“Anyway, I heard the principal telling the PR lady to find all the promotional brochures with Byron Shreves on the cover and destroy them,” Alyssa says. “She said that now that the news is out, Brewster has to distance itself from Byron.”
I hug my hands around my stomach, feeling way too exposed in my midthigh skirt and tank top. My fingers are sticky from the bubble liquid. I wish I could wash my hands. I wish I could disappear. I wish I could erase what Alyssa is about to tell me.
Alyssa kicks the toe of her sneaker into the grass. “I looked up your brother as I was walking over here and—” She pauses and hands me her phone. “Virginia, I’m so sorry.”
I look around to make sure no one is watching us. The cafeteria workers are setting up drinks and cookie platters, and the gym teachers are prepping for a three-legged race. Gym teachers will jump at any chance to let the sporty kids flaunt their physical prowess and make the nonsporty kids look like losers. I shade my hand over Alyssa’s screen. It’s open to an article from the West Side Resident, a local news blog.
UPPER WEST SIDE COLLEGE STUDENT ARRESTED FOR RAPE
Upper West Side resident Byron Shreves, 20, was arrested on Friday evening for allegedly raping 21-year-old Annabelle Mills on Columbia University’s Morningside Heights campus last September 30. Even though the alleged incident occurred more than eight months ago, Mills only recently reported it. Shreves was picked up from his family’s West 81st Street home on Friday and charged in the attack. He pleaded not guilty and posted bail. Shreves and Mills are both students at Columbia University, and Shreves is also a graduate of the prestigious Brewster School on the Upper East Side. A spokesperson for the university had no comment.
I hand Alyssa’s phone back to her. I wonder if my parents know about this article.
“I’m so sorry, Virginia,” Alyssa says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I had no idea what you were going through this week. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I’m not allowed to talk about it, I want to say. Instead, I just shrug.
Alyssa hugs me. I try to hug her back, but I feel stiff and robotic.
“Did you tell Froggy yet?” Alyssa asks.
I shake my head. “We’re not talking.”
“Want me to tell him? Maybe it would change his—”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s okay.”
“Is there anything I can do? I leave for New Jersey tomorrow morning, but I’ll check in over the summer.”
“Sure. But it’s okay. Really.”
Obviously it’s not okay. Obviously it sucks and I’m horrified by what my brother did, but I’m also worried he’s going to wind up in jail, and that thought is so sad and scary that I feel like there’s a noose tightening around my neck.
I reach into my bag and touch my phone. Should I tell my parents that Byron’s arrest has hit the news? I wonder what time this article came out. They didn’t say anything about it when I saw them in the kitchen this morning.
I glance toward Fifth Avenue. Swarms of Brewster students are heading toward Central Park for Field Day. The public relations lady is following them with a camera. As one group nears, I can see it’s the popular sophomores, Brie and her friends, Cole and his buddies. Bonus is that Cole is African American and popular, gold for Brewster PR. He’ll probably replace my brother on the new brochures.
“We should finish setting up,” I say to Alyssa. “We’re doing the Mr. Mooney tribute first, right? You’re going to connect your phone to the speakers?”
“Yep.” She frowns at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Not really …”
Alyssa leans over and squeezes me into another hug.
“Chick on chick!” Cole shouts, approaching our table and helping himself to a bubble gun. “What’s up, Virginia? That was a sexy hug.”
“Dude, are you serious?” asks his friend Josh. “You honestly thought that was sexy?”
I can’t stand Josh. He lives for making fun of people. His mom is a multimillionaire, and he’s always taking people with him on vacations, which is probably how he’s achieved such elevated popularity status. But I don’t ever get the sense that people actually like him.
Cole aims the gun to the sky and lets loose a burst of shimmery bubbles. He looks embarrassed. I’m remembering how we talked in the hall yesterday, how he asked where I’m applying to college and then told me he likes my look.
A moment later, Brie sidles over and loops elbows with Cole. She’s got a mischievous grin on her face as she says to him, “You thought that was sexy? I didn’t know you’re such a chubby chaser.”
She says it loudly. She says it so I can hear.
Cole laughs awkwardly and shakes his head. As they walk away, Josh and Brie and a few others are cracking up like it’s the most hilarious comment in the world.
“Fuck off!” Alyssa shouts after them, but they don’t even turn around. Then, to me, she says, “Can you believe—”
But I’m gone. I’ve grabbed my backpack and I’m walking toward Fifth Avenue. Fuck Brewster. Fuck Field Day. As I wipe back tears, all I can think is that I can’t believe I ever imagined someone as beautiful as Sebastian might be interested in me. Unless he’s a chubby chaser. Fuck chubby chasers.
I don’t stop walking until I get to the 6 train. I take the subway all the way to Canal Street. When I get out, I take a deep breath, push the tears down for good, and navigate the narrow sidewalks until I’m in the heart of Chinatown. I’m sweaty and my thighs are sticking together, but I’m feeling better. Being here is helping. I like being surrounded by the chaotic drivers, the plucked duck carcasses hanging in restaurant windows, the old Chinese women selling lumpy vegetables on street corners. It makes me feel like I’ve traveled to a different country. It makes me feel invisible, or at least anonymous.
Unlike at Brewster, where I stand out like a swollen thumb.
Fuck Cole and his sidekicks. Fuck Brie. Fuck sophomore year with Shannon in Walla Walla and my brother getting kicked out of college and then arrested.
I try not to think about the fact that I’m a few blocks from criminal court. I try not to think about how eventually I have to go home and deal with the fallout from Byron’s arrest hitting the news. For now I just clip my damp bangs into a barrette, buy an order of scallion pancakes, and walk and walk and walk.
I get home around four. Mom and Dad are sitting on the couch. They’re never home on a Thursday afternoon. When I step into the apartment, Dad gestures to a chair and says, “Sit down.”
“I saw the article,” I say as I lower myself into the chair. I can see down the hall that Byron’s door is closed.
“Which one?” Mom asks. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she doesn’t have any makeup on. “No, never mind. It’s everywhere.”
I make an executive decision not to tell them that Alyssa is the one who clued me in. If my parents discover that Alyssa knows about Byron’s arrest they’ll never feel comfortable with her at our apartment again.
“When you were at Brewster today,” Dad asks, “did anyone say anything to you about Byron?”
Brewster. The mention of school makes me think about those assholes in the park and that, in turn, makes me want to puke.
“No,” I say, swallowing back a mouthful of saliva. I decide not to tell them how Brewster is shredding the brochures with Byron on the cover.
“They’ll find out soon enough,” Dad concludes. “Mom lost eleven patients today. People were calling and canceling all morning. Her book proposal is over, too. Her agent said it would be impossible to sell a parenting book now, even though her reputation as an adolescent psychologist is impeccable.”
Mom is staring into her hands. I’ve never seen her look so sad.
“What about your job?” I ask Dad.
Dad pauses. “It’ll be fine. Ciel is a different situation than Mom’s.”
“Have you talked about it with your friends?” Mom asks. “Or texted about it?”
I shake my h
ead. As soon as I’m in my room, I’ll delete all my texts with Shannon.
“Good,” Dad says. “Don’t.”
“Virginia, Dad is serious.” Mom leans forward on the couch so she’s eye level with me. “Mark says we need to keep this under wraps. The less publicity, the better. Also, we don’t want to say anything over text that could be used in court.”
“I’m not texting anyone about it, okay?” It’s actually worrisome seeing them like this. There’s a certain comfort in their usual sweep-under-the-rug attitude.
“We’re going to Connecticut today,” Dad says.
“Not tomorrow?” I ask.
“We need to hunker down for a few days,” Mom says. “Unplug and metabolize everything that’s going on.”
“Okay,” I say. My internship at Dad’s office doesn’t start until the Monday after next. The only thing I have is kickboxing tomorrow, but I wasn’t planning to go because of Brie.
“Dad is leaving to get the car in a few minutes,” Mom says. “He’s already called the garage so you should go pack. We’ll stay until Sunday.”
As I start toward my room, Mom says, “Did you turn your essay in?”
“Yeah.” I smooth my skirt around my thighs. My chubby thighs. Just this morning I was thinking my skirt looked awesome. I had a fantasy about meeting Sebastian in a different neighborhood, like down on the High Line, and wearing this exact outfit.
“Congrats on finishing sophomore year,” Mom says, sighing. “You’re midway through high school now. That’s a significant milestone.”
We listen as Dad knocks on Byron’s door. Three hard, fast raps, like he means it.
“I’m leaving for the garage,” Dad says through the door.
“I said I’m not coming,” Byron mutters back.
“Son, we’ve been over this. I told you it’s not a choice.” Dad’s voice is just short of yelling. “Pack your bag and be ready in thirty minutes.”
I suck in my breath. I’ve never heard Dad talk to Byron like that. In our house, Byron has carte blanche to do what he wants and no one ever gives him a hard time. I scurry into my room, slip off my skirt, kick it under the bed, and pull on some loose capris. My tote is still packed from last weekend, so I throw in a few novels and my phone charger.
A half hour later, we’re on the West Side Highway heading north. Dad is driving. Mom is googling. I know because I peeked over her shoulder and saw that she’s looking up who has posted the news about my brother. Byron and I are buckled in the back, headphones on, listening to music. He hasn’t said a word since he emerged from his room. He looks like hell, pale and unshaven with deep circles under his eyes.
Hey.
The text from Fry pops up on my phone.
Hey, I write back. I angle the phone deep into my hand. My heart is thumping hard. We shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be texting with Annie Mills’s brother.
I saw, he writes. The articles. I’m sorry.
You shouldn’t apologize, I write back. It’s not your fault.
He sends me a frowny face. We probably shouldn’t be texting.
I glance up at Mom and Dad, and over at Byron.
Agreed, I finally say. I’m in the car with my family.
Okay.
And that’s it. After a minute, I delete his texts and stare out my window, watching the city streak by until it succumbs to the Bronx and Westchester and finally Connecticut.
14
Tree Babe is working in the backyard. I’m reading in the hammock on the other side of the yard. I can see her up on a ladder using long clippers. She’s wearing olive-colored shorts, a white T-shirt, and a Green Arbor baseball cap. Her long blond hair is in a loose braid and she’s got headphones on as she clips and saws at the branches.
It’s Saturday afternoon and really hot, like over ninety. I want to offer her something to drink, but I’m remembering how Dad kept trying to push seltzer on her last week and she kept saying no.
I’m reading The Great Gatsby, which is making me think about social class, like how Gatsby is new rich versus Tom Buchanan’s old money. That makes me think about Mom and Dad. It’s no secret that my family has money. We have an apartment in Manhattan and a country house in Connecticut, and I go to private school. Dad comes from a wealthy New England family, and he inherited money when his parents died. Mom grew up working class in Ozark, Arkansas. She doesn’t talk much about it, but from what I’ve pieced together, she reinvented herself when she went to Dartmouth and met Dad. Not that meeting a rich guy solves everything or makes you a better person, but it definitely helped Mom put distance between her poor past and her privileged present.
We’ve been on lockdown since we got to Connecticut on Thursday night. This might be the first warm weekend ever that my parents aren’t golfing from sunup to sundown. I assume they’re avoiding their golf friends in case anyone has seen the news about Byron.
As for me, I’ve been reading my book, and at least three times a day, I pace our property and then over the stone wall into our neighbor’s yard with my phone raised above my head. I’m trying to get a fraction of a signal. No luck so far. Cell service is patchy in this part of Connecticut.
I just want to see if Sebastian has texted me again. I know we shouldn’t be in touch. I know it’s wrong. And yet.
“What are you reading?”
I look up from my book, squinting into the sun. It’s Tree Babe, standing near my hammock. She has her headphones around her neck, and she’s wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.
“The Great Gatsby,” I say. I push up to sitting position and swing my legs over the side of the hammock.
“Is it for school?”
I shake my head. “School’s over.”
“Already?”
“Private school lets out early,” I say. I feel weird talking to her while knowing the sleazy comments Dad made about her body. I wish I could erase them from my brain.
She nods and offers me a small wave. “I’m Frances, by the way.”
“I’m Virginia.”
“Nice to meet you.” She rolls her head from side to side and then examines her fingernails. “I hated high school.”
“You?” I ask.
I’m shocked for two reasons.
Her name is Frances??? I would have assumed Tree Babe would be a Crystal or a Lola.
Her type is built to peak in high school. If you have big boobs and long blond hair and you’re super skinny and you didn’t love high school, what hope does that leave for people like me?
Frances shakes her head. “I didn’t fit in. I’m sort of ADHD, and that didn’t help. Even now I run into people I knew from high school, and they’re like, You trim trees? Like I’m a lumberjack. I’m a certified arborist! The thing is, I actually like my job. I listen to music. I get to be outdoors. I don’t know. It still bothers me.”
“If you like your job,” I say, pushing my feet against the ground so the hammock swings back and forth, “then who cares what other people think?”
Frances laughs. “You should tell my parents that. I’m a disappointment to them.”
I stare at her. If I looked like her, my parents would love me unconditionally. They wouldn’t care that I’m a crappy driver and I can’t speak French and I swing a golf club like it’s a baseball bat.
“My parents are business-mogul types. According to them, I should be done with my MBA by now. My older sisters have both finished theirs.”
“Want some iced tea?” I ask suddenly. “I can run in and get it.”
“I’d love it. It’s so hot today.” Frances hoists up her ladder and gestures across the yard. “I need to get back to work. I’ll be over there.”
“Okay, I’ll just be a second.”
As I stand up, she says, “Virginia, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry to complain. My boyfriend says I should let it go, all the high school stuff and the parent stuff, too. He’s obsessed with being mindful and present.”
&n
bsp; “But it’s hard,” I say. I’m talking about her, but I’m also thinking about myself.
“Hell, yeah,” Frances says, smiling at me. “It’s really freakin’ hard.”
On Sunday morning I walk forever down our street, searching for a signal, and then trek forever in the other direction. We’re way out in the country, on a long windy road lined with old maple trees. I walk for an hour, but I can’t find any cell reception.
When I return home, Mom hands me a glass of water. “It’s nice to see you starting a summer fitness routine. We could all use an endorphin boost right about now. It’s really hot out, so make sure to hydrate.”
Petty Observation: After Byron exercises he gets Vitaminwater. But not me. Just plain water for me.
“How many miles did you go?” she asks.
“I don’t know … maybe four or five.”
“Wonderful. Good for you.”
I sip the water and smile because, hey, I rarely receive compliments from Mom. It’s not like I’m going to tell her that I’m only walking in order to find a cell signal so I can see if Thursday’s texts with Sebastian were good-bye for now or good-bye forever.
I’m not usually this phone obsessed. With Froggy, I was fine with text vacations when I was in Connecticut. But Sebastian feels different in every possible way. Those two times we met, I could be myself around him and make him laugh and he made me laugh. Not to mention that he’s so cute. And even though I’m a mountain of self-doubt around this topic, I think he might be attracted to me.
Mount Kilimanjaro of Doubt: He’s just a chubby chaser.
On the other hand: He drew me. He drew me beautiful.
Back when we were in the city, I read a description of Futurama and the Fry-Leela relationship. They’re on-and-off attracted to each other for many seasons, but they don’t get together until the very end.