Notes from a Former Virgin Read online

  I don’t care about this diary! I don’t care about anything! I never want to go to college or get a job! All I want to do is have as much sex with Grady as I can between now and whenever I die!

  Friday, August 25

  What happened on Wednesday was, we snuck back into the pool, as usual. We swam for a while (quietly, without splashing, so no one passing by would hear us) and then sat on the deck with our feet in the water, whispering. It was getting dark by that time, and the crickets were chirping. I could smell the chlorine on us, and the sunscreen. Grady’s hand was next to mine on the concrete. Long tanned fingers, big square palms. Beads of water on his wrist. I was wondering how long I could go without touching him when he put his arm around me and started kissing me.

  After a while he pulled me to my feet and we walked over to his towel on the grass. It’s striped in blue and white, and we’ve been making out on it all summer long. I want to put it under glass, or burn it and wear the ashes in a locket around my neck.

  We’d been grinding against each other like we were actually trying to rip holes in our bathing suits when I pushed his hips up and said, “I don’t think we should have sex yet.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. He was panting.

  “I mean, I want to,” I said.

  “Me too.” He smiled at me.

  “No, but I really want to,” I said.

  “I have a condom,” he said.

  “Go get it!”

  So he did, and he knew how to put it on, which should have looked like a sex-ed class come to life but which actually looked really hot, because he was kneeling above me, looking down with a serious, excited look on his face, and then we HAD SEX on his blue-and-white striped towel, and it DID NOT HURT, but instead felt REALLY AMAZING, which they never mention in sex ed! All you hear about is HPV and AIDS and genital warts, and all of those things are terrible and important, but what about the fact that sex is the most fun thing I’ve ever done in my entire life?!?! Grady’s body was inside my body! I’ve never smelled him or tasted him or felt him that much, and I still wanted more, and I still do right now, and I think I always will. Grady, Grady, Grady Grady Grady Grady Grady Grady GRADY!

  Saturday, August 26

  Every magazine article and confessional blog post warns you that the first time you have sex, you might bleed, it’ll probably hurt a ton, and at the very least it’ll be awkward. None of that was true for me, which means either (a) I’m a phenom, (b) Grady’s a phenom, (c) we got lucky, or (d) all that dry humping we did (and, uhhh, I did with Mac) was actually good practice. Probably mostly (c) and a little dash of (d).

  We kind of WERE bumbling around that first time, which I now understand because we’ve had sex every day since Wednesday, and we’re getting better as we go. Last night we were lying on our backs on the towel looking up at the stars, and Grady said, “Does your dad think you’re at Hannah’s?”

  “Yep. Same lie every night. He’s never questioned it. Why, is your mom getting suspicious?”

  “No. Elliott and I used to hang out all the time, so it’s a good cover story.”

  “Is Elliott mad that you never see him anymore?” I asked.

  “Probably.”

  We laughed, I think because we were being such dicks to our friends, and because there was no way we could stop ourselves from continuing to neglect them. Had I even seen Hannah since the day she came over and I interrogated her about Grady and Reese?

  I reached for Grady’s hand. “You didn’t have sex with Reese, right?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “Did you have sex with Mac?”

  “No.”

  “Not that it would bother me if you had.”

  “Right, no, me neither.”

  “Really?” he said.

  “Well, no,” I said. “I think I would have felt jealous and insecure.”

  “OK, good,” he said. “Me too.”

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to feel that way.”

  “According to what?”

  “I don’t know. The internet?”

  He made a psshh sound. “We can feel however we want.”

  “Do you feel different,” I said, “not being a virgin anymore?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I’m happier than usual. But I still feel like myself. Do you feel different?”

  “No,” I said. “I feel happier too, but otherwise I feel exactly the same.”

  I really do. I’m not suddenly more vulnerable, and I don’t feel even a little bit guilty.

  Sunday, August 27

  I woke up this morning to Tris and Hannah standing above my bed, staring down at me. Even in my sleepy confusion, I knew why they were there.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Well, at least we know you’re alive,” Tris said.

  I sat up and started picking at the sleep boogers in my eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic,” I said. “I’ve been texting you.”

  “Random emojis!” Tris said. “I ask you if you can hang out and you text me the creepy moon. I thought something bad had happened.”

  I frowned up at him. “What bad thing could possibly happen that would lead to me texting you the creepy moon?”

  “It could be code for something,” Hannah said solemnly.

  “Like, ‘can’t talk, I’ve been kidnapped by an astronomer’?” I said.

  Tris sat down on my bed. “You can’t disappear every time you get a boyfriend,” he said. “It’s not OK.” Hannah was nodding.

  “I know,” I said. “I know. I know. You’re right.”

  “And Grady’s doing the same thing to Elliott,” Tris said. “Elliott is very hurt.”

  “How are you and Elliott, anyway?” I asked Tris.

  “Don’t try to distract me,” he said.

  “Listen,” I started, and then I said, “Wait,” and ran to the bathroom. I couldn’t tell them this momentous news without peeing and brushing my teeth. When I got back, they were both sitting on my bed. I stood in front of them in my underpants and FEMINIST AF T-shirt and said, “Grady and I are having sex.”

  Tris screamed and Hannah gasped. Tris said, “I knew it!” and Hannah said, “Please tell me you’re being safe.” Then Tris asked for all the details and even though Hannah wanted to pretend like it was none of her business, she listened to everything I said, especially the gross parts. She’s a great audience for X-rated stories, because she looks like she’s about to faint. The best is when she shakes her head in shocked disapproval. In terms of messing around, she’s done everything I have and probably way more, but she hates to talk about it. She’s modest, I guess.

  Monday, August 28

  When Grady keeps me company in the concession stand, the afternoons feel so long. All those syrupy hours. Taking damp singles from the kids who run up soaking wet to buy ice cream. Chatting. Putting on and taking off baseball caps and sunglasses as the sun moves through the sky. Eating Tootsie Pop after Tootsie Pop. Singing along to the radio. It seems like the day will never end. But the pool’s closing this Thursday, and summer will be over. I don’t know how it raced by so fast. It feels like I’ll always be 16, sitting on Grady’s lap and feeling his hard-on against my butt. But I won’t. It’s an awful thought.

  Tuesday, August 29

  I fell asleep at the pool with Grady last night and totally got caught oh God oh God oh God

  Wednesday, August 30

  Miss Murphy betrayed me. I can’t believe it.

  It was so hot on Monday night. Really, the weather’s to blame. Grady and I messed around until we were too hungry to keep going, and then we ordered a pizza and ate it sitting on the steps in the shallow end while discussing one of the other lifeguards, Quentin, and whether he refuses to smile or make facial expressions of any kind because he’s odd (Grady’s argument) or rude and jerky (my argument). After we finished eating, we lay down on the blue-and-white striped towel and kept talking and talking. I never run out of things to say to him. We spend all day together and then text each other mo
st of the night from home, and in the morning I get ready as fast as I can so I can come back to the pool and keep talking to him. He has opinions, and he wants to hear my opinions. He doesn’t make fun of any of my thoughts, even the odd ones. He’s interested in people and in the world. God, I love him so much.

  The point is, we passed out talking. I kept thinking I should get up, but we were holding hands, and the heat was making me so sleepy, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting up fast, heart pounding, looking at the dark sky above me and at Grady sleeping next to me and then at my phone and it was 3:04 a.m. and there were four texts from Miss Murphy!

  MM: Chloe, are you OK?

  MM: Your dad fell asleep, but I’m awake and concerned.

  MM: Please call me as soon as you can.

  MM: Chloe, this is not good.

  I texted her back as fast as I could.

  Chloe: Fell asleep at Hannah’s so sorry please don’t tell my dad it’ll make him worry for no reason coming home now

  I woke Grady up, and when he saw me, he smiled and pulled me toward him to make out, even though he was still half asleep, and there’s something wrong with me, because I did make out with him for kind of a long time even though I knew I was in huge trouble and he might be too, but finally I stopped and said, “We fell asleep. It’s three o’clock in the morning.” We both jumped up and started pulling our clothes on and cramming our stuff into our backpacks. After we’d hopped the fence, he gave me a big hug and said, “Good luck,” and then we MADE OUT AGAIN for a long time and I’m not kidding, we almost had sex right there in the parking lot! I must have a death wish. By the time I got home, it was after four o’clock, and I thought Miss Murphy had probably gone to bed, since she knew I was OK and she didn’t have to stay up worrying about me. I turned my key in the lock as quietly as I could, so that I wouldn’t wake up her or my dad, and crept through the front door like a cat burglar, but then immediately I could tell that the kitchen light was on. My heart sank.

  She was sitting at the island, wearing a T-shirt and a pair of Dad’s boxers, frowning down at her phone. When I came in, she looked at me, then turned off her screen and stood up.

  “I’m off to bed,” she said.

  “Are you mad?” I said.

  “It’s not really my place to be mad,” she said.

  For a second I felt relieved. Then she said, “But Chloe, I have to mention this to your dad.”

  “What? No, you don’t!”

  “I wish I could cover for you, but I’m not comfortable keeping this from him.”

  “But nothing bad happened! Please, I promise I’ll never do it again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She did sound sorry, but what did that matter? I sat in the kitchen fuming for a while, and then went upstairs and got into bed without brushing my teeth. Grady texted me that he’d snuck into his house without anyone noticing. I texted back the thumbs-up emoji, because I didn’t want to get into it, then put my phone down and fell asleep. After what felt like only a few minutes, I jerked awake to the sound of Dad standing in my doorway, saying my name sternly. He asked me to please get up and join him in the kitchen.

  I threw on my bathrobe. When I got downstairs, Dad was waiting for me. Just waiting, not even loading the dishwasher or putting his laptop in his briefcase. “I’d like to know where you were last night,” he said in a voice that was supposed to sound pleasant. He was wearing a gray suit and a navy-blue tie. He smelled like aftershave. I felt stunned from lack of sleep.

  “Hannah’s,” I said.

  “So if I call Mrs. Egan right now, she’ll tell me you were there?” he said.

  I nodded. My throat felt dry.

  Dad looked at me like I might be a lobster or a bar of soap. A random object masquerading as his daughter. “If you were at Hannah’s, why didn’t you stay there instead of coming home in the middle of the night?”

  I squeezed at the floor with my toes. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I was barely awake.”

  “I don’t appreciate being lied to,” Dad said. My heart seized up. I said nothing.

  Dad picked up his briefcase. “In my family, teenage rebellion was not allowed. It wasn’t even a thought. You’re not living in a movie, Chloe. I expect you to tell me the truth. I expect you to get good grades. I expect you to stay away from alcohol and drugs. Is that clear?”

  I nodded, looking at the floor.

  “Is that clear?” he said again.

  “Yes,” I said.

  After he left, I got dressed, called to Snickers, and went out for a walk, crying behind my sunglasses. I DO get good grades. I DON’T drink or do drugs. I mean, I’ve gotten drunk a few times, but that hardly qualifies as “drinking.” And, OK, I lie to Dad occasionally, but only to stop him from worrying about me, or to avoid a big pointless fight about something I know isn’t a big deal, but that he would consider a huge deal. Such as accidentally falling asleep in the grass next to my boyfriend.

  He talked to me like I’m a bad kid. Like he thinks I was out late popping painkillers and burning my PSAT prep books. Does he even realize how much worse he could have it? I’m a living angel compared to half of the cheaters and addicts at school. I mean, I’m using condoms, every single time! Not that I could ever tell him that.

  I made Snickers stop so I could give him a hug, which he tolerated patiently. His cluelessness made me cry more. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong. He loves me no matter what I do.

  And Miss Murphy! I thought she was my friend. She didn’t have to tell him. She really didn’t. I came home in one piece. What does she care? She’s not my mother. She does all these nice things for me, like teaching me how to drive and asking my opinion about whatever book I’m reading, but when it comes down to it, she’s not on my side.

  Thursday, August 31

  Last day of work. Hot and bright. Everyone was there—kids, nannies, moms, staff, even Mrs. Franco. We organized games of Sharks and Minnows and made blue and turquoise friendship bracelets with the kids. Grady couldn’t talk much, because he was lifeguarding and the pool was swarmed, but he grinned at me from across the water. Reese hugged everyone. Nadia, who I work with sometimes and who is nervous about being a freshman, made me swear that I’ll wave to her in the halls.

  The pool closed late, so I avoided another awkward dinner with Dad and Miss Murphy. I know it’s immature, but I can’t help going silent and sullen when I’m mad, and the longer I do it, the more impossible it seems to stop doing it. Like, what, will I come downstairs one day and chirp, “Mmm, something smells delicious!” after a week of grunting non-responses at them? And I know that as soon as I thaw out, they’ll give each other meaningful looks over their wine, and as they’re sitting around after dinner while I do the dishes, they’ll murmur, “It seems like she’s doing better,” or something equally infuriating.

  Grady and I snuck back in after we closed down, obviously. We’ve gotten so good at hopping the fence. It takes us mere seconds and we never scrape our legs anymore.

  We were lying on the towel facing each other, noses millimeters apart.

  “I can’t stay too late,” I said. “I keep catching my dad squinting at me. Like, studying me.”

  “For signs of lying?”

  I nodded. “I told him I was going to a thing for pool staff tonight. Which is true.”

  He laughed.

  “Can we keep sneaking back in here even though today’s the last day of the season?” I said.

  “Of course. We can sneak in here when there’s two feet of snow on the ground if you want.”

  I brought his hand to my lips and kissed his fingers. “It’s not going to change when we go back to school, is it?” I said.

  “What, this? Us?” We were whispering, I don’t know why. It felt like we were in church, lying under the big navy dome of stars, so close to each other. “It won’t change,” he said.

  It probably will, a little. I can’t think about it. Too scary.

  Friday, September 1
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  Snickers threw up after eating a bunch of grass, and that broke the ice with my dad, because neither of us could stop ourselves from saying “Gah!” and “Not on the rug!” in our authentic voices, not the stiff, polite ones we’ve been using for days. Thank you, Snickers.

  I do understand that Dad didn’t say anything so terribly terrible to me. Of course he wants me to be a good kid, and he’s right that I shouldn’t lie to him.

  But I’m still mad at Miss Murphy. She insisted on taking me out driving today. She was being her usual nonchalant self. Singing along to ’90s R & B, looking out at the trees flashing by. She asked me if I have a boyfriend.

  “No,” I said immediately. It wasn’t an intentional lie. It popped out.

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought maybe you were out late with a guy last week.”

  “Nope.”

  I got on the rotary a little too fast, and the tires squealed. She didn’t mention it.

  “If you’re angry, I understand,” she said. “I’m trying not to overstep my bounds here. Giving you a pass on staying out all night—that’s something only your biological parent should do. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to replace your mother.”

  “OK,” I said. I could tell she was waiting for me to say more, but I couldn’t. Replace my mother? It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d try. I mean, I detest my mother. She’s a deluded horror show who probably misses Snickers more than she misses me. But she’s my mother. No one else could be. And Miss Murphy would only say something like that if she and Dad were serious. Which I know they are! I’ve been telling myself for months that they might get married if Mom ever crawls back from Mexico and agrees to get divorced. So why is the idea so upsetting to me now that it seems more real?

  Saturday, September 2

  Dear Mom,

  Just wanted to say hello. How’s Mexico? Hope all is well with you. Take care,