Notes from a Former Virgin Page 8

  Chloe: I seriously don’t think we can

  Grady: I know

  Do Tris or Hannah have their licenses?

  Chloe: They haven’t even taken driver’s ed yet

  Grady: Noelle?

  Chloe: She does

  But I can’t ask her

  She’s friends with Reese again

  She’d tell her

  Anyone I asked might tell anyone

  And then everyone would know we’re DOING IT

  Grady: So?

  Chloe: So it might be fine or people might freak out

  Grady: Really?

  Even Grady doesn’t get it. No guy possibly could. I’m already on thin ice because people think I was boning Mac when I was only a freshman. If it got out that I’m having sex with Reese’s ex-boyfriend . . . it could be fine. You can’t predict these things. But it could be bad. Like transfer-to-another-school bad. It would all depend on how Reese decided to react and whether someone was in the mood to make up a rumor about me (“Did you hear they were 69ing on the floor during the Halloween dance?”), and how many other girls had gotten caught messing around that month, and how scandalous their behavior was (the more scandalous the better; that way people wouldn’t be starving for even vanilla stories like “girl and boy do it in girl’s bedroom”). I’m not about to risk it.

  Saturday, November 11

  I haven’t been practicing driving enough. That’s all I need, to fail my test. Not that I will. I don’t even know anyone who hasn’t passed on the first try. But I might as well overprepare. Part of the problem is Miss Murphy. She’s the one who used to take me out, since driving with Dad makes me too nervous, but I’ve been avoiding her recently. That has to stop. For the sake of having sex with my boyfriend, I’ll deal with the awkwardness and ask her if she’ll help me.

  Sunday, November 12

  Miss Murphy was so excited when I suggested going out in her Jeep. I said, “Whenever you have time,” but she dropped her book and went to get her jacket that instant.

  “When’s your road test?” she said, once I’d backed out of the driveway.

  “The twenty-second.”

  “That’s coming right up.”

  “Yeah, it’s soon.”

  “Whoa,” she said. I’d accelerated like I was drag racing.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m kind of rusty.”

  “We haven’t done this in a while,” she said.

  A silence fell. I was thinking about how strained things were between us and wondering how that had happened, when a few months ago I almost loved her. Maybe she was thinking something similar, because she said, “How is it, having me underfoot all the time?”

  “It’s fine,” I said. I couldn’t exactly say, I feel like I’m in the way. You and Dad are still in the honeymoon phase, and no one wants a teenager on her honeymoon. Also, I keep thinking you’ll leave sometime and things will go back to normal and then remembering that no, you’re never going to leave again.

  Monday, November 13

  I was heading through the living room to go to bed when Dad looked up from his laptop and said, “Hey, Chloe, I wanted to talk to you about Thanksgiving.”

  I paused behind the armchair. “What about it?”

  “Marian’s mother isn’t up for going anywhere, so Marian was thinking of bringing food over to Woodcrest and eating with her there.”

  “Can her mom eat a big Thanksgiving dinner?” I was picturing Mrs. Murphy connected to IVs, spending most of the day asleep.

  He looked impatient. “She’ll probably be able to manage a few bites. It’s less about the food and more about being with her on a major holiday.”

  I squeezed the chair. I’d lied to him once. (Once that he knows about.) I’d said one mean thing about Miss Murphy’s mom. I didn’t run around tossing confetti in the air when he told me Miss Murphy was moving in. And because of these three crimes he’s decided I’m a monster who hates cancer patients?

  He was looking at me like I was supposed to say something. When I didn’t, he said, “Would you like to go to Woodcrest as a family?”

  “What, like you and me? And Miss Murphy? And miss Thanksgiving?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “I’ll make everything I usually do. It would be a venue change.”

  A great and terrible rage filled my heart. “No, thank you,” I said politely.

  He closed his laptop carefully. “That’s disappointing.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “I understand how important traditions are—”

  “You should go, though,” I said. “Really. You go and be with Miss Murphy and her mother.” He looked at me like he wasn’t sure if I was being sincere or flip. (It was flip, but through such an amazing performance of sincerity that he’d never be able to call me on it.) “I’ll go over to Mom’s,” I said. “I’d rather do that anyway.”

  I regretted saying it immediately, but I couldn’t take it back, even when I saw pain wash over his face. I was still too mad.

  Tuesday, November 14

  Parents don’t understand how annoying it is when they freak out with joy or anger or worry. They should be like living portraits that can hardly move their mouths or change expressions. Mom almost sang an aria when I called her to ask if I could come over for Thanksgiving. “Of course, sweetheart. I’m so delighted! I can’t—to what do I owe this honor? No, don’t tell me. I’d never ask you to impugn your father or his—well, I need to start digging up recipes! A meat thermometer, a roasting pan—let me get a pen.”

  “You don’t have to make a big thing of it,” I said. “Let’s just order something.” I was rigid with regret. Why had I even called her? I could have told Dad and Miss Murphy I was going to her house, and then, once they left for Woodcrest, sat at home alone eating cheese and crackers for dinner.

  Wednesday, November 15

  Grady, Tris, Elliott, Hannah, and I walked to McDonald’s after school and had fries and milkshakes. We talked about what we’re doing for Thanksgiving, whether Señora Friedman has ever visited a Spanish-speaking country, if Luke Powers really beat someone up for touching his hockey bag, true-crime podcasts and whether listening to them is immoral because they repackage violent deaths as entertainment (guess what Hannah thought?), and those kids who tried to kill their friend for Slender Man and whether teenagers have always been this insane or the internet makes them worse. Now that I write it down, I see that it was kind of a grim conversation, but during it I felt so happy. There’s nothing better than being with a bunch of kids your own age, as long as you like those kids.

  Thursday, November 16

  Miss Murphy took me out driving after dinner. It was the first time I’d gone at night, and it was terrifying. How do people do it? You can’t see past your headlights! I don’t think I got above 15 miles an hour the whole time.

  Miss Murphy brought up Thanksgiving. I knew she would.

  “I’m concerned,” she said. “It was never my intention to mess up the day.”

  But that’s what you’re doing, I thought. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I like this plan better anyway.”

  “So you’re truly happy going over to your mother’s?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Like I was going to sell out my own mother! My mom could be a war criminal and I still wouldn’t do that.

  Friday, November 17

  Another driving session. I tried parallel parking for the first time and wound up about five feet from the curb.

  Saturday, November 18

  My mother has her teeth into Thanksgiving like a cat shaking a bird to death. She texts me at least five times every day with supposedly important questions. (What time do I want to come over? Will I spend the night? Do I have any new food restrictions she should know about?) She’s trying so hard that I can’t be mad, and it’s uncomfortable. I wish she’d disappear again or get in my face like she did so many millions of times before she left, so that I could hate her again with a pure and righteous hatred.

 
Sunday, November 19

  Dad and Miss Murphy asked if I wanted to play Scrabble tonight. I did want to, but I couldn’t tell if they were truly in the mood to hang out with me or if they were inviting me out of a sense of obligation, so I said no, and they didn’t press me. I brought Snickers up to my room and made him snuggle with me while I cried. I could have distracted myself with my phone, but instead I chose to weep while looking at the moon and listening to the sound of affectionate laughter floating up from downstairs.

  Monday, November 20

  Met Noelle in the clearing during lunch. Now that it’s cold out, she wears a floppy gray beanie and an oversized black wool coat. She always looks cool, always. How does she do it? I could ask her which fashion blogs she reads and where she gets her clothes, but she’d make fun of me, I’m pretty sure, and then give me some jokey answer as a way of avoiding the question. She never wants to admit to making an effort.

  “I’m going to my mom’s for Thanksgiving,” I said.

  “Jesus. Why?”

  I told her about my dad and the Woodcrest thing.

  She shook her head. “You’re playing right into her hands.”

  “Whose?”

  “Murphy’s!”

  “She didn’t plan this.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  The trees stood around us patiently, thinking their tree thoughts, not concerned with the sniping of two unhappy teenagers.

  Was it possible that Miss Murphy was intentionally trying to come between me and my father? I really didn’t think so, but Noelle understands these things better than I do.

  “When are you leaving for your dad’s?” I said.

  “After school on Wednesday.”

  “Dreading it?”

  She looked up at the sky. “I have a feeling he might propose to his girlfriend. Maybe this weekend, maybe over Christmas.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “What makes you think that?”

  “Lots of hints about having great news to share soon.” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, it’s really great news that some 30-year-old gold digger is going to make him rewrite his will.”

  “Noelle!”

  “Yes?” she said patiently.

  She makes me feel so naive. I know it happens in movies, but I don’t want to think the real world is like this, full of women who marry for money and kids who think about how big their inheritance will be when their parents die.

  Tuesday, November 21

  I HAD AN ORGASM! AND IT WAS GLORIOUS!!!!!!!

  Here’s what happened. Grady came over to say goodbye. He’s going away until Monday, so we won’t see each other for five whole days—so basically, an eternity. We lay in my bed staring into each other’s eyes like he was about to move across the country. (He’s actually going to an Airbnb in Vermont with his family and his mom’s sister and her kids.)

  Then we started talking about how impressive it is that we’re not having sex. We were lying on my bed, which was risky, but we had all our clothes on, and we’d started to trust ourselves.

  “I never thought we could do it,” I said.

  “I know.” He patted his own back, then reached over and patted mine.

  “Whenever I’m alone with you, I feel like I have to get naked or I’ll die,” I said. “Like, it feels like my clothes are cutting off my circulation and I can’t breathe. And STILL, we haven’t had sex!”

  “Really, you feel like you’re going to die?” He lifted himself up on one elbow and looked down at me. His eyes are deep-set, and when he’s about to make a move on me, he narrows them until they’re glittery crescents.

  “Don’t do the eye thing,” I said.

  “Then don’t do the mouth thing,” he said. I didn’t even know I did a mouth thing!

  To make a long story short, I got the condoms out of their hiding place in the front pocket of my Lilo & Stitch backpack from third grade, and we had sex, and it was over in approximately 10 seconds. “Oh man,” Grady said. “It’s been too long!”

  I was so disappointed I wanted to cry, but of course I tried to be nice about it. “It’s not a big deal,” I said.

  He groaned and pulled the duvet over his head. I pulled it back down and said, “Can I ask you something?” His eyes were shut, but he nodded. “You lasted way longer the first time we did it. Did you secretly have sex with someone else the day before?”

  He opened his eyes and turned pink. “Uh, no. It was good timing, because I’d just . . . you know.”

  “What?”

  “You know!”

  He could tell I wasn’t getting it, because he mimed jerking off.

  “OH!” I said. “Oh. OK.”

  We were quiet for a while. Then he said, “I have a question too.”

  “Go ahead.” I knew what he was going to say, and then he said it: “You’re not having orgasms, right?”

  I pulled the duvet over my head. He pulled it down and said, “You can tell me.”

  I covered my eyes with my hands. “I’m not sure.”

  “If you’re not sure, you’re not. But I have an idea!”

  His idea was eating me out for approximately one hour. I kept feeling guilty that he’d been going for so long, and trying to haul him up by his armpits, and he kept waving me off. Once I said, “Your tongue’s going to fall off,” and he said, “I’m fine. Stop joking around and relax.” So finally I did relax, and then some time passed, and then my legs started shaking, and then I saw the black sky covered in ocean waves, and then stars appeared in the water/sky, and then I got scared, and then I told myself to stop being scared, and then I had an orgasm, and if nothing good ever happens to me again, I can’t complain, because Grady transformed my vagina from a papier-mâché donkey into an explosion of candy.

  After I was done, I started screaming and laughing, and Grady grinned at me and said, “Not bad, right?” and naturally we had sex again.

  I know old people were young once and presumably they got laid, but not like THIS. No one in the course of human history has ever felt the way Grady makes me feel.

  Wednesday, November 22

  I woke up terrified that somehow I’m pregnant. But that makes no sense, right? The condom didn’t break! I’m so nervous, I have to keep running to the bathroom. I’ve probably peed 16 times and it’s only 3 p.m.

  My driving test is in one hour. Miss Murphy took me out for parallel parking practice last night after dinner, and I understand why, after my horrible performance last week. But I’ve watched a bunch of videos explaining how to do it, and more importantly, I have to pass this test, because I have to drive myself to get a pill prescription. I can’t be this scared all the time, and obviously I can’t be trusted not to have sex. Necessity is the mother of perfect parallel parking. I’ll be fine.

  Thursday, November 23

  I AM DELUSIONAL. Of course I flunked!!!!! I mean, of COURSE I did. And I was shocked! I really, truly thought that wanting to pass the test so badly would magically turn me into a skilled driver.

  Miss Murphy sat in the back, and the examiner, Andre, sat in the front. He was a cheerful guy with a potbelly. Before we got in the car, he hiked up his pants to show me his socks: brown with a turkey pattern.

  The on-the-road part was OK, except for one moment when I drifted a tiny bit too close to oncoming traffic and Andre sucked in his breath. But the parking lot section did not go well. First I ran over not one but two orange cones while I tried to parallel park. Then Andre asked me to turn on the headlights, which I really do know how to do, but I was so flustered after the parking mishap that I turned on the windshield wipers instead, and then I couldn’t figure out how to turn them off. When I finally managed it, Andre said I could switch off the ignition, and we all sat in silence for a second.

  “Well, Ms. Snow, I’m truly sorry to do this to you the day before Thanksgiving,” Andre said. “But I’m afraid I can’t pass you this time.”

  While he listed my mistakes (or “things to work on,” as he put it), I started c
rying, not really because I was upset or embarrassed, but because he was being so nice. I looked down and caught a glimpse of his sock turkeys, and that made it worse.

  “You can take another test as soon as you want,” he said. “But why not practice a little more first?”

  “I will,” I said. He pretended not to notice my tears, which is the kindest thing he could have done.

  I got a 100% on the written test, not that it matters.

  On the way home Miss Murphy asked me if I could think of anything that would cheer me up, and I said, “Yes. Tell me what the musical is,” but she just laughed and said, “I was thinking more along the lines of Sour Patch Kids.”

  Dad is currently downstairs frying bacon for the green beans. He set his alarm for 5 a.m. so he could get all his cooking done. He asked if I wanted to take food over to Mom’s, which I don’t think he meant in a mean way, but what is he thinking? How would Mom feel if I showed up with a premade dinner when she’s probably been cooking since 5 a.m. too?

  My hands are clammy and my heart is racing. I’m nervous to see my own mother. How sick is that?

  Friday, November 24

  Yesterday was . . . I’m not sure what it was.

  When I showed up on my bike, the parking lot in front of Mom’s condo was almost empty. I guess all the other divorced people who live in her complex have better places to be on Thanksgiving. It gave me a spooky feeling, walking up past the other units knowing they were most likely empty.

  “Honey!” Mom said when she opened the door. “You came!” She was wearing a floor-length high-waisted skirt and a crop top that I had to admit looked great on her.

  “Thanks for having me,” I said, and handed her the bag of blue Lindt chocolates I picked up at CVS a few days ago. She blinked fast. Maybe she was thinking the same thing I was, that “thanks for having me” sounded like something you’d say to your friend’s mom.