This is the opposite of awesome on so many levels.
“Hey!” Tisha says as she ushers Brie into the gym, a studio on West 105th with hardwood floors, no mirrors, and plenty of bags to kick and punch.
“You must be Brie,” Tisha says. “Did you bring hand wraps?”
“No, Tisha,” Brie says brightly. “I’m so sorry.”
Teachers love Brie because she does the eye-contact thing and makes plentiful use of their names. They never seem to see through to her evil, fat-shaming core. Except it’s not even a core. It’s all of who she is, even in the DNA of her pigtails and charcoal workout shorts and skimpy jog bra.
“No worries.” Tisha hands Brie some spare gloves. Then she turns to us. “Girls, this is Brie. She’s joining our class.”
There’s a chorus of “heys” and “what’s ups.” I press my lips tight. Of all the millions of exercise classes in Manhattan, how is it possible that Brie wound up here? I don’t even think she lives on the Upper West Side.
Brie positions herself next to me but doesn’t say a word. I pretend to be adjusting my hand wraps, but really I’m just unwinding the gauze and winding it up again. I pick up my jump rope. I so don’t want to jump in front of Brie, my boobs bouncing all over the place.
When Tisha signals us to start, I squeeze my arms hard into my chest, attempting to contain the boob jiggle. I glance over at Brie. She’s doing perfect jiggle-free jumping jacks.
Partway through class, as Tisha is switching the music, Brie whispers to me, “Thanks, Virginia. But I mean that sarcastically, so instead of ‘you’re welcome’ you should say ‘sorry.’ ”
I stare at her, confused. My bangs are sticky against my forehead, and my underarms are leaking through my shirt.
“Your mom told my mom about this class,” Brie says, “and now my mom is forcing me to take it.”
“My mom told her?” I manage.
“They ran into each other at Saks,” Brie says. “Supposedly your mom couldn’t stop talking about kickboxing and how physically and emotionally therapeutic this class has been for you. So … yeah … thanks.”
No. Way. Brie wound up here because of Mom? Mom, who is supposed to understand what teenagers need, totally betrayed me.
“I liked your purple hair,” Brie adds, “but don’t you think the green bangs are a little much? Like, you’re not a clown. You’re not getting paid to entertain young children at birthday parties.”
I stare at her, my mouth open in shock.
At that moment, Tisha pumps the music and tells everyone to punch the heavy bags. I spend the next several minutes attacking my bag. I don’t hear Tisha when she says it’s time to start the cooldown. She has to come over and tap my shoulder and tell me to stop punching.
After class, I don’t even change out of my shorts and sweat-soaked Columbia T-shirt. I used to wear this shirt obsessively when Byron started college. Back then I was so proud of my brother. Now I just wear it to kickboxing or to dye my hair. I hurry down the stairs and storm angrily toward home. I’m going to text Mom that we need to talk as soon as possible. I reach in my bag and turn on my phone.
The last day’s worth of texts appears on my screen. There are texts from Froggy, Alyssa, a bunch from Mom, one from Dad. I pause in the middle of the sidewalk and scroll up and down the messages, trying to see if I’ve missed a text from Shannon.
Nope. Doesn’t look like it.
Shannon hasn’t texted since I snapped at her last night. I’ve been so busy being mad that she’s ditching me for a six-hundred-mile hike that I never realized she might be upset back.
I put away my phone without texting Mom.
“Where have you been?” Mom asks when I walk into the apartment ten minutes later. She’s carrying her tote bag into the foyer. “I’ve been texting you all afternoon.”
“Whatever,” I mutter. “My phone was off.”
“We have an agreement,” she says. “We let you travel around the city, and we expect we can reach you anytime. What if there was an emergency?” Mom scrutinizes my T-shirt and shorts. “Did you wear that to school? Please tell me you didn’t wear that to school. There are purple stains all around the neck.”
I don’t answer. I don’t owe her any explanations. “Why were you texting me all afternoon, anyway?”
“Dad got home from work early, and I ordered Thai food,” she says. “We’re going to eat dinner first and then leave for Connecticut. Let the traffic thin out a little. You can do homework. I know you wanted me to proofread your final Humanities essay, but I don’t think I’ll have time until—”
“That was the emergency?” I snap.
Mom pauses to take a TherapistBreath, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth. It’s the Dr. Shreves that she is around her patients, all calm and composed.
I set down my backpack and cross my arms over my chest. “How could you tell Brie Newhart’s mom about kickboxing?”
Mom presses her lips together. She’s busted and she knows it. “I ran into Simone Newhart at—”
“Saks,” I say. “I know. But why did you tell her about my class?”
Mom walks into the kitchen. I follow her in and watch her take the seltzer out of the fridge.
“First,” she says calmly, “you don’t need to use that tone. Let’s make this into a constructive conversation, not a battle.”
Before I’ve had a chance to respond to that garble of TherapistSpeak, Byron walks in from the gym.
“Hey, Gin, what’s up?” he asks. Then to Mom, he says, “I got your text that you were ordering Thai food. Did you order for me, too?”
“Yeah,” she says, “Dad got you shrimp Pad Thai and spring rolls.” Mom opens the fridge, gets out the lemon juice, and squeezes a few drops into her seltzer. “You’re not coming to Connecticut, right?”
“Nah,” my brother says as he leans over and unlaces his sneakers. “The golfing is going to be crap because of the rain. I’ll just chill here. I’ve got a lot to do to get ready for Paris. I’m supposed to write this doctrine about international relations after World War Two. In French.”
“I can look it over when you’re done,” Mom offers. “That would be a fun challenge for me.”
I often feel like barfing about how my whole family speaks French. Even though I’ve taken years of the language, I still struggle to conjugate verbs in the present tense. Once I finish my sophomore language requirement at Brewster, I’m going to switch over to Mandarin.
“What day do you leave for Paris?” Mom asks.
“The twenty-sixth.” Byron shoots her a charming grin, all teeth and deep dimples. “And yes, I’ll still be here to see Anaïs. She arrives three days before I leave. So you can wave that impending anxiety attack good-bye.”
Mom swats his arm like she’s annoyed, but it’s obvious she thinks he’s adorable.
I clear my throat loudly and tap my foot on the ground. “I’m waiting,” I say. “I’d appreciate an explanation this decade.”
Byron whistles under his breath, opens the fridge, and pulls out a Vitaminwater. Even though Mom has never said it out loud, those bottles are clearly not for me. Whenever they arrive from Fresh Direct, she scribbles Byron in Sharpie on each case. She says it’s because he works out and needs to replenish his electrolytes.
Mom looks up from her phone and fixes her eyes on me. “I told Simone Newhart about kickboxing because it’s been wonderful for you. Brie has been going through a hard time, and I thought she could use something positive, something out of her comfort zone.”
“The class has been good for me because people like Brie aren’t in it. Brie is a bitch. At class today she said my hair looks like a clown’s.” I decide not to go into how Brie has called me fat. The last thing I want is for Mom to nod and say, Well, she has a point, Gin.
“Language, Virginia,” Mom says, sitting on a stool and writing on her phone.
“Brie who?” Byron asks.
“Brie Newhart,” I tell him. “She’s in m
y grade. You know her.”
Byron guzzles his Vitaminwater and alley-oops the bottle into the recycling bin. It lands with a thud. “Never heard of her. That was a bitchy thing to say about your hair, though.”
“Yes, you have heard of her!” I say to him. “You flirted with her on the subway last fall.”
I can’t believe I’m upset for Brie. No, I’m actually not. It’s about girls in general. If my brother flirted with someone on the subway, wouldn’t he remember it? Or do so many girls fawn over him that there are too many to keep straight?
“Virginia,” Mom says, looking up. “Let it go, okay?”
“Let it go” is Mom’s code-phrase for sweeping it under the rug. That’s where she likes to put things that are less than perfect.
Byron starts down the hall toward the shower but then turns, smiles at me, and says, “Mom, you shouldn’t have told that Brie girl about Gin’s class. That’s her sanctuary.”
As the bathroom door closes, I’m plummeted onto the I-love-him-I-hate-him roller coaster I’ve been on since last fall. “Sanctuary” is the perfect word for how I feel about kickboxing. I can’t believe Byron knows that.
The buzzer rings from our lobby, a short buzz followed by a longer one.
“That’s the Thai food,” Mom says to me. “Can you get it? And, Gin, you’re right. We’ll talk about the Brie thing later. I’m handling a situation with a patient right now. She didn’t get accepted to ballet camp, and she’s falling apart.”
“No ballet camp … that’s devastating.”
Mom ignores the sarcasm in my voice.
The buzzer rings again.
Mom shouts in the direction of the bathroom, “Byron, the food’s here! You can shower later. And get Dad, too! He’s in our room.”
I go to the intercom and say, “Hello?”
No answer. Usually Alberto is there to announce who’s coming, but he takes a break every few hours. I push the button to unlock our lobby door and send the delivery guy up. Then I open our front door and lean against the frame. A moment later, the elevator opens and two police officers step onto our floor.
I look down the hall, waiting to see the delivery guy come out of the elevator after them.
No delivery guy.
The police officers are walking toward me. One of the guys is tall and bald, and the other is short with a stubby nose. They both have guns on their belts.
My heart starts pounding as the bald one clears his throat. “Is this the home of Byron Shreves?”
I stare at him.
“Remember to add on a tip!” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“Is it?” the policeman asks.
I nod slowly.
“Is he around?”
I have forgotten how to talk.
“Excuse me,” the short guy says. His voice is harsher, more demanding. “We need to know if Byron Shreves is home.”
Mom appears behind me. “What is this regarding?” she asks, her voice tight and high.
“I’m Officer Culkin,” the bald guy says, “and this is Officer Hernandez. We are detectives in the Sex Crimes Unit.”
“Get Dad,” Mom barks at me, “and tell him to call Mark Levy. Tell him it’s urgent.”
Mark Levy is the lawyer that my parents hired when Byron got suspended from college. For a while, they were talking to him every day. The big fear was that Annie Mills would report the sexual assault to the police, but once it seemed like it was going to be handled within Columbia, like Byron got suspended and had to drop out of the rugby team, they stopped huddling with the lawyer all the time.
I’m trying to get Dad, but my feet aren’t moving. Five seconds pass where no one says anything. But then I hear various doors opening and Byron and Dad are coming down the hall. They’re laughing, and Dad’s arm is slung around Byron’s shoulder. When they see the police, Dad’s hand slips to his side.
“Are you Byron Shreves?” Officer Hernandez asks, stepping through our doorway.
Byron glances nervously at Mom. The color has drained from her face.
“Yes,” Byron finally says. “Why?”
“We need to bring you to the precinct and ask you some questions about the night of September thirtieth.”
“Are you arresting him?” Dad asks.
“Call Mark Levy,” Mom hisses to Dad.
Dad takes his phone out of his pocket but then drops it. It skids loudly across the hardwood floor.
The officers don’t even look at my parents. They just focus on Byron. The bald one says, “Get your shoes on. We’re going to the precinct.”
“But—” Mom starts, but Officer Hernandez cuts her off.
“Mrs. Shreves,” he says, touching his hand to his gun, “we can cuff your son and bring him down, or he can walk out willingly with us. We have the car out front.”
Usually when someone calls her Mrs. Shreves, Mom corrects them and says “Dr. Shreves.” This time she doesn’t say a word.
I dig my fingernails into my palms. It’s my fault for buzzing the police up. I should have asked through the intercom who it was, given us some warning. Or if I’d gotten Dad as soon as Mom told me to, then maybe he could have called the lawyer and stopped these guys from taking Byron.
Byron slides his feet into his sneakers. He’s wearing the same shorts and gray T-shirt that he worked out in. I wonder if I should grab him a fresh shirt, but I still can’t move.
“We’ll follow you in a cab,” Dad says quietly. “We’ll see you there.”
With that, Byron and the detectives walk to the elevator. The bald guy pushes the down button. Dad grabs his wallet, and Mom slings her purse onto her shoulder. The elevator door opens and they all step in.
I’m standing in the empty hallway, completely in shock, when the buzzer rings again.
This time I ask who it is.
This time it’s the Thai food.
I can’t stop shivering, so I go into the bathroom, yank off my clothes, and step into the shower. The instant the hot water hits my shoulders, I start crying. I stay in the shower bawling until my back is stinging and my throat is raw, and when I finally get out, I’m feeling dizzy. I wrap myself in a towel, sit on the toilet seat lid, and lower my head between my knees. I have no idea what happened at the door just now. Did Byron get arrested for what he did last fall? But why now, almost nine months later? And if he did get arrested, does that mean he’s going to jail?
The home phone is ringing in the distance. I pull the towel around my chest and hurry into the living room to grab it.
“Hello?”
“It’s Mark Levy,” the guy on the other end says. “Is Mike there? Or Phyllis?”
Mark Levy is the lawyer. Mike is my dad. Phyllis is my mom. I’m having a hard time forming any clear thoughts around these facts.
Also, I’m not sure what to tell him. It’s not like I can say that the police hauled my brother off. Then again, he’s a lawyer, so I’m guessing that’s key information. “My parents … sort of … went with Byron … to the police station.”
“Isn’t this Mike’s cell phone?” he says quickly. “I thought that’s what my assistant gave me.”
I’m explaining to him that no, this is our home phone, when he hangs up without saying good-bye.
I clutch the towel tighter and survey our living room. There’s the bag of Thai food and the plates and silverware set on the table and the totes packed for the weekend. I grab my phone out of my bag and head into my room. I pull on shorts, a bra, and a tank top, and text my parents to ask if everything’s okay even though it’s obviously not. While I’m waiting for them to write back, I allow myself to think about Annie Mills for a second. I feel horrible for what Byron did to her, but I also thought she said she wasn’t going to let herself be a victim. So what made her go to the police now, all these months later?
We are still figuring things out, Mom finally texts.
I pace around the apartment. I consider eating a few spring rolls from the bag of Thai food. Maybe it will ea
se the gnawing in my gut. But what if my parents and brother walk in while I’m chowing down and they’re like, “We’ve been at the police station and you’re enjoying Thai food like it’s any other evening???”
Instead I pour a bowl of Life, douse it with milk, and go into my room. As I spoon up the cereal, I stare at my phone.
Should I call Alyssa? No. We don’t go below the surface. Not about stuff like this. Froggy? No way. We can barely even talk about us, much less major life events like my brother getting arrested. Anaïs is somewhere between Burkina Faso and London, and I have no idea how to reach her.
Hey, I text to Shannon.
She’s the one person who knows everything about me and still loves me. I can see three dots like she’s writing back and then … nothing. Maybe I should say she used to love me until I was a bitch to her yesterday about the hiking thing.
I’m sorry for yesterday, I add. Can you talk?
This time Shannon responds immediately. You SAID you wouldn’t get MAADD and then you got MAADD and now I’M MAADD. Did you ever THINK about the fact that hiking the PCT is cool and you should be happy for me?
I set my half-eaten bowl of cereal on my bedside table.
I’m sorry, I write. My eyes are prickling with tears, and the mush in my bowl is making me queasy. You’re right. The PCT is going to be amazing.
LIAR, Shannon writes. You would never in a million years think amazing thoughts about the Pacific Crest Trail. Camping & pooping outdoors = your idea of hell. You’re forgiven by the way. Will you send me care packages?
Of course, I write. I’ll smuggle you contraband toilet paper.
Ha!
It feels good to text with Shannon like it’s any other day. Or night. But it’s not.
I have something to tell you, I write. I swallow hard, glance into the hallway to make sure my parents aren’t walking in, and then add, Byron just got arrested. At least I think he did.
The instant after I send it, my phone rings.
“What happened?” Shannon asks.
I tell her about the buzzer and the police and how they took Byron away.
“Is it another rape?” she asks.
My breath catches in my throat. There’s something about thinking “rape” in my head, and another entirely hearing it out loud.