The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things Read online

  I don’t candy-coat my lists, so they tend toward the brutally honest. That’s why I’ve never shown them to anyone, not even my best friend, Shannon. But I keep everything under password on my computer, just in case my family decides to poke around in my personal files.

  To be honest, it’s probably not necessary. I don’t get the sense any of them are that interested in what’s going on in my life, much less my head. Sometimes it feels like they don’t think anything’s going on at all.

  I have this theory that I was switched at birth.

  It doesn’t happen much, but every once in a while you hear about a nutty hospital worker who swaps ID bracelets on two wailing infants.

  I just know there’s a stout, blond family out there, wondering how they wound up with a beautiful, slim, brown-haired daughter. What they don’t realize is that she was meant to bear the name Virginia Shreves and live with her beautiful, slim, brown-haired family in a roomy apartment on Riverside Drive.

  And I know that my beautiful, slim, brown-haired family wonders how they wound up with a daughter who has dishwater blond hair, pale blue eyes, a roundish face, and a larger-than-average body.

  OK, fat.

  Not fat fat. More like chubby fat.

  Enough so I’m picked last in gym if the activity has anything to do with running, climbing ropes, or propelling oneself over a horse. Enough so I’ve heard people refer to me as plump, as if being likened to a vine-ripe tomato is some kind of compliment. Enough so family friends, upon comparing me to my skinny siblings, raise their eyebrows as high as McDonald’s golden arches.

  That’s the most frustrating thing. I can’t even blame it on genetics. Byron and Anaïs can eat whatever they want and still maintain their long, lanky bodies, just like Dad. If I so much as smell a bucket of fried chicken, I gain five pounds. I have more of Mom’s metabolism. She used to be heavy when she was younger. She doesn’t talk much about that time in her life. It’s just occasional mentions of an awful childhood, a crazy family, how lucky we have it, how far she’s come from Ozark, Arkansas. Mom slimmed down by the time she went to Dartmouth and met Dad because in early pictures of them together, she looks about the same size as she is now.

  Even so, she’s always obsessing about not gaining weight again. She eats lettuce at every meal and spends half her life at the gym. I don’t know what she’s worried about because she’s totally thin. Maybe it’s Dad. He’s the first to admit that he likes women skinny.

  They say that people become shrinks to figure out their lives. That’s probably the case with Mom. As soon as she hit college, she began studying adolescent psychology and didn’t stop until she had a Ph.D. I think it would be interesting to do what Mom does, sit there all day and listen to teenagers spill their secrets. Dad shudders at the idea, but he’s not happy unless he’s managing dozens of people — phones ringing, beepers beeping, constant chaos. Byron and Anaïs are more like Dad that way. I’m more like Mom, craving plenty of peace and quiet.

  That’s probably why Mom reads so much. Whenever she’s not working or working out, she’s devouring a book. She named us after famous authors — Anaïs Nin, Lord Byron, Virginia Woolf — with the hope that we’d achieve greatness someday.

  Except for my sister going into the Peace Corps, Anaïs and Byron have fulfilled all of Mom’s dreams for her children. They are athletic and attractive. They love golfing at the country club in Connecticut. Our storage space in the basement is a treasure trove of their trophies and plaques and awards. They are both fluent in French, like my parents. Sometimes the four of them carry on an entire conversation in French. Anaïs also speaks Spanish and Byron is currently learning Japanese.

  They all love artsy films. And jazz clubs. And museum exhibits. When she was in college, Anaïs brought home boyfriends with whom Dad shared his latest technology gadgets. Byron’s girlfriends always bond with Mom, chatting it up about anything from StairMasters to Stella McCartney.

  Sometimes I wonder if my parents wish they’d stopped at two kids. No one’s ever spelled it out, but I think I was a mistake. They had me when they were in their late thirties, once they already had the ideal nuclear setup. And along came me, blemishing the image of a picture-perfect family.

  I’m not saying I’m a huge loser. It’s just that I’m not exceptional like the rest of them. I consume magazines at the speed of light. I love chatrooms and e-mail and instant messaging. I hate cardiovascular exercise. I can’t see the point in hitting a golf ball from here to eternity. I suck at French, but other than that I’m a pretty good student. I love sitcoms and reality shows and cheesy blockbuster movies. I’m not crazy about artsy films (they don’t star anyone cute!) or jazz (no lyrics!) or museum exhibits (all the artists are dead!). Needless to say, a guy will probably never like me enough to want to meet my parents.

  I’m definitely the weakest link in the Shreves clan.

  I know I’m lucky to have been switched into such a stellar family. I just wish I made them feel more fortunate to have wound up with me.

  I’m standing at the entrance to the lunchroom, balancing a tray in my hands. The odor of burnt chicken nuggets and sour chocolate milk penetrates my nostrils. I feel like I’m going to puke, but I’m not sure if it’s from the cafeteria stench or the anxiety in my stomach.

  This is the moment I most dread every day. Back when Shannon was here, lunch was no big deal. We’d grab a table in the back and talk and laugh like we were the only people on the planet. But so far this year, it’s been a panicky occasion. I never know who I’m going to sit with — or if I’ll sit with anyone. Usually, I can locate some nice quiet types from one of my classes. But it’s never consistent. And if one of my standby tables is full, I don’t have a backup plan.

  No, actually, here’s my backup plan:

  I spend lunch period locked in a stall in the second-floor bathroom, eating Twinkies and flipping through magazines. It sounds gross, but it’s actually OK. Especially since they installed toilet-seat lids over the summer, so it’s not like I’m sitting over the open hole. No one really comes into that bathroom during lunch, so it’s pretty peaceful. And they clean it on a regular basis, so it either smells like lemon-lime or bubble gum, depending on which cleanser the night-time janitor used.

  It’s not ideal. But no one ever said high school is a bed of roses.

  My number-one objective in the lunchroom scenario is to not spend too much time hovering with my tray, gawking at my sea of classmates. It’s essential to appear as if I know exactly where I’m sitting, which requires split-second scanning skills as I emerge from the food line and enter the cafeteria.

  I hate calling attention to myself. A lot of it has to do with being heavy at a school where nearly every other girl weighs two pounds. Also, the cliques at Brewster are divided into popular, regular, and dorky — as kids refer to the various crowds. There’s an unspoken rule that if you’re not on the popular side of things, you shouldn’t take up too much space. Just go with the flow and people will pretty much leave you alone.

  If I had to chart it, I probably fall somewhere between regular and dorky.

  I figure everyone starts with a zero and points are added or subtracted according to coolness/dorkyness.

  I gain points because

  Byron went to school here and he was popular, so his legacy gives me some mileage (+5).

  I have decent hair that requires little work (+2).

  I’m smart, except in French (+2.5).

  I lose points because

  I’m overweight (-6.5).

  I wear neutral colors, no sparkles, baggy khakis, oversized sweaters (-4).

  I’m smart, which works against you if you’re smarter than a popular kid (-2).

  On the far end of the cafeteria, I spot an available seat at a table of girls from my chemistry lab. The only problem is, Froggy Welsh the Fourth and his friends are at a neighboring table. Froggy and I haven’t spoken since he was at my apartment two days ago, so I don’t want to give him the wrong
idea, like I’m stalking him.

  I hear someone calling my name. I look over to see Ms. Crowley waving and heading my way.

  “Virginia!” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’ve been hoping to run into you since the beginning of school.”

  Eileen Crowley was my ninth-grade language arts teacher. She’s in her late thirties, a published poet, and moderately overweight. Some of the popular kids used to call her Ms. Cowley behind her back, which made me so angry I would dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. In my end-of-year evaluation letter, Ms. Crowley wrote: It’s rare to encounter a student like Virginia Shreves. What a talented writer! She’ll go far. I tucked that letter into the small cedar box that I keep in the back of my undies drawer. The only other things I have in that box are a strip of pictures Byron and I took in a photo booth at Grand Central Station, a MetroCard I once saw Ben Stiller drop on Broadway, and a snippet of Shannon’s red hair.

  Ms. Crowley must have read my mind. “I’ve been wondering how you’re surviving without your spiritual twin.”

  “Shannon?” I ask, readjusting the tray in my hands.

  Ms. Crowley nods.

  “It’s definitely different with her away,” I say.

  I guess I’d call Shannon my spiritual twin. She’s my best friend. Her full name is Shannon Iris Malloy-Newman. I’ve heard people describe her as mousy, but I firmly believe she was a cat in a former life. She’s small and graceful, with pumpkin-colored hair, masses of freckles, and felinelike eyes. She’s incredibly funny, but most people don’t give her the chance to show it. Shannon has a stutter, so it can take her several tries to complete a sentence. She rarely stutters around me. Only with strangers or during a class presentation or if she’s trying to say something quickly. Sometimes I think our handicaps (me = heavy; Shannon = stutter) are what initially brought us together, back in sixth grade. From there, we totally connected.

  Shannon is away for the school year. In Walla Walla, Washington. I once joked that Walla Walla is a haven for stutterers because it’s one of the only geographic locations where you’re supposed to say the name twice.

  “Great, Virginia,” Shannon had responded. “A town full of stutterers with bad breath. Just perfect.”

  Walla Walla is the hometown of the Walla Walla onion. That’s what brought Shannon’s family to Walla Walla. Shannon’s dad is writing a book on onions. Liam Newman always writes about obscure topics, like the role of the shoelace throughout history, which was a bestseller in New Zealand.

  But onions. Onions are the clincher.

  Appropriate topic, actually, because whenever I think about facing the next ten months without Shannon, I burst into tears.

  Ms. Crowley must sense something on my face. “Virginia, are you ever free during lunch period?”

  “Sure . . . why?”

  “I’m swamped with grading my freshman vocabulary tests. Remember how many I gave you last year?”

  I nod.

  “I’d love your help,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “My office is still on the second floor. Come up anytime. I’m always there this period.”

  As soon as Ms. Crowley is out of sight, I glance down at my tray. The side dish of corn has congealed, so little blobs of butter are mingling with the bloated kernels. I grab the Twinkies and toss the rest of my lunch into the trash bin. As I do, I notice Froggy looking my way. I think he’s smiling, so I offer a brief smile back. Enough so he’ll see it, but not so much that I’ll look like a freak grinning into thin air.

  Then I hurry out of the cafeteria and head up the stairs to spend the rest of the period in peace.

  Ten minutes later I’m locked in a stall, flipping through Seventeen, when I hear the bathroom door open and some pairs of shoes click in.

  I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m far from the mirrors, where the feet are remaining. But as I peek through the crack between the doorway and stall, I groan to myself.

  It’s Brie Newhart, Brinna Livingston, and Briar Schwartz. The Queen Bee Popular Girls of the tenth grade. Major requirements: be bony, be bitchy, and begin your name with “Bri.” Brinna and Briar are Ladies in Waiting, actually. Brie is the head honcho. Never mind the fact that she’s named after a fattening French cheese, she’s as skinny as an eight-year-old boy. She’s also gorgeous, with wide blue eyes, sandy-brown curls, and Neutrogena-model skin. Supposedly her family is loaded, so she can have anything she wants. Even so, she wears the same high-heeled magenta boots every day. I overheard her say she got them in Paris over the summer. To top it off, Brie has a sweet voice and a toothpaste-model smile, so teachers go gaga over her.

  Brie and her friends are in a completely different stratosphere than I am, so it’s not like I ever talk to them. But sometimes I watch Brie across a classroom and wonder how one single person can be endowed with so many gifts. I inch my legs up, so I’m sitting cross-legged on the toilet seat, clutch my magazine, and breathe as quietly as humanly possible.

  I can see them through the crack. They’re clustered around the wide mirror, unclasping their little black bags and producing various lip and eye products. I half listen to them discussing makeup, shopping, body, hair, body, shopping, makeup.

  Brinna brags about how little she ate yesterday, something about one peeled cucumber and a bag of Veggie Booty.

  Briar boasts about spending two hours at the gym last night.

  Brie, of course, tops them both.

  “I was at French Connection and I didn’t even fit into their size-two skirts.” She pauses before adding, “Trop grande.” I think Brie is saying “too big” in French.

  “Oh my god!” squeals Brinna.

  “I’m so jealous!” says Briar.

  Then they start talking about guys. Brinna and Briar go back and forth about which seniors are hot. Brie cluck-clucks at their choices, saying that she finds any guy under eighteen completely booo-ring.

  “Speaking of older men,” Brie says, “guess who I ran into on the subway last weekend?”

  “Who?” Brinna and Briar ask.

  “Remember Byron Shreves? He was a senior when we were in eighth grade.”

  I can’t believe this! I hold my breath and wait to hear what the others say.

  “Oh my god!” squeals Brinna.

  “He was so sexy!” says Briar.

  “Well, you should see him now,” says Brie. “Oooh la la! He’s a sophomore at Columbia and totally filled out. We flirted for four stops on the local train.”

  As Briar and Brinna oooh and aaah and Oh my god, I begin to relax. But then I hear something that makes my stomach lurch.

  “Doesn’t his sister go to Brewster?” Brinna asks.

  “Yeah,” says Briar. “Virginia.”

  “Virginia who?” asks Brie.

  Ouch. I know Brie and I reside in different universes, but still. We’ve been going to Brewster since sixth grade. And we’re in three classes together, for god’s sake.

  “Virginia Shreves,” says Briar, cracking up. “That chubby girl.”

  “No way!” Brie shrieks. “I never knew they were related.”

  “Of course they are,” says Briar. “It’s not like Shreves is a common name.”

  I bite down on the flesh inside my cheeks. That chubby girl.

  After a moment Brie says, “All I can say is, if I were that fat, I’d kill myself.”

  “Totally,” murmur Briar and Brinna in unison.

  When the bell rings a few minutes later, the Bri-girls — who’d long since changed the subject — file out of the bathroom. I remain locked in my stall, gnawing at my cheeks. My spit tastes salty from the swirls of blood. I can feel loose flaps of skin with my tongue.

  I can’t get those words out of my head.

  Brie and Brinna and Briar would rather be dead than be me.

  I’m still feeling crappy on the bus ride home from school. I can’t stop thinking about what Brie said. I’ve been teased a lot in my life, especially in junior high, when kids oinked at me in
the halls or asked if I was pregnant when I was wearing a loose dress. But there’s something particularly dreadful about overhearing people trash you.

  As I trudge through the lobby, the doorman hands me a package wrapped in brown paper and covered with stickers. I glance at the return address. Shannon Iris Malloy-Newman. I love presents, especially ones from my best friend, so it lifts my spirits a little.

  When I arrive in our apartment, I go right to the freezer and pull out a Popsicle. The ice soothes the insides of my cheeks, which are raw and sore. Mom’s always insisting we only have healthy foods in the kitchen, but Dad has a sweet tooth, so he manages to smuggle home the good stuff.

  As soon as I’m in my bedroom, I tear open Shannon’s package. Underneath the brown-bag exterior is a smaller parcel wrapped in tissue paper. I rip off the paper and crack up. Shannon has sent me a green sweatshirt that says WALLA WALLA IS FOR LOVERS on the front. It’s fuzzy on the inside and extra-extra-large, just the way I like it.

  I’m slipping the sweatshirt over my head when the door opens and Byron steps into my room. I’ve told him a million times to knock first, but he never seems to remember.

  I’m not surprised to see Byron. His dorm is only forty blocks from our apartment, so he often drops by to do his laundry or loot the cupboards. But today he’s wearing a starched white shirt and tuxedo pants. He’s still barefoot, though. I notice patches of hair sprouting up from his big toes.

  “Hey, Gin,” Byron says. “Would you help me with these cuff links?”

  “Sure.”

  As I fasten on the silver cuff links, I can’t stop thinking about how he flirted with Brie Newhart on the subway a few days ago. I’m tempted to tell him what a bitch she is and that the next time he sees her he should shove her in front of an oncoming train. But I can’t. Because then I’d have to tell him what she said and I can’t tell anyone that. Not ever.