Notes from a Former Virgin Page 3

  Chloe

  Banged that out and fired it off without letting myself think twice. Instantly I regretted it. She never writes back, and now I’ll have to spend weeks wondering if I offended her somehow, or if she thinks I’ve forgiven her for all of her parenting crimes, or if she actually is dead. Then, as I was staring at my inbox without seeing it, a bold black sender’s name appeared: Veronica Snow.

  Dearest Chloe,

  So lovely to hear from you! I’m well and am currently on the move. Please pardon the mystery I’m creating, but I can’t say too much. How I miss our former closeness, and how I adore you.

  WTF. I thought she was supposed to be furious at me for refusing to move to Mexico and be a yoga studio greeter, or whatever she wanted me to do there. She’s bananas. I should be sending her to spam, not emailing her just because Miss Murphy irritated me.

  Sunday, September 3

  Grady’s away with his family for the long weekend, which meant that when I hung out with Tris and Hannah today, I wasn’t distracted for a change, because I wasn’t counting down the minutes until I could leave and have sex.

  We talked about guys, of course. Hannah’s still claiming she doesn’t want to date anyone else until she gets to college. Tristan says everything’s fine with Elliott.

  “Fine?” I said.

  “You know, fine, good, whatever,” he said.

  “You’re not texting with Roy, are you?”

  “God no,” he said. “It’s weird. When Roy dumped me, I thought I wanted my next boyfriend to be his opposite. Nice to me, into me, not playing games. Now I have that, and it’s boring. Sometimes I try to make Elliott mad, because I think if he stopped loving me so much, I’d like him more. Is that sick?”

  “How do you make him mad?” Hannah asked.

  “Um, I just snap at him and criticize him,” Tris said.

  Poor Elliott, with his cute glasses and skinny arms and worried expression.

  “Don’t be mean to him,” I said.

  “I know I shouldn’t be,” Tris said.

  It’s hard to do the right thing. For example, I know I’m a bad friend, and also privileged, self-absorbed, etc., etc., but I can’t seem to fix it.

  Monday, September 4

  Last day of summer vacation. I spent it organizing my backpack, trying on possible outfits for tomorrow, feeling nervous, and staring at my phone, hoping Grady would get back early. Instead he got back at 8 p.m., like he said he would. I told my dad and Miss Murphy I was going for a walk, and met him at the pool. He’d already hopped the fence, and he ran over to help me down. Oh, to see him after three days of not seeing him! There he was, smiling up at me, giving me his hand! He looked more vivid than life.

  “God, I MISSED you,” I said. He was already unbuttoning my shorts. We did it on the lifeguard chair, which was a first. Afterward we sat there next to each other, looking out at the water.

  “Do you ever worry about the condom breaking?” he said.

  “It hasn’t so far,” I said.

  “I was Googling birth control,” he said.

  “What?? You don’t want to have a baby with me?” I said.

  “Don’t even joke,” he said, and knocked on the chair. It kind of hurt my feelings, which is ridiculous, because getting pregnant would be a tremendous disaster.

  “I should go on the pill, I guess,” I said. “But I don’t know who could take me to the doctor. I guess I could ask my father.” The thought made me want to barf.

  “Miss Murphy?” he said.

  I shook my head no. “We’re not getting along right now.”

  Grady squeezed my hand.

  Summer’s over. We have to go back to our warped high school society. It’ll get too cold to bone at the pool. I have to look up Planned Parenthood and bike there in secret, or something. Darkness is coming.

  Tuesday, September 5

  School was fine. By which I mean school was terrible, exactly as I predicted. As soon as I arrived in the morning, I saw Reese and her friends sitting on their throne: the top step of the wide stairs by the entrance, the step people feel weird even putting their feet on, because it’s universally regarded as the squad’s property. There they were, smiling down at their phones, shrieking at each other, making tiny adjustments to their hair and clothes, and pretending they didn’t notice any non-squaddies’ existence. Why do we all let them make us so miserable? Why do we sneak admiring, interested looks at them, instead of ignoring them the way they ignore us?

  In other depressing news, it turns out the nearest Planned Parenthood is 2 hours and 20 minutes away by bike.

  I have my road test scheduled for November 22. I have to pass. And I have to prevent myself from getting pregnant until then. Maybe Grady and I should stop having sex for a while.

  Wednesday, September 6

  I suggested the no-sex plan to Grady at the pool tonight, and he said he thought it was a good idea. To avoid actually doing it, I gave him head in the girls’ bathroom, and then he went down on me, but unfortunately it wasn’t enough and we wound up having sex once in the bathroom and then again on the grass. :(, but really :D :D :D

  Thursday, September 7

  Tris found me after school and said, “Something strange just happened.”

  “Go on,” I said, and slammed my locker shut.

  “So I’m talking to Elliott outside my math class, and this sophomore named Jay comes up and asks Elliott if he knows what the homework is for English. Elliott tells him, and then Jay’s like, ‘Have you ever noticed Mr. Isaac sniffs the dry-erase markers when he thinks no one’s looking?’ and Elliott’s like, ‘TOTALLY!’ and they start freaking out together.”

  “Is huffing dry-erase markers a thing?” I said.

  “The point is, Jay never once made eye contact with me, and Elliott didn’t introduce him. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “It’s definitely rude.”

  “You don’t think something’s going on with them, do you?”

  “With Elliott and—what did you say, Jay? No!”

  Tris stared into space, probably imagining Elliott and Jay making out. He’s been scarred for life by stupid cheating Roy.

  Friday, September 8

  Tris was right! Jay asked Elliott out. Full-on invited him to a movie. Elliott told him he has a boyfriend, and Jay claimed he’d had no idea, but come on. You can’t help knowing everyone’s precise relationship status around here. This school is a freaking panopticon.

  Saturday, September 9

  I’m sorry Tris had to suffer through 48 hours of stress, but not THAT sorry, because I’ve never seen him and Elliott so happy. They came over to my house with Hannah tonight, and Tris was all over Elliott. Holding his hand, stroking his hair, jumping up to get him a drink, laughing at his jokes. Elliott was basking in the attention. I feel like writing Jay a thank-you note.

  Sunday, September 10

  Dad and Miss Murphy went apple picking. They kept asking me to come, but I insisted I had way too much homework to leave the house. Meanwhile, I was texting Grady. As soon as they left, I threw on my helmet and biked as hard as I could to the bagel place halfway between Grady’s house and mine. He showed up five minutes after I arrived.

  “When do you get your license again?” he asked.

  “November 22,” I said.

  “That’s a long way away.” He was panting and the hair by his temples was damp with sweat. His skin flushes red when he exercises. It’s so cute, I want to drop out of school and have a baby with him.

  “Ask your mom if you can move closer to civilization,” I said.

  “But then my stepdad would have to relocate his precious archery range,” he said.

  “What, like bows and arrows?” I asked.

  “He keeps talking about going big-game hunting. He’s an ass,” Grady said.

  We both got raisin bagels with cream cheese.

  “I think I could make it to your house in an hour if I rode really fast,” I said. “But then it would t
ake an hour to get back, and when are our parents ever gone for three hours at a time?”

  “So you’re calculating we need an hour alone?” Grady said. “How many times did you want to—”

  “SHHHH,” I said, and put my hand over his mouth. He licked my fingers and got cream cheese all over them.

  “Grady, gross!” I said.

  “You started it!”

  I noticed the woman behind the counter looking at us fondly, which made me feel simultaneously proud to be young and in love and embarrassed to be young and in love.

  Monday, September 11

  It wasn’t really hot enough to go swimming, but we did anyway. We’d gone to all the trouble of sneaking in, and the pool was there, turning dark turquoise as the sun set. Grady bet me his last stick of gum he could swim underwater for longer than I could, so we slipped in (diving is too noisy). After he’d beaten me, he gave me his gum anyway, and we floated around the deep end draped over two pool noodles, whispering to each other.

  Tuesday, September 12

  Grady’s birthday is on Thursday, and instead of doing homework, I’ve been Googling “cute presents for boyfriends” and “birthday presents guys unique fun thoughtful.” The internet is suggesting things like a sweet and salty food basket or a personalized Rubik’s Cube. Thanks for nothing, internet.

  Would it be lame to decorate his locker? I don’t want to embarrass him, but I want him to feel special.

  Wednesday, September 13

  Hannah and Tris and Elliott are being very patient, but really, you can only text so many questions about turquoise streamers versus blue streamers before even the saintliest friends get irritated.

  Thursday, September 14

  I went with the blue streamers for the outside of his locker and filled the inside (I know the combination) with turquoise balloons. After school, sitting in the courtyard, I gave him his present: a print of a painting showing a girl in a red bikini floating underwater in a pool. It reminded me of his art, and of the summer, and of myself, I guess. I also gave him a homemade card, which I’d covered in puffy stickers, and a 16-paragraph love letter written in tiny print that I’d worried he might consider deranged (16 paragraphs?) but that he seemed to love. Inside the card I’d stuck a gift certificate entitling the bearer to 10 free blow jobs. We’re going to meet at the pool tomorrow night so he can start redeeming it.

  Friday, September 15

  Well, we’ve been cast out of Eden.

  Grady and I met up as soon as it got dark enough. We were sitting on the chair fully dressed, talking, when we heard a key in the gate lock and then saw the big wooden door opening. It didn’t happen very fast. We probably had time to jump up and hide in the lifeguard shack. But we didn’t do anything. We didn’t even speak. We both sat motionless, staring at the opening door as if it were a portal to another dimension appearing before our eyes.

  Mrs. Franco walked in, looking down at her phone. Then she turned on the floodlight, saw us, and shrieked.

  “Jesus!” She had her hand over her heart.

  “We weren’t doing anything,” Grady said. He’d gotten up and was walking toward her slowly, like he didn’t want to scare her.

  “I thought I could trust you two. Do you realize what kind of legal jeopardy you’re putting us in here? God forbid either of you drowned. Chloe, tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

  “It’s a fancy lemonade,” I said, lifting the bottle so she could see.

  “Please don’t call my mom,” Grady said. “My stepdad will lose his mind.”

  She stood looking at us. She was wearing leggings with cutouts, sneakers, and a stretchy long-sleeved shirt. “Were you two planning on working here next summer?”

  “Yes,” we both said. My heart clenched. I imagined having to get a job serving pizza or making coffee. Trapped inside on the hot days I love so much. Kept away from Grady. Coming home smelling like grease instead of sunscreen.

  “Then don’t let me catch you here again,” she said.

  “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” we said.

  We grabbed our stuff and scuttled away. I didn’t make eye contact with Mrs. Franco, although I smiled meekly in her general direction as I walked to the door.

  We didn’t speak until we were on our bikes, pedaling slowly, going nowhere in particular.

  “Do you think she’ll tell?” I said.

  “Nah.”

  I braked for a squirrel. “It could have been way worse.”

  “If she’d walked in 20 minutes later . . .”

  “I know.”

  We looked down the road, imagining what she could have seen.

  “Why was she even there?” I said. “Do you think she was trying to catch us?”

  “I doubt it,” Grady said. “She was probably doing some pool-closing prep thing.”

  “Isn’t the pool already closed?”

  “They have to get it ready for the cold weather. Balance the water, add algae-killer, put the winter cover on, all that stuff.”

  I glanced over at him and raised my eyebrows. “I like your sexy lifeguard expertise,” I said.

  He was smiling at me when some middle-aged guy wearing ’80s wraparound sunglasses and a sleeveless T-shirt raced past us in his Nissan Pathfinder, blaring hip-hop and looking at his phone. We had to ride into the grass to avoid getting smashed.

  “GET OFF FACEBOOK, DAD!” I screamed. He didn’t slow down, but he did jerk his head over to me, so at least I know he heard me taunting him.

  Grady climbed off his bike and put his arms around me.

  “Where can we go?” I said into his shoulder.

  We considered and rejected the quarry (too sharp), the framed-out house being built two streets away (too dangerous), and the arboretum (too popular—that place is teeming with kids from our school who sneak in to get drunk under some crab apple trees).

  In the end we rode our bikes around for an hour, chatting. It was great, but we didn’t get to do it, and I feel like I was about to eat a big chocolate bar and someone snatched it out of my hands.

  Saturday, September 16

  What are we going to do? We need to have sex, but where? We can’t go to Grady’s place, because his stepfather is a contractor and stops at home at unpredictable times. Plus, Bear’s usually there with his babysitter. My house might work, though. We live an hour apart from each other by bike, but it only takes me 10 minutes to ride home from school. If Grady came over right after classes ended, he could stay until five and make it home for dinner. There’s a chance we’d get caught, because Miss Murphy comes home early from work occasionally, but usually she’s out until six, so we’d probably be OK. If she dropped in unexpectedly, I could . . . I don’t know. I could stuff Grady in my closet or push him underneath my bed.

  I just read over that last paragraph and it sounds unhinged. I feel like a scarily intense FBI agent running all over my living room, connecting index cards with color-coded string.

  Sunday, September 17

  Proposed my plan to Grady over text. He gave it a thumbs-up. We’re going to try it tomorrow. I’m probably nervous, but I can’t even tell, because my overwhelming excitement about getting laid is drowning out all other sensations, including hunger, thirst, and fear of the fact that I haven’t even started my homework and it’s already 11 p.m.

  Monday, September 18

  It worked!!! Why was I so scared to bring him over? Aside from the terror of getting caught, I think I was worried that if I brought him into my regular old house, it would drain the magic out of him. Like even he would turn ordinary if he had to stand near the blue Dawn and the ice dispenser. But I hardly even knew where we were. All I could see was Grady’s face, Grady’s hands, Grady’s T-shirt. We dropped our backpacks on the front hall floor and ran up the stairs. As soon as we got to my room, I reached for his jeans and unbuttoned them, so he pulled my T-shirt over my head, so I pushed down his boxer briefs, and at first we were laughing, but then it got very serious and quiet.

 
When we were done, we lay there panting and staring at the ceiling for a while. Then he got up and wandered around my room, examining my knickknacks and books. “Harry Styles, huh?” he said, picking up a framed picture.

  “Hannah got me that as a joke,” I said.

  “Sure. What are these dolls that look like sex workers?”

  “Excuse me, those were my favorite toys when I was five years old! They’re fashion-forward, not slutty. Not that being slutty’s even a thing.”

  “I wasn’t judging them. Five years old? Jesus.” He held up Jade and gave her a squeaky voice. “I’m cold! I need pants!”

  After we got dressed, we went downstairs and ate PB&Js, and then he biked home. By the time Miss Murphy got back from work, I’d finished my homework and was getting dinner ready while singing “I Don’t Need Anything but You.”

  “This is a pleasant scene,” she said, thumping her bag onto a chair. “What are you making?”

  “Smoky white bean shakshuka,” I said.

  “Well, fantastic,” she said. She looked like she was about to ask me something, but then she poured herself a glass of white wine instead.

  I’m so happy!

  Tuesday, September 19

  I jinxed myself. “I’m so happy”—I tempted the gods is what I did.

  Mom’s back.

  She came to the house. THE HOUSE. Just showed up without calling ahead. I’m surprised she didn’t let herself in with her old key. Probably she lost it. If she’d had it, she would have used it. I can’t imagine her realizing it would be intrusive to burst in like she still owns the place.

  Dad was making dinner, and Miss Murphy was grading papers and reading grammatical errors out loud to make us laugh. A normal Tuesday night. Nothing sinister in the air. It should have been storming violently. Hailing and thundering. There should have been a stiff breeze at least. A little foreshadowing! But no, the doorbell rang and I jumped up and said, “I’ll get it!” I sang it out, actually. That’s how happy I was.