The Valeditztorian (2 page)

For a millisecond I check out Luciano, but his lanky, asthenic app
earance is an immediate turnoff. In college I dated an emotionally needy, drug-addicted cross-country runner, and Luciano happens to look just like him. Why I have a tendency to date addicts, I’m not sure. To be fair, I generally discover their addictions only after I’m deep into the relationships. Perhaps I should make my next potential boyfriend fill out a historical questionnaire before we even get started. Either way, Luciano’s resemblance to the crazy runner kills any possibility of attraction on my end.

Entering
the parking lot, Luciano waves to a tall, thin woman leaning against a beat up-looking, gray compact car parked about 30 feet away.

“T
hat’s my girlfriend, Paula (pronounced ‘Pow-luh’),” says Luciano. “She doesn’t speak English.”

When I’m close enough to get a good look at Paula’s face, I
nearly faint. Hands down, Paula is the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen in person. Thick, curly ringlets of dark hair streaked with copper frame the sharp angles of her face. Though I’d love to reach out and pull her curls, just to watch them recoil, I resist the temptation. Her skin color is lovely. Mulatto might be the technical term, but it doesn’t really capture the flavor, which is more like milk chocolate, liquefied to translucency. While greeting Luciano, Paula peers out under her long lashes, inclining her head in the manner of an innocently flirtatious child. Large and searching, her green eyes sparkle like sunlight rippling off ocean water. If I had a Y chromosome, Paula would be exactly my type.

“Paula, este
é Emma,” says Luciano.

To my surprise, t
he woman studies me and frowns.

As I
settle into the backseat of Luciano’s car, Paula’s mesmerizing eyes follow me like I’m a target on a gun sight. Doing my best to show that I’m disinterested in her boyfriend, I wrap myself in a heavy sweatshirt and turn my body away from Luciano, toward the back window. On the highway, I try to pay attention to Luciano’s speech about the history of Salvador and its West African roots, but I’m distracted by a combination of sleep deprivation, motion sickness, and Paula’s breathtaking beauty, not to mention her jealousy. Soon I’m overtaken with fatigue and pass out, fast asleep. By the time I wake up, we’ve arrived in Brotas.

Stepping out of the car, I take a deep breath and stretch my sore muscles
. Under a clear blue sky, the air is warm and only slightly humid. Brotas isn’t far from the ocean, and as a gentle breeze blows across my cheeks, I catch the scent of the salty sea mixed with the sweet, local flora. The aroma is aerosolized optimism and possibility, and I sense that I’m going to like living here.

After Luciano and Paula heave my duffel bags into the lab, th
ey walk me down a dusty, gravel road to the apartment where I’ll be shacking up for the next two months. Along the way, I notice that the walking speed of my companions is far slower than your average New Yorker, and I find myself shortening my stride to avoid overtaking them. While adjusting my steps, I somehow take my eyes off the path and whack my right foot against a pointy rock sticking up from the earth.

“Ouch!” I shout, tripping and
landing on all fours in the dirt.

When Paula laughs at me, her smile is so radiant I’m almost glad I fell.

“My goodness, Emma,” says Luciano. “Would you please try not to kill yourself? You’ve only just gotten here.”

“I’ll try, but it’s not going to be easy.”

“You can start by not hurrying. The pace of life here in Salvador is a lot slower than the big city.”

Hmm
. No rushing? I’ll have to consider this novel concept.

Two minutes later we arrive at the entrance to my new building
. Nothing fancy, the 15-story complex appears clean and well maintained. Attractive flowering trees with large, red, hibiscus-like blooms flank the white columns of the entryway.

After
a brief ride upstairs in the elevator, I follow Luciano and Paula into a one-bedroom apartment on the tenth floor. As I stumble across the threshold, my new roommate catches my eye and gives me a warm smile.

“Hi,
Emma,” says Grace, “Welcome to Salvador.”

From our
recent electronic correspondence, I’ve already learned that Grace Pae is a Korean American MD/PhD student.

“
Hey, Grace. It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” I say, shaking her hand. “Thanks for all the e-mails you sent last week. They were very reassuring.”

“No problem
. I’m glad you made it here okay. How was your trip down? Or would you rather rest now and talk later?”

“Right now I’m so tired I can barel
y stand up.”

“S
leep then,” says Grace. “We’ll catch up later. Your bed’s on the right.”

I like this woman already
. After nodding goodbye to Luciano and Paula, I pass out, bleary eyed and exhausted, onto my new bed, which is small but wonderfully functional.

At some point after the sky has blackened,
Thomas reaches out for me across the continents, coiling my long, tangled hair around his stealthy fingers. Yanking my head backward, his pelvis crashes into mine, and my poisoned Adonis draws my body into a violent orgasm. For a moment I wake up, panting and confused. Stretching my hands across the bed, searching for Thomas, I find only the edge of the mattress. Then I sigh. Even in dreamland I can’t escape him.

Chapter Two

Brotas

When I open my eyes
, dim sunlight is filtering in through a nearby window, suggesting early morning time. My new roommate lies fast asleep on a twin bed identical to mine, positioned against the wall on the opposite side of our bedroom. For a minute or two I keep still, listening to the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. The sound is comforting, unlike the ear-splitting, nocturnal cacophony generated by my two previous boyfriends, both of whom snored like elephants. Ah, men. As much as I need them in my life, they all have their exasperating habits. It’s enough to make a straight woman reconsider her heterosexuality.

When I was growing up, my m
om was always bickering with my dad about his irksome little habits. Not wanting to be left out, he skillfully argued right back.

“Lar
reee,” my mother hollered from their bathroom on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning, when I was 15-years-old.

“Yes?” he asked in his normal voice
, from the office next door.

The proximity of my room to theirs made overhearing them unavoidable.

“Were you clipping your fingernails this morning?” asked my mom.

“Yeah
. Why do you ask?”

“Because you left them in the bathroom sink.”

“Left what?” asked my dad.

“Your fingernails,” said my mom.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did
. Come take a look.”

“But
I’m reading the paper,” my father protested.

“Larry
,” my mom threatened.

“Oh, alright,” said my d
ad.

I heard the recliner squeak as he stood up and trudged toward the bathroom.

“Okay. You proved your point,” he said a moment later.

“Would
you clean them up now, please?” asked my mom.

“Why didn’t you just pick them u
p in the first place?”

“Because they’re
your
fingernails
, Larry, and it’s
disgusting
that you left them in the sink. I refuse to deal with discarded parts of your body. It’s bad enough I have to pick up your socks.”

“What about your used tampons?”

“What about them?”

“
I deal with those all the time,” said my dad.

“What are you tal
king about?” said my mom. “I always throw them into the garbage. It’s not like I leave them in the sink, for you to pick up.”

“But I still have to look at them
. They’re pretty gross, you know.”

“Oh, give me a break
, Larry. Menstruation is a natural part of a woman’s existence.”

“
I’d rather not see it, though.”

“So you’re suggesting that I do what with the tampons
? Hide them?”

“That’
d be nice.”

“I think you
’re being ridiculous about this,” said my Mom, “but I’ll make you a deal. If you throw away your fingernails, I’ll wrap up the tampons before I toss them. Okay?”

“Perfect.”

That was the thing about my parents. Since they were pretty open about their feelings, they did argue a lot, but their feuds usually ended with a reasonable conclusion or compromise. On the other hand, if it came down to a complete battle of wills (like the time my mother booted me from home), Cecile always prevailed.

As I check out
my new bedroom, the décor is noticeably clean, but sparse to the point of being sterile. Everything is white, including the walls, floor tiles, shelves, and sheets. No pictures hang on the walls. Nor is there a television or computer. Fortunately, I’ve seen a phone in the living room, so I know we’re not completely cut off from the outside world. On the whole, the interior design is reminiscent of a cheap hospital, or possibly a psych ward, which is fine for a poor medical student with low expectations and intermittent hallucinations. If I don’t manage to get Thomas out of my head, institutionalization is probably right around the corner anyway.

Standing to get dresse
d, I’m surprised to feel lightheaded and plunk down quickly to avoid passing out. Trying to remember the last thing I’ve had to eat or drink, nothing comes to mind except breakfast on the plane…which was yesterday morning, I think. I’m famished, and probably a bit dehydrated. I wonder what day it is. Possibly it’s Saturday, but I’m not really sure. When the stars circling my head disappear, I manage to stand upright without fainting. Padding into the apartment’s tiny kitchen, I look around for something to eat, but I’m bitterly disappointed. The refrigerator is spotlessly clean, containing not a crumb of food. Thankfully, I do find one 12-ounce bottle of water, which I rapidly chug. Though I’d like to continue inhaling the tap, I’ve no idea whether it’s safe. Hoping to avoid ingesting any intestinal parasites, I decide to wait and ask Grace whether the water is potable.

Due to a recent traumatic
experience, the food situation is beginning to make me edgy. Home alone in New York over Christmas break, I contracted a terrible case of the flu. With an empty fridge and no strength to shop, for 24 hours straight I consumed only water. By the time Thomas decided to drop by, my condition was rapidly spiraling downward.

“Emma, hey Emma,
open up!” said Thomas, as he pounded loudly against my apartment door.

Crawling on my knees through the kitchen, I just managed to turn the knob
.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he asked
, as I collapsed at his feet. “Holy shit, girl. You’re burning up.”

Next thing I knew he carried me, kicking and scream
ing, across the street to the emergency room. I remember thinking it odd that the giant intravenous needles they shoved into both of my arms didn’t hurt at all. As the nurses pumped me with fluid, bits and pieces of conversation registered.

“Good thing you brought her in w
hen you did,” said a doctor. “The hyponatremia could’ve killed her. Are you her next of kin?”

“Nope,” said Thomas.

“Do you know who is? We should try reaching a family member,” said the doctor.

“You could call
her aunt,” Thomas said.

“Does Emma have
a living will?” asked the doctor.

“Good God,” said Thomas
. “I have no idea.”

“Did you hear that?” as
ked the doc. “What did she say?”

“I’m not sure,” Thoma
s replied. “Let me listen….It’s hard to tell because she’s mumbling.”

“Try put
ting your ear next to her lips,” said the doctor.

“Okay
.”

Thomas started
snickering.

“What’s so funny?
” asked the doctor.

“I’m pretty sure that last bit was,
‘Don’t let Aunt Pam find my vibrator.’”

“She’s delirious.”

“No kidding,” said Thomas.

A few hours later I woke
up, alone and fully conscious in a hospital ward, with Thomas nowhere to be seen. He might’ve said something about going out for a drink.

Given these events, I’m particularly mad at myself for not buying food at the airport yesterday
. I’m also thankful for Grace’s presence. Presumably, I’ll be less likely to kill myself with a roommate watching over me.

Ignoring my grumbling stomach, I immerse myself in a ste
amy shower and scrub away two days’ worth of sweat and grime. As I inhale deeply through the mist, the deliciously hot water streams over my body, relaxing all of my muscles. That’s when I notice the pink bottle of Nair sitting on the bathroom shelf. Though I’ve never used this product before, I’m tempted to try it, especially because I still haven’t found any razors. Of course the Nair doesn’t actually belong to me, but I bet Grace won’t mind sharing. She seemed like such a nice person when I met her.

I don’t bother reading the directions on the bottle
. How hard could the procedure be? First, I squirt a generous helping of the lotion into my palm and give it a sniff. Yuck! The stuff is foul. Nonetheless, I proceed to lather up my legs, armpits, and pubic area. Minutes later, while wiping my shins with a towel, I’m amazed to watch clumps of hair falling away from my body. Then I’m distracted by an unpleasant itching sensation emanating from my groin area. Glancing in that direction with trepidation, I find that my entire pelvis is turning a frightening shade of purple. Apparently, I’ve developed a chemical burn secondary to the Nair. Ugh. The price of so-called beauty.

If my
mother were here, I’m sure she’d say, “I told you so.”

Before she banished me
, my mom used to regularly lecture me about hair removal. Placing a cold compress over my irritated bikini region, I’m reminded of our last conversation on the subject.

“
I don’t see why you bother shaving your legs, Emma. Shaving is just another way that society subjugates women. Like putting on makeup, it’s a complete waste of time.”

“Mom, I don’t think….”

“In fact, if you added up all the minutes that a teenage girl spends shaving and putting on makeup, she’d probably have enough time to complete a college education.”

“But Mom, everybody shaves
. I don’t want to be the only girl in school who looks like a hobbit.”

She laughed at that
.

“I’d be proud of you if you looked like a hobbit
. You’d be setting a good example for the rest of them.”

“I already stand out way too much
. I’d rather shave and keep a low profile.”

“Low profile
? You, Emma? Good luck with that. But if you want to shave, I suppose you have my blessing. Do me a favor, though, and try to avoid cutting yourself with those ridiculous razors. I don’t want you looking like Carrie at the prom.”

Predictably, I
managed to cause significant bodily harm with the Nair on my very first try. I suppose I should count my blessings. At least I’m not hallucinating that my mother is standing here in the bathtub, yelling at me.

Because wearing underwear is
currently unbearable, I go commando and throw on a pair of airy sweat pants. Next, I grab a bra and the T-shirt closest to the top of my suitcase, a turquoise blue one reading, “Haight Ashbury 1968, The Summer of Love,” in flowing, pink script letters. As I recall, my Dad acquired this shirt from an old girlfriend years ago, when he lived on a commune in San Francisco.

Suddenly
I notice that Grace and I aren’t the only animals in the room. The largest cockroach I’ve ever seen—which is saying something, considering that I’ve lived in numerous, sketchy New York apartments for the last eight years—is crawling across the sheet covering Grace’s sleeping form, at about the level of her belly button. Now, I may be absentminded and uncoordinated, but I’m not afraid bugs, not even very large ones. Defiantly, I grab the insect by one antenna and march it toward the window at the head of Grace’s bed. Viewing the 10-story drop, however, I abort the launch; instead, I decide to contain the roach in a Tupperware, with a cover, that I find lying in the kitchen. Just as Grace is awakening, I seize a second, mutant-sized roach from a corner of the room. While I’m throwing numero dois
into the roach motel, Grace emits an ear-splitting scream.

“E
ww!” she screeches. “Why are you touching them?”

“
Are you scared of them?” I ask.

“Of course
not,” says Grace.

“
You did yell pretty loudly.”

“
They’re just so gross!”

I shrug
.

“To me t
hey’re no big deal. I’m used to them from the city.”

“
Aren’t you going to squash them?” she says. “I don’t think they make very good pets.”

“I considered throwing
them out the window, but I couldn’t do it.”

“How come?”
asks Grace.

“
I have a really hard time killing bugs,” I say.

“I’m sure they
would’ve survived, even if you had chucked them,” she says. “Those things are nuclear cockroaches.”

“Nuclear?”

“Yeah. Nothing kills them. I’ve seen them running around in the microwave, even while I’m cooking something.”

“
Still, I don’t think that I could hurt them on purpose.”

“Why not?”
Grace inquires, looking incredulous.

“I’ve always felt that bugs have th
e same right to life as people.”

“What are you, a Buddhist
or something?

“Nope,” I say
. “I’m Jewish.”

“
Does the Old Testament forbid the killing of bugs?”