Part 16: Mrs. Brixton / Victoria

The squealing started before they even reached the car. Thank science for ibuprofen, Mrs. Brixton thought, popping two pills into her mouth and swallowing hard. She remembered the water bottle in the cup holder too late. When the girls yanked open the door of the minivan and clambered into the backseat, the noise got louder but no clearer. It was like zooming in on a picture: the part you want to see gets bigger, but also blurrier, so you can’t see it any better than before. 

It seemed like positive squealing, in Mrs. Brixton’s estimation. 

But of course it was. Even if they hadn’t had a good time at the concert, they would never admit it. The idea that this would be the most exciting night of their lives was cemented as soon as they got the tickets. (As Victoria got the tickets, she corrected herself. Hannah was never entitled to a ticket.) It was an axiom to them, a tautology.

But still she had to ask. It was part of her job. 

“So how was it?” she said. 

“Ohmygod Mom, it was amazing,” Victoria started. And then she was off, letting out a torrent of words that Mrs. Brixton barely had to listen to in order to add her requisite really’s and wow’s - not so much responses as punctuation. Hannah mostly stayed quiet. She had no need to discuss the concert, at least not with her. When she did make a comment, it was addressed to Victoria alone. For instance: 

“And the thing he said about inspiration, I thought that was fucking brilliant.” 

This was meant to block Mrs. Brixton out of the conversation. She didn’t know what he had said about inspiration, although she could guess it was something about how everything inspired him, from a sunset to a child’s smile to watching a duck splash in a stream. Another mother might have asked, but she didn’t care. 

Another mother might also have chided Hannah for her language. But there was something kind of empowering about the way these girls swore. Even though “fuck” was probably, ultimately, a word of the patriarchy - it was sex but it was also ownership, objectification, dismissal - she knew Hannah heard any critique as censorship. And she couldn’t bear to be the steward of the “ladylike.” 

But Victoria’s response circled around to bringing her mother back into the fold. She still had that childish urge to explain, to share. She didn’t want anyone to be left out. Suddenly, glancing at her in the rearview mirror, it struck her how young her daughter was. They would remember this night for the rest of their lives, and what they’d remember, more than anything else, was how young they were then.

“ . . .and he’s so smart, Mom, he reads all these really deep books and stuff . . . Hannah, have you read that book he was talking about, The Letter?” 

“Not yet. I’m definitely going to, though. As soon as I find it.” She made it sound like she was actively looking for this book. 

“So The Letter is Xander’s favorite book and it’s in, like, Russian or something -“ 

“Soviet Russian,” Hannah corrected. 

“Right, Soviet Russian,” Victoria continued, parroting Hannah’s term uncomprehendingly, “and it’s supposed to be . . .” 

Theresa felt her attention drift away. Men and their favorite books. Every man in the world had some favorite book he wanted you to read, like it was an initiation rite. And the last thing they ever wanted to hear was that you had already read it. Then they wouldn’t get to introduce you to it. Like missionaries showing up to some remote village only to find out that the people there already had accepted whatever God they were representing.

And they seemed to think they would get partial credit for anything that was good about the book itself. Like they "got the assist." Maybe their brains were all just poisoned by sports. 

They wanted to make sure that every time you thought about that book in the future, you’d remember them. Oh, yes, Infinite Jest, Brian lent that to me back in college . . . and that was how they sunk their teeth into you. How they got their tendrils wrapped around your brain. 

“Wow, really?” Mrs. Brixton said, hearing a pause. 

*

She had to keep talking because if she stopped then Hannah might say something about how they didn’t get to go backstage and she would remember that they didn’t make it all the way to the front because Victoria wanted to stop and she would realize that tonight hadn’t been everything she wanted it to be and she would think oh if only I hadn’t been with Victoria then I would have gotten to go backstage and meet Xander Cross and it would have been perfect and it would really have been the best night of my life and it’s all Victoria’s fault and why am I even friends with her anyway she’s such a little kid...