school next week and do the lab on chemical reactions that I missed.

  A few minutes later, I’m watching television and peeling an orange. I’m stacking the peels on the coffee table. My eating went a little haywire yesterday, but I’ve already decided to rein it in again. I’m going to drink two gallons of water today, so much that my pee will be clearer than a mountain creek. And I’ll just have some lettuce later, maybe a few honey-nut rice cakes.

  The front door unlocks. My tower of orange peels tips over.

  “Hey, Gin.”

  I turn reluctantly, but my throat is too tight to speak.

  Byron nods in my direction, but he doesn’t smile. He’s got a strange look on his face, something I’ve never seen before. It’s a blend of embarrassment and exhaustion. I turn away. I really don’t want to see him like this. I wish I could just close my eyes and open them again and have my perfect big brother back.

  Dad comes through next. He grunts as he sets a milk crate onto the floor.

  “Use your knees, Mike.” Mom appears behind him with blazers and shirts draped over her arm.

  Dad hunches down, his hands cupped on his knees. “Ginny, what do you say about lending a hand? We’ve got an entire U-Haul that needs unloading.”

  I stand up, bu
t I don’t say anything. I’m still processing the fact that they’re not in the country. They go to Connecticut almost every weekend, rain or shine, sleet or hailstorm. They even went last spring when I won the creative writing award at Brewster’s National Honor Society banquet. I ended up sitting at a table with Shannon and her parents instead.

  “You might want to grab a sweatshirt,” Mom says. “There’s a nip in the air.”

  As I head into my room to get a sweatshirt, I can’t stop thinking about how normal my parents just acted. It doesn’t seem right. I mean, Byron has been suspended from school for date rape. In movies there would be a lot of crying and finger-pointing, maybe a few emotional hugs. So why is my family acting like it’s a normal everyday morning?

  No one says much during the next hour, as we lug boxes and bags upstairs. At one point, as I’m helping Byron maneuver his futon mattress through the lobby, I try to catch his eye. I’m hoping he’ll tell me this has been a huge mistake, but whenever I look at him, he just turns away.

  Dad and Byron drive off to return the U-Haul.

  Mom and I take the elevator upstairs.

  As soon as we get to the apartment, I head into my room and lock the door.

  I remain in my bedroom for the rest of the weekend. Mom and Dad knock a few times, but I pretend I’m sleeping. I don’t feel like dealing with anything or anyone right now.

  The only times I leave are when I’m sure no one’s home or when they’re all sleeping. Then I dash into the kitchen to scavenge cashews or gingersnaps or Diet Pepsi.

  A few times I caught sight of myself in my new mirror, cramming food into my mouth, surrounded by all those diet tips that I stuck into the frame. Finally, on Sunday morning, I removed the tips and crumpled them into the trash.

  Now it’s Sunday afternoon. I’ve spent the day dozing and Web surfing and doing homework. For “Ostracism and Oppression,” we’re reading this amazing book called Caucasia. It’s about a light-skinned black girl whose mom is running from the law so she has to pretend she’s white. Sometimes I wish I could pretend I were somebody else. I don’t know who I’d be. Maybe Helen Keller, since she never had to see her reflection in the mirror or hear nasty things that people said about her.