Much Too Vulgar

Chapter One

You Don’t Get Fraps Often, Do You?

I’m sitting behind the reception desk in the Chaplains’ Office of Georgetown’s Healy Hall trying to pierce my skin with a letter opener. If it looks bad enough, I can go home and scream without anybody hearing me. The cramped office reeks of peppermint tea and Airhead Ani’s lavender eucalyptus candle, and it’s starting to give me a headache. I’d rather breathe in the fumes of industrial-strength antibacterial cleansers all day, every day—because that would mean I’d be working in one of Georgetown’s labs, setting a course for medical school, instead of wasting my summer here, in this meaningless campus job.

My co-worker, Anica Ableman (I go by Ani, like AH-nee), will be back from the bathroom soon. To be honest, I’ve never met someone less able in my life. The girl’s parents were clearly fans of alliteration, and so am I—so I’ve dubbed her Airhead Ani.

The laxative I slipped into her venti caramel Frappuccino was just a small dose. If she stays on the toilet any longer, she’s just malingering. Not that I’m surprised, the girl spends the whole time we’re in here texting or scrolling on Instagram. Of course, she looks up with those vapid blue eyes whenever a Jesuit or a professor or somebody with authority walks in. She hides her phone under the table and purrs at them like a street cat, asking if she can help them with anything, maybe get them some of that disgusting tea. It’s gross to watch, actually. I want to scratch those eyes right out of her face.

I twirl the letter opener around and around in my hands, my fingers flirting with its sharp point. The sudden creak of the door opening startles me, sending the blade slicing through the pad of my left thumb. A small bead of crimson wells up from the cut, and instead of sticking my finger in my mouth like I normally do, I grab a tissue from the box on my desk to absorb the blood.

Airhead Ani walks in, her lips looking dry and chapped instead of pink and pouty, and it makes me smile for the first time all day.

Are you alright? I ask, my mouth contorting into something resembling concern.

Yeah, she says, smiling weakly. Everything she does looks weak, even when she hasn’t just emptied herself over the toilet for an hour. Just a little stomach thing. Maybe I should stop drinking Frappuccinos.

That stuff is horrible for you, I say, knitting my brows together in an approximation of sincerity. "Just think of all the sugar you’re sucking down. I read in Cosmo that Fraps have a special kind of genetically modified sugar that goes straight to your ass. Oh, and it gives you cellulite like you wouldn’t believe." I don’t even read Cosmo, that senseless drivel, but the horrified look on Airhead’s face gives me a rush. Her lips get even paler and those mold-blue eyes go wide.

Seriously? she says.

Seriously, I say gravely. It’s a real shame they don’t tell you that. You don’t get Fraps often, do you? I twist my mouth into an expression of mock horror.

Only every day! she cries out, her eyes now filling with tears—so pathetic.

Jesus, I say. I’m really sorry. I don’t know if it’s possible to reverse the damage once it’s done.

For a second, I think she’s going to cry, and I desperately want to see that. Instead, she sniffles once, pulls herself together, and says, "I’ll just get diet ones from now on. I’m sure it’s not as bad as Cosmo makes it sound. That magazine is always selling sensational stuff."

I don’t want to push it further. I’m bored with her now. You’re probably right, I grumble, turning back to the paperwork on my desk—but then I spy a pouch of sugar-free Extra gum in the side pocket of her purse. At least you don’t chew that sugar-free gum, I say. Then you’d really be in deep shit. Neurologically speaking, that stuff is basically pure poison for your brain.

Her face snaps back to me with a look of pure terror. For me, this is the best high there is.

Chapter Two

The Pencil Goes All the Way Through

I can feel the swampy D.C. heat of the asphalt through my flip-flops as I slap back home from the Safeway with a new jar of peanut butter and a carton of blueberries swinging in the plastic bag against my thigh. I wouldn’t have needed to make this Saturday morning trip at all if the blueberries I bought yesterday hadn’t already molded in my fridge. While I was at Safeway, I figured why not get some more peanut butter, since I’ll be out of it soon and you never know when a new test subject will walk right into your cage trap.

Hey, Keely!

I’m so lost in contemplating the contents of my fridge—e.g., a tub of expired yogurt I’m keeping as an experiment in growing different types of fungus, the aforementioned nearly empty jar of peanut butter I use exclusively for the rodents—that I don’t even notice Roger sitting in the middle of his postage-stamp lawn until I’m about to pass him and he shouts over to me in his foghorn voice.

Roger, I say.

What you got in there? he says, gesturing to my grocery bag.

I shake the bag, as if that will tell him anything. Peanut butter and blueberries, I say.

Yum. Good for oatmeal, right?

I don’t eat oatmeal, but sure, I guess so.

Roger shifts in the dry grass, pushing his fingers into the earth. I stand there motionless, waiting for him to do something else.

Keely, he says after a few more moments. The soles of my feet are growing uncomfortably hot.

What is it, Roger?

What’s in the bag?

Unicorn farts and leprechaun boogers, I say without a hint of sarcasm.

Roger laughs, the kind of blissful, uncomplicated sound that can only come from someone who does not have the capacity for worry.

Normally, I would never speak to a stranger, much less a male stranger who lives on my street. Nobody needs entangling relationships, especially not me. The first time Roger called out to me, he spilled his entire life story. I wanted to leave, but what he said was so fascinating I found myself itching to take notes. Roger told me he’d suffered a freak accident four years ago, something involving a piece of exposed rebar in a parking garage, that had left him with a very unique traumatic brain injury. His doctors didn’t think he’d survive the night, but he managed to pull through, making a recovery—but not a full one.

How’s the head today, Rog? I ask.

The same, the same, he says, shaking his cornsilk hair. "You know those doctors wrote a case study about me. It was published in the New England Journal of Medicine." He smiles with pride, just like he does every time he tells me this, which is often.

I know, I say. In fact, as soon as our first meeting concluded when his live-in caregiver called him inside for dinner, I went home and Googled his ass. People lie all the time, but I was delighted to discover Roger wasn’t lying. I found the case study—anonymized, of course, but simple enough to uncover given all the details I had about Roger. I also read several news stories about the accident, the most interesting tidbit being how his family sued the owner of the parking garage and ended up with millions. That explains how he can afford this Georgetown neighborhood and a full-time caregiver.

I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? he says, a small frown creasing his boyish face.

Don’t worry about it, Rog, I say. Beneath me, my feet are starting to burn, and I shift back and forth to alleviate the pain, wondering how long I can take it.

You know I don’t remember very well, he says.

It’s okay, I say. The NEJM case study went into great detail about Roger’s traumatic brain injury, about how he is unable to form new memories of much substance. His injury is so unusual that doctors are still studying him. It’s one of the reasons I don’t hate him like I do most other people. He can’t remember anything about me besides my name.

What do you have there, Keely? he says, pointing at my bag yet again.

Instead of answering his question, I ask one of my own. What color is this bag?

According to the case study, one of the effects of his brain injury is intermittent color blindness. The last time I asked Roger to name the color of a red tulip, he said it was blue. Roger is endlessly fascinating to me, like a live experimental subject.

Looks green to me, he says. The bag is actually white, but whatever.

Good job, I say.

Roger smiles, and I look around, making sure nobody else is within earshot. Roger’s medical condition isn’t the only reason I willingly speak with him.

He’s also the best secret keeper.

You know what, Roger? Yesterday was funny and everything, messing with Airhead Ani and getting her to throw away her gum like it was poison—I had to do it; the girl popped that gum constantly. If I hadn’t put an end to it, I would have come way too close to stabbing a sharpened pencil into her thigh. Which of course I couldn’t do, because that would leave a mark. It’s really hard to get graphite out of skin once it’s in there. When I pause to take a breath, I’m panting. I’ve stopped shifting around, and I no longer notice the pain in my feet.

How do you know that? Roger asks.

That’s what I heard from my cousin, who told me the graphite is still in her hand from the time I plunged my pencil into that soft part between her thumb and pointer finger when she was four and I was eight. I just wanted to see if the point would go all the way through, or if some combination of skin or muscle or vein would stop it.

Did it?

Well, if she hadn’t started screaming and calling for her mom, I would have had enough time to find out. Instead, I had to wait two years before I had another research opportunity. That time, I made sure the repulsive boy who pulled my hair never did it again. You want the spoiler alert, Rog? The pencil does, indeed, go all the way through—if you push hard enough.

Roger stares at me for a moment, his eyes unfocused. Then he says, Hot out here today, huh?

I’m not done. This past week has been a pustulating sore, throbbing against my psyche, threatening to burst. Meanwhile, my feet have lost all feeling, and I wonder if I’ve singed the skin on the soles or if this is a run-of-the-mill pins-and-needles numbness. I don’t care about the potential damage; I’m more interested in the outcome of this little self-experiment. How long until I can’t stand it any longer? Talk about hot. Professor Demetri can go to hell right here.

Who’s Professor Demetri? Roger asks.

The nitwit who rejected my application for the Hughes summer research program.

What’s the Hughes summer research program?

It’s the only direct path to the best medical schools in the country. I should be spending my summer in a research lab, analyzing samples or running electrophoresis gels or dissecting tumor-ridden mice, but instead I’m stuck throwing tea parties for lapsed Catholics in the fucking Chaplains’ Office. I’m not even religious!

Me neither, Roger says.

I belong in that program more than anyone. I have the grades, I have the drive, I have the curiosity every great researcher needs. Professor Demetri only picked students from her freshman seminar, which is total bullshit. I know for a fact most of them didn’t get anything higher than an A- on their biology finals—and let me tell you, Rog, I got an A. It should have been an A+, but the question was worded poorly so it really wasn’t my fault.

Sounds like you should have gotten in, he says, shrugging. If only Professor Demetri could see things as clearly as Roger Pally can.

That’s not even the worst part. When I had the Hughes interview with Demetri, she told me all the spots were filled, and that’s why she couldn’t accept me. Right after I left her office, I saw this girl waiting to talk to her after me. She breezed right past me, like I wasn’t even worth her time. So, I stood outside the office and listened, and once the door was closed, I heard Demetri say something like ‘Erica, I was so impressed with your application. Even though the program is full, I’m making an exception for you. We’re going to find a way to fit you in. Congratulations, and welcome to the Hughes summer research program!’ Can you believe it? There’s no way Erica has better grades than me, and how could her application have been that much better than mine?

That’s not right, Keely, Roger says. I’m impressed. Usually, his attention span doesn’t last this long.

It’s absolutely not. You know what I did after that? I left that antiseptic-scented scientific paradise and spent the day dissecting the sparrow that broke its neck on my window. The vertebrae had been crushed and mangled. Kind of like a kid’s macaroni necklace.

I stop, still panting, pain now flaring up in my sternum. Even though I’ve never had a licensed medical professional diagnose me, I’m fairly certain I have costochondritis. I get those characteristic sharp chest pains whenever I’m too excited; if it were really a heart attack, I’d have died multiple times over by now. As it is, I’ve come to rather enjoy the pain—it reminds me I’m alive.

The ice-pick stab in my chest starts to dissipate as I stare at Roger. For a second, his brow furrows with concern, then his entire face smooths out like pancake batter. I like macaroni, he says. But only the Kraft kind, Keely. His eyes brighten. Is that what’s in your bag?

I’ve found a new limit to Roger’s attention span. I’ll have to make a note of that.

I’ll bring you some the next time I go to the store, I say. It’s easy to make promises to Roger—he never remembers them.

You’re the best, Keely! he says.

I am. I really am, but I’m still not in Hughes. I tried to be in the study groups with all those Hughes-bound kids, tried to align myself with people going in my direction—but Mother was right. I shouldn’t have helped them. Everybody is either going to drag me down or try to compete with me, and if I’m helping them, I’m hurting myself.

Don’t hurt yourself, Keely, he says.

It’s just not fair. The Hughes kids get everything handed to them—a stipend, free housing, iPads for the summer. Those kids roam around campus like they own the place, drunk off their asses, hooting and hollering. I wouldn’t trust one of them to deliver a pizza, much less pipette reagents or excise tumors from mice. Would you?

I don’t think so, Roger says.

That’s right, you wouldn’t, I say. You’re a smart man, Roger.

Roger beams, then his face goes blank again. A welcome breeze ruffles his cornsilk hair, which is starting to thin at the top. He’s about to say something when his caregiver opens the front door and hollers, Roger—breakfast!

Roger jumps up from the ground with surprising agility. His brain injury clearly did not affect any of his motor skills. Bye, Keely! he says, hustling inside and letting the door slam closed.

With a sigh, I start walking again. The pins-and-needles feeling creeping up my calves confirms my feet have fallen asleep instead of being burned. When I reach my basement apartment, I climb down the stairs somewhat unsteadily, unload my meager groceries, then go outside to poke the anthill in the minuscule backyard. I’m feeling riled up after spilling my guts to Roger, and watching the industrious way the ants scurry to rebuild what I’ve damaged helps calm me down. I’m about to make another deep jab when I hear a rustle against the wire-mesh of the cage trap I keep hidden under the deck stairs. A squirrel, scrawny and nauseatingly ratlike, is cowering inside. Its eyes are milky with fear.

For weeks I’ve been trying to catch something bigger than a mouse. At first, I told myself I needed a companion, just like anybody else. A fluffy little creature I could own, one that would be happy to be owned, too, maybe sit by my side as I wrote papers and analyzed data. Then, as I grew more and more frustrated by my lack of success, I realized I didn’t want a furry companion at all—I wanted an experimental subject. Just because the Hughes program won’t take me doesn’t mean I can’t advance my education on my own.

With extreme caution, I transfer the entire cage to the glassed-in shower in my bathroom, where the squirrel has an even smaller chance of escape. It’s a skinny little thing, its ribs visible as it cowers from me, panting. I sit on the closed lid of the toilet, watching the squirrel and taking notes on its behavior in my lab notebook. I’ve turned up the volume on my speakers, blasting bubblegum Taylor Swift so the girls upstairs don’t hear the squirrel scrabbling around. My basement apartment connects to the rest of the house, but it has its own entrance, so I wouldn’t call those four girls my roommates. They’re housemates, nothing more, and they’re certainly not my friends, even though they talk to me like they are.

The runty squirrel is a dusty gray-brown, and I’ve already given him a name. People say you shouldn’t name animals you’re going to kill—I guess because it makes it more emotionally difficult or some other such nonsense—but I find it’s a useful way to catalogue my experiments. This particular subject I’m calling Dodge, because he always tries to dodge my hands when I reach out for him. Not that I blame him, because he can probably see the scalpels next to me. They should be glimmering in the light, but their shine is dulled by the corrosion creeping up the steel. Most of my equipment is liberated from disused science labs around campus, and hey—beggars, or in my case thieves, can’t be choosers.

My next year of pre-med coursework involves a rat dissection. I want to be ready, so I need to practice. I’m not going to go in there with clumsy hands or a sensitive stomach, feeling around blindly in an open abdominal cavity. I’m going to be perfect.

Keeping one eye on Dodge, I roll out my tarp on my kitchen table and get my mismatched knives and pins ready. Now, all I have to do is wait for him to calm down enough for me to grab him. It’s not like I want to torture him—his death will be quick. I’m not a monster, but I also don’t want to give him a chance to cry for help.

I wonder what Mother would think if she saw me right now. She wouldn’t be proud, she never is, but maybe some small part of her would respect my ingenuity, my drive. More likely, she would only see my unpainted nails, limp hair, and ill-fitting clothes. The sight of my unwashed bedsheets, stained yellow with my night sweats, would repulse her, as it does me. We all have our priorities, though, and making a nice home out of this hovel is not on my list.

I shake my head to clear it of any thoughts of Mother. She’ll be proud enough when I’m a Dr. Rexroth, too. Maybe then I won’t feel so empty, like a deflated balloon made of human flesh.

With a surgeon’s sure hands, I grab Dodge, cradling him against my stomach. He doesn’t fight me when I secure his tiny limbs to the tray. He doesn’t even squeal when I make the first incision.

Chapter Three

What’s So Great About Harvard?

Monday morning rolls around, and Dodge’s blood is still under my fingernails. I’m digging it out with the pointy end of a nail file, scooping the little rusty flakes into a pile that I’ll sprinkle into the crevices of Airhead Ani’s keyboard. It’s almost 10 o’clock and she’s still not here, but that’s not unusual. With a name like Anica Ableman, she’s always been at the very front of the line alphabetically. She’s used to being prioritized by her parents, too, I bet, and even now, she still walks around like she’s special.

People like that take everything for granted. Not me—as much as I hate it here, having this job means I don’t have to go home this summer, don’t have to wither under the white-hot glare of Mother’s disapproval. It’s painful enough over the phone; in person, it’s excruciating.

The heavy door leading into the foyer creaks open, and footsteps pad up the red carpet to the Chaplains’ Office. Instead of Airhead, a middle-aged woman with mid-length brown hair, a business suit, and a self-important air pokes her head through the doorway.

Excuse me, she says, could you tell me how to get to Regents Hall?

This isn’t the first, nor will it be the last, time someone comes in here looking for directions, wanting everything done for them and gift-wrapped with a pretty bow. It’s like these dumbasses don’t understand everything can be Googled. I hide my blood-caked nail file under a pile of papers on my desk and plaster on a smile. Sure, I say. I can show you on the online map. It’s hard to keep the irritation out of my voice, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She steps up to my desk, and I swivel my monitor so she can see it before Googling Georgetown campus map.

As I click around, the woman rests an elbow on my desk. Thanks for your help. I’ve been to Georgetown before, but not since Regents Hall was built.

I click again, and the map pops up on my screen. Are you an alum? I ask, only because she seems to require a response.

No, she says, pulling her phone from her pocket as though that very action wouldn’t have provided her with the directions she needed before she hustled in here and disturbed my peace. I’m a recruiter for Harvard Medical School. She pauses for a moment, as though waiting for me to ooh and aah over her affiliation with Harvard, that arrogant school that clearly didn’t have the good judgment to accept my undergraduate application. When I say nothing, only giving her a blank stare as though I’ve never heard of Harvard before, she continues, slightly flustered. I’m—I’m here to talk to the Hughes research program students?

I continue to stare at her. Harvard and Hughes combined? I wish I could pick up my pile of dried blood flakes and blow them into her face like they were granules of scopolamine, that drug that turns people into zombies. Maybe that would make her less of an asshole.

She tries to recover some of her confidence by leaning hard into pomposity. You know, Harvard Medical School is only looking for the best and brightest. Georgetown may not be Ivy League, but we’re always interested in the Hughes program students. They’re very impressive. They automatically get interviews with us.

While she’s blabbering, I’m digging my nails into my denim-clad thigh so hard I’ll have bruises later. Through clenched teeth, I say, Well, if they’re that impressive, I’m sure they could go to any med school they want. What’s so great about Harvard?

I’m not daft. I know Harvard has the number one medical school in the world, but I hate the smug look anybody associated with that university always wears, as though they are part of an elite group that operates on a plane far higher than everyone else. I think about mentioning the human remains trafficking scandal to knock her down a peg, but decide instead to keep my mouth shut. Even with a morgue manager who couldn’t keep his sticky fingers off of other peoples’ body parts, Harvard is still the best.

At least my thinly veiled insult pierces her self-satisfied facade, and her face twists into an ugly sneer. I can see a smudge of aubergine lipstick on her two front teeth that looks like the world’s worst coffee stain. Harvard has the top-ranked medical school in the world, honey.

I’m not your ‘honey,’ I say. I can feel my breath starting to come in shorter spurts, which means the chest pain isn’t far behind. I want this woman out of here before that happens.

She looks taken aback, but quickly recovers that smile-sneer that showcases her inability to apply makeup properly. Can you please just tell me where Regents Hall is?

My smile doesn’t reach my eyes as I navigate my cursor over the map on my screen and speak quickly. The labels on this map are so small you can’t really read them. Just turn right out of here, then take another right at Lauinger Library, then go down the hill. Regents is just to the left of the dining hall.

Without saying thank you, she spins on her heels and marches out of the office. By the time she realizes I’ve sent her to the wrong side of campus, she’ll be so late for her meeting with the Hughes kids that they might have to cancel. That thought tickles me, a dark glee blooming in the center of my chest—but it’s quickly dampened by Ms. Harvard’s reminder that the Hughes kids get everything any budding scientist or medical professional could want, while the rest of us, even if we’re smarter than those Hughes kids, are stuck with whatever scraps are leftover.

My thigh aches where my nails dug into my jeans, and tiny ice picks are stabbing my sternum, but I don’t care. My fingers find the nail file where I hid it under the stack of papers, and I get back to chiseling out the dried blood as I try to slow my breathing. Outside the Chaplains’ Office, I hear the heavy door of Healy creak open and bang closed. I shove the nail file back under the papers and unceremoniously dump the little rust-colored pile onto Airhead’s keyboard.

Airhead Ani