The Universe Is Expanding and So Am I

  I start toward Broadway but then she calls out, “Hey!”

  I quickly turn around.

  Annie drops the cigarette onto the sidewalk and grinds it with her sneaker. “It’s just …”

  She trails off and I don’t know what to say either, so we both head in opposite directions.

  I don’t stop when I get to Broadway or even Riverside. My sneakers are slapping against the sidewalk, and my temples are pounding in my skull. I can’t stop thinking about how different Annie looked from six months ago. I’m also thinking about Sebastian and how when I met him at the bagel store he was carrying his sister’s skateboard. He said his sister had gone to the bank. What if Annie had come back to the bagel store while we were there? Had she told the police about my brother yet? If she hadn’t gone to the police yet, would it have changed her mind if she saw me? I guess it wouldn’t, but it’s still so confusing.

  I turn left in Riverside Park and walk down the promenade. After a while I sit on a bench and lower my head between my knees. I’m a little dizzy, and my underarms are moist with sweat.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket again. I wipe my hands on my cutoffs and pull it out.

  I’m leaving, Froggy has just written. I notice it’s the most recent of eight or nine texts from him over the past hour. He’s also called twice. So it wasn’t Mom. Huh.

  I read Froggy’s texts. I totally forgot that we were supposed to meet at Belvedere Castle at noon. It’s currently 1:04.

  I’m sorry, I write to Froggy. Something came up.

  I watch the three dots come and go, come and go. Finally, he writes me back.

  Yeah. Well. See you around.

  I feel terrible that I blew him off. It’s not like he’s been a bad boyfriend. I’m just not into him, and now, with my brother getting arrested and possibly going to jail, I can’t fake it anymore.

  I consider writing back and apologizing or making an excuse, but since I can’t decide what I want to say, I end up doing nothing.

  I stay on the bench for an hour studying chemistry. The final is tomorrow, and I still haven’t looked over the nomenclature stuff yet. I also review my French vocabulary for Tuesday’s final and read an essay on the rise of nationalism that we have to analyze for the Global Studies final on Wednesday.

  While I’m studying, I try not to think about Sebastian and how long he’ll be in New York City. I try not to think about the fact that his sister is Annie Mills.

  After a while, I head to Jerusalem deli, grab a falafel sandwich, and carry it back to the park. I walk all the way down to the Hudson River. There are bikers and joggers streaming by. The grass is damp, so I sit on a rock by the river, arrange paper napkins across my thighs, and unwrap my sandwich. The river is calm and sparkly with diamonds. I think about Virginia Woolf and wonder how things got so bad that she decided to kill herself. Or maybe it wasn’t a choice. Maybe she had no choices left.

  There are times that I’ve hated my body so much that I didn’t think I deserved to take up room on this earth. But I’ve always found reasons to live, like books and Shannon and cute boys and kickboxing and movies and carbs and Vassar and just the fact that things always get better and I want to be there when it happens.

  Before I get back to studying I allow myself a quick google search for Leela from Futurama. Sebastian was right. She’s a curvy chick with a high purple ponytail. If I could be a superhero, I would totally pick her.

  Not that I can think about purple-haired superheroes or anything having to do with Sebastian. Not that it even was anything, just some guy who sketched me.

  Hang on.

  Some cute guy sketched ME? I’ll give myself a millisecond to revel in that.

  Sigh. Smile.

  Then I think about what Annie said, about how people on campus harassed her for reporting Byron. And I suddenly hate the world all over again.

  Around four, I pack up my stuff and walk toward home. My ankle is starting to hurt again. I stop at a Starbucks to pee and buy a decaf Mocha Frappuccino.

  Decaf Mocha Frappuccino = another reason to live.

  Not that Mom would ever understand this caloric indulgence. I throw away the empty plastic cup before I turn onto our block and drag my ankle the final stretch home.

  As I unlock the front door, the home phone is ringing.

  “Anyone home?” I shout into the apartment. No answer. The phone is still ringing, so I scoop it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Ginny!” It’s Anaïs. Other than last Wednesday, I’ve barely heard my sister’s voice in two years.

  “Hey, Anaïs. Where are you?”

  “London. I got here Friday night.”

  “Wow.” I reach into the freezer for an ice pack. “What’s it like there?”

  As Anaïs talks about London and riding the Tube and how she already misses Burkina Faso, I hold the ice against my ankle and stall for time. All I’m thinking is, how long can I talk to my sister and act normal? Byron’s arrest is major family news, yet Mom made it crystal clear that I’m not supposed to say a word about it to Anaïs.

  “Is everything okay?” she finally asks. “You’re being so quiet. Is anyone else home?”

  “I just walked in. I don’t think anyone’s home.”

  “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “Sweetie” does me in. I sink onto the couch and wipe back tears as I tell her about the Thai food and the police and the arraignment and the bail and the fact that Byron could go to jail and have to register as a sex offender. I also tell her that I’m not supposed to be telling her, that I would be in deep trouble for the rest of my life if Mom finds out.

  “When were they planning to tell me?” Anaïs asks.

  “I’m guessing when you get home.”

  When she doesn’t respond, I reach for a tissue and blow my nose.

  “What?” I ask. “Are you mad I told you?”

  “No … that’s not it. I’m just remembering why I left. All the secrets. I hate it.”

  “But you’re coming back, right?” I’ve always seen my sister as my ally in the family. Sure, she’s gorgeous and thin and speaks French and plays golf, but when push comes to shove I think she has my back. I’m ready for her to return to this continent.

  “What’s that?” Anaïs says. She sounds distracted. “I mean, yeah. Not forever, though. Don’t tell Mom and Dad. Just tell them I called.”

  After we hang up, I sit cross-legged on the couch, the ice pack stinging my ankle, and I think about how Anaïs has the choice to come and go as she pleases. I don’t have that choice. I’m stuck here.

  And just like that, I opt for no more pretending. At least in my own life. No more faking it. No more denial. Tomorrow, when I see Froggy at school, I’m ending it. I’m breaking up with him.

  12

  When I wake up Monday morning, I don’t feel quite as bold. It doesn’t help that I have my period and can’t find any tampons, so I have to wear a big bulky diaper pad. If that’s not bad enough, Mom and Dad stay home from their morning workout to lecture me about family loyalty and how I’m not to mention the name “Annie Mills” in our house ever again.

  It’s almost a relief when I get to school. But then, nine minutes before the chemistry final, I pass Froggy at his locker.

  As soon as I see him, my teeth start chattering.

  “So,” he says, frowning. His cheeks are flushed with white splotches, like thumbs pressed into a sunburn.

  “So,” I respond.

  Say it, I tell myself. Say it’s over. Be nice but don’t chicken out.

  The thing is, I’m having a hard time breathing, much less putting syllables together. It doesn’t help that Brie Newhart is walking toward us, headed for her locker. She’s wearing a tiny yellow dress and heels. Brie dresses for Paris Fashion Week more than for finals week at school. I think about how she made fun of me in kickboxing on Friday. The last thing I need is for her to see me breaking up with my boyfriend. Cool kids are allowed to fight in public and make out an
d make up. The rest of us have to conduct our business as invisibly as possible.

  Froggy and I wait while she scoops folders out of her purse and checks her phone. He knows where he stands at school, too.

  Once Brie walks away, he again says, “So.”

  “So,” I again say back.

  Froggy glances at the floor and then mumbles, “I think we should just be, you know, friends.”

  Oh crap. I was going to break up with him, but now he’s breaking up with me.

  “Okay.” I touch my hand to my eyebrow ring.

  Froggy closes his locker. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay,” Froggy says.

  Nearly ninth months together, and it’s over in three seconds and a handful of “sos” and “okays.”

  As Froggy turns and walks down the hall, I watch him go. I wonder if I should cry. Not because I didn’t want it to happen, but because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you and your boyfriend break up. The truth is, I’m relieved. I don’t want to stay with someone that I’m not in like with because I don’t think I can get anyone else. I don’t want to suffer through kisses that gross me out. I don’t want to pretend I only eat kale and plums.

  So … okay, I tell myself. I will be okay.

  Tuesday. Three days left of school. I still don’t feel sad about Froggy, but I’ll admit I’m a little adrift. Alyssa walks close to me in the halls and keeps asking if I’m okay, but she doesn’t seem quite as heartbroken as I thought she’d be that Froggy and I are over. When I first told her about the breakup, she sighed and hugged me and said, “All good things must come to an end.”

  I don’t tell Alyssa what happened with my brother, of course. Mostly we talk about Field Day on Thursday. We’re putting together a playlist for the Mr. Mooney tribute and bringing bubble guns because it turns out a helium balloon release isn’t green. We also talk about summer vacation. I tell her that Shannon is hiking the PCT, and she agrees that that sounds terrible.

  Speaking of Shannon, I get a text from her when I go into the bathroom after my French final. She wrote an hour ago that she’s leaving for the hike today and won’t have her phone for the next two months. I tell her not to get eaten by a bear or fall off a mountain.

  During the math final Cole Nevins is wearing a cologne that smells super sexy. At one point, it looks like he’s smiling at me, but maybe he’s just checking the clock.

  On Wednesday, I see Froggy in the hall near the computer cluster. Alyssa and I are walking back from lunch. He waves at Alyssa but frowns at me. I didn’t expect it to sting, but it does.

  After lunch, I go upstairs early to get settled in for the Global Studies final. On the way, I pass Cole Nevins. It’s just the two of us in the hall, which is weird. I’ve never seen him not surrounded by his cool-guy posse.

  “What’s up, Virginia?” he says, grinning at me. “You finished the math final early yesterday, right?”

  First: He knows my name?

  Second: He saw me leave the math final early?

  Third: We’ve got a problem. The problem is that whenever I’m around Cole my brain shuts down.

  Math, Virginia. He’s asking if you finished the math final early.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. I’m trying to smile, but my face feels twitchy and tight.

  “Crazy finals stress, right?” Cole asks. “I’ve already decided I’m applying early to Brown, so all these grades count.”

  Brown. Where my sister went. I could tell him that. That would be the obvious response.

  “Where are you applying?” he asks. “Or thinking about applying?”

  “Vassar,” I manage. “Maybe Wesleyan and Oberlin.”

  “Just send them a picture of your purple-and-green hair and you’ll get in right away,” he says. “You’ve got a great look going on.”

  I have no idea why he’s being so nice to me all of a sudden.

  “See you around,” Cole says.

  I don’t remember to wave until he’s halfway down the hall.

  That afternoon, when I get home from school, Byron is on the couch watching a rugby match.

  “Hey there,” Byron says. “What’s up?”

  “Hey,” I say, standing behind him.

  I study my brother’s tannish neck and his muscular shoulders. I think how Annie Mills said that she and Byron were friends and she trusted him. On the television, the rugby players are running and tackling each other. One team is wearing red jerseys and the other is in blue. Byron plays rugby at Columbia, and he used to play at Brewster, too. Whenever we went to his matches, Mom and Dad would marvel at how my brother takes no prisoners. When Byron was in possession of the ball, he would run and pivot and pass and receive and not stop until he made it to the goal line.

  “Want to watch?” Byron asks. “It’s France versus Wales. It’s from last month. I’m just catching up.”

  Maybe it’s because of what Annie said, but I totally don’t want to sit next to Byron on the couch. The thought of it disgusts me. She trusted him. He raped her.

  “What did you say?” he asks.

  “Nothing.” I pause. “I have to finish my Humanities essay.”

  I go into the bathroom and splash my face. The skin around my eyebrow pierce is pink, so I rub some Neosporin on it and then switch back to the gold ring.

  Once I’m in my room, I make edits to my essay and print out the final copy. I wish I could share it with my teacher online and not have to go to school again until September, but we’re required to hand in our essays in person. Also, I have to be at Field Day tomorrow even if I weren’t co-chairing Mr. Mooney’s tribute. In the student handbook it reads: “We strongly encourage everyone to attend all school functions and display the energy and enthusiasm we expect from Brewster students.”

  Barf.

  I wish my parents would let me transfer to a public high school, but I know they believe a private school like Brewster will feed me into a good college, which will ensure a good future.

  I tuck my essay in my backpack and pull out Fates and Furies. Flopping onto my pillow, I read fifty pages of Mathilde’s section. Then I turn onto my side and read fifty more. I can’t believe what I’m learning about Mathilde. I can’t believe that the great love I thought existed between Lotto and Mathilde may not have been so great after all.

  I’m propped on my elbows when I read the final page. Once I’m done, I let Fates and Furies drop onto the bed. I curl up on top of my comforter thinking about love and whether it really exists. Even though I didn’t have it with Froggy, I want to believe it does. I want to believe Lotto and Mathilde loved each other. I want to believe that love can be messy and complicated but it’s for real.

  A text comes in. It’s probably Mom, letting me know she’s working late or meeting Dad for dinner. I dig into my bag, retrieve my phone, and—

  Someone has sent me a sketch of a purple-haired girl with gray-blue eyes and an eyebrow ring waving a bagel in her raised fist.

  Not someone.

  Sebastian.

  I stare at the picture in shock. My eyes are resplendent swirls of gray and blue, and he’s added a sun and clouds behind me. The sky is wavy, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

  Hi, I write, sitting up in bed. Thanks for sending the drawing. Glad you gave me two eyes.

  Three dots. Three dots. Three dots.

  Finally, his response comes in. He writes: I’m calling it “In which Leela teaches Fry about the best bagels in NYC.”

  I smile. I used to love the Winnie-the-Pooh books when I was younger and how the chapters started with “In which,” all proper and British. I remember being fascinated by “In which Pooh goes visiting and gets into a tight place.” When I think about it now, it’s messed up that I liked a chapter about a bear who overeats and gets stuck in a hole and has to starve himself to get out.

  In which, I write to Sebastian. Like Winnie-the-Pooh?

  Yes! he writes. A. A. Milne is my rock star. When I was little I wanted to b
e Christopher Robin.

  Cute, I write to him and add a bunch of smiling emojis.

  I can hear Byron in the living room. I hear the fridge open and close, which I guess means Byron is finally eating. Or maybe he’s surviving on fluid. It’s after seven. Mom and Dad will be home soon. What would they say if they knew I was texting with Annie Mills’s brother? Duh. They’d say I’m a traitor. I’m not even allowed to say her name in the house.

  I tap at my phone. Should we be texting?

  No, Sebastian writes.

  I sigh. I’m not sure whether to be happy or sad that we’re on the same page about this.

  Another text from Sebastian comes in. But I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided that what they don’t know won’t hurt them. I’ll change your name to Leela in my contacts. You put me in as Fry. We can live in Futurama land and text with reckless abandon.

  I think about his sea-glass eyes and his smile and how I felt when he was drawing me.

  Okay, I say.

  Better go, he writes. My family is getting home.

  Family? I write.

  Yeah. We’re all here.

  As I add “Fry” to my contacts, I think about how his family includes Annie Mills. Talk about messy and complicated. I save Sebastian’s sketch to my phone and quickly delete everything else.

  13

  “Virginia, is it true?”

  “Is what true?” I say to Alyssa.

  It’s finally Thursday. The last day of school. I just turned in my Humanities essay and carried twelve jumbo bubble guns over to Central Park, where I’ve been lining them up on a table and filling them with soapy liquid. Alyssa stayed at Brewster to get markers and paper from the art room. When I waved good-bye to her ten minutes ago, she was smiling.

  Now, as she approaches me, her face is drawn and her eyes are filled with tears.

  “Is it true about your brother?” Alyssa asks. “When I was leaving school just now I passed the principal talking to the public relations lady. You know that one with the helmet hair and fake eyelashes who’s always taking pictures of us?”

  I nod yes even though the public relations lady never takes pictures of me. Alyssa is Asian so Brewster loves to put her on their website as an example of the diversity at our school. Same goes for the three Muslim girls who wear hijabs and the boy with cerebral palsy who walks with leg braces. Brewster isn’t as excited about posting photos of weight diversity, though.