The Anti-Virginity Pact

by Katie Wismer

  Sam and I sit on the grass, Squirt in my lap, Pluto’s head in his, and we watch as the rest of the dogs wrestle each other.

  “So, I brought you something.” He pulls out a small stack of paper from his bag but hesitates before handing it to me. “It’s only a rough draft, so I’m still working on it, but I thought I should give it to Harper so she could start working on the pictures.”

  “You did it? You actually wrote the picture book?” I take the pages from him eagerly. “Can I read it?”

  “It’s just the rough draft. It still needs a lot of work.”

  “Will you tell me what it’s about then, and I’ll wait to read it until you feel like it’s ready?”

  “Okay.” He looks relieved as I set the pages down in front of me. “So, the main character’s name is Marty, and he’s a mouse—not a rat—but no one seems to understand the difference. And no one wants to be friends with a rat, because they all think rats are mean and dirty and whatnot. So Marty starts disguising himself as other animals to try to find a friend.”

  As he talks, his words come out progressively faster, as if he can’t wait to get them out in the open. His eyes are alit with excitement, and he talks with his hands, as if his words alone wouldn’t hold enough power to convey the story. I can’t look away.

  “He dresses up like a cat,” Sam continues, “But the cat in the house just tries to eat him; he dresses up like a dog, but the dog just sits on him; he dresses up like a person, but the humans just chase him out of the kitchen with a broom. So he ends up going back to his hole in the wall, kind of defeated, and he finds a rat inside. And the rat ends up being really nice and cool, so I’m thinking of ending it with some cheesy line like, Maybe being friends with a rat wouldn’t be so bad after all. Then having the title being Not a Rat, or something.”

  When he finishes, he glances up at me, his face slightly flushed. “It’s a work in progress, but—”

  “Sam, I love it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I laugh and squeeze his arm. “I really, really love it. I’ll give these pages to Harper as soon as I get home. She’s going to be so excited. It’s been all she can talk about. Thank you.”

  He cocks his head. “For what?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. For being so nice to her. She…she really needs it right now.” I glance down at Squirt in my lap and run my fingers through her fur. “She’s just been having a really hard time lately.”

  “Is she okay?”

  I sigh, debating whether to tell him. Ultimately, I decide against it. It’s not my secret to tell, and if Harper found out, she’d be equally pissed and humiliated. “She’s just going through some stuff, and these girls are bullying her at school. It’s a mess, really.”

  He leans over and squeezes my knee. “Anything I can do to help?”

  I pick up the stack of papers. “Actually, I think this will help. She needs to get her mind off everything. And she hasn’t been doing her art lately, probably because of everything that’s going on, so maybe this’ll help get her out of her funk.”

  The door to the shelter swings open with a screech and Jada pokes her head out. “Mare, there’s a man here to see one of the dogs.”

  “Should I bring them back inside then?” I ask.

  “No, that’s okay, I think it will be best if he sees them outside of the cages anyway.” She steps out to the lawn and holds the door open behind her. A tall man follows her. He stops beside the door, hands in the pockets of his dark suit, eyes shielded by tinted sunglasses. He doesn’t say anything.

  I gently roll Squirt off my lap—who promptly darts away to play with her friends—and rise to my feet. Sam does the same.

  “Mare, this is Ryan. This is Mare,” Jada tells the man. “She can help you with whatever you need. I’ll be at the front desk if you need me.”

  “So you’re here to see one of the dogs?” I ask after Jada slips back inside.

  He nods, lips pursed, and removes his sunglasses. His eyes are trained on the dogs. “The Maltese,” he says.

  My heart drops into my stomach, but I try not to let it show. This shouldn’t be surprising to me; I’ve always known that Squirt could get adopted at any time, that I should be hoping for it for her sake. I guess I’d always kind of hoped my parents would come around and let me adopt Squirt, because in my mind, she was already my dog.

  “Squirt,” I call, and she trots dutifully to my side and gazes up at me with a wide-eyed expression. “Is she the one you were thinking about?”

  Ryan eyes her in almost a hungry way, but says nothing, and doesn’t move forward.

  I glance at Sam, but he looks just as confused as I feel.

  “She’s the only Maltese we have right now,” I add, the hairs on my arms beginning to prickle.

  “Oh, yes. She’s the one,” he says and continues to stand there.

  Usually, Squirt runs and greets every visitor, almost as if she understands the process and desperately wants to make a good impression, but she stays beside me, quiet and still.

  “If you get down on the ground so you’re more at her level, she’ll probably come over and say hi to you,” I offer.

  He narrows his eyes as if studying her before finally glancing at me. There isn’t anything technically wrong with his face, but maybe that’s what strikes me. It isn’t that he’s expressionless. It’s that he’s trying to be expressionless.

  Squirt retreats a little behind my legs.

  “That’s quite all right,” he says and pulls a phone from his pocket. “She’ll do just fine. I can pick her up tomorrow.”

  “You’ll need to fill out the paperwork and everything with Jada at the front desk.”

  He nods, no longer facing us, brings his phone to his ear, and disappears back inside.

  I glance down at Squirt, who looks like she’s trembling. I squat down and scoop her up, and she tucks her face into the crook of my arm. Sam meets my eyes, his forehead creased.

  “That was weird, right?” I ask.

  He nods. “That was weird.”

  14

  After leaving the shelter, Sam and I go separate ways. I need to get some homework done and he needs to grab his dad and get ready to come over for dinner later. The drive passes in a blur of trees, streetlights, and rain reflecting off the road. My body goes into autopilot the second I get behind the wheel. I can’t stop worrying about Squirt and the bad vibe I got from the guy who wants to adopt her. And when I try to think of the night ahead to distract me, it does nothing but amplify my nerves. Everything’s been going so well between me and Sam, and I can’t remember the last time I was this comfortable around anyone but Johanna. And it’s not that I’m worried my parents won’t like him, because they’ve both made it abundantly clear that they adore Sam.

  I’m worried they’re going to scare him away.

  My parents can be a little intense, to say the least. And if their religious lectures and quoting scriptures don’t scare him off, I wouldn’t put it past my mom to start daydreaming about our future wedding and children aloud over the potatoes. We’ve barely been seeing each other a week, but I know she’s already thinking about it.

  I smell the mushroom bourguignon the second I walk through the door. Maman knows it’s my favorite, and it’s been months since we had it. The smell brings me back to Grand-mère’s kitchen, eight-year-old me standing tippy-toe on a stool to watch Grand-père dice the carrots and onions while Maman helped prepare the mushrooms for the stew, Grand-mère and Papa bickering at the table. I remember being shocked when they added the red wine, and Harper and I thought we were hilarious, acting like we were drunk after having it for the first time.

  I should call Grand-mère later. She’d probably love to hear about how tonight goes.

  I call out to Maman as I head for the stairs to let her know that I’m home.

  “How were the puppies?” she asks.

  I wince a little, picturing Squirt’s
quivering body again, but that’s really not something I want to get into right now. “Great. I’m just going to try to get some homework done before Sam and his dad show up.”

  She steps around the corner, and I pause on the stairs at the sight of her. She’s in a sleek black dress that I recognize from her boutique, a slit inching up her right leg, and matching pumps, her hair slightly curled with half of it twisted atop her head. The highlight on her cheekbones is blinding.

  “What is that?” I demand, pointing at the dress.

  She glances down at herself and does a little spin. “How do I look?”

  Like she’s trying to look like my hot older sister, but I’m assuming that’s exactly what she’s going for.

  “Maman, we’re just having dinner here. Why so fancy?”

  This is, of course, a stupid question. Every occasion is a formal event to Maman.

  “You should always look your best, Meredith,” she says.

  “Please tell me you’re not making Harper and Papa dress up, too.”

  She lifts her chin a little. “Of course they are. And I expect you to look nice, too. How about that wonderful white dress I bought you? The one with the lace?”

  The one that looks like it should be on a seven-year-old flower girl? Yeah, I’ll pass.

  “Maman, you’re going to make Sam and his dad uncomfortable.” Not to mention me. “They’re going to show up in, like, jeans or something and then feel underdressed.”

  She waves her hand as if the thought is completely ridiculous and heads back into the kitchen, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. “I expect you to be down here and ready in an hour!” she calls over her shoulder.

  I make a sort of growling noise under my breath and ascend the rest of the stairs. When I make it to my room, I dump my bag on my bed and turn to face my closet. I am not going to wear that white dress, but that means I’m going to have to find something else that Maman will deem acceptable. So pants are probably a no-go.

  Plus, the night is going to be stressful, so I need something that won’t show my sweat.

  My eyes skate over the dresses at the end of the rack—all chosen by Maman, so definitely out of the question—and sift through the ones I picked out myself. Once I rule out swimsuit cover-ups, old school dance dresses that probably wouldn’t even fit my boobs anymore, and a terrifyingly risqué little black dress that Johanna gave me when it didn’t fit her, there’s not much left to choose from.

  Eventually, I settle on a navy strapless dress that cuts off just above my knees. Usually Maman makes me wear a sweater over it to church, but tonight I find a small gold necklace that lands an inch below my collarbone and leave it at that. I can’t bring myself to put on heels like Maman, but I know she’ll yell at me if I go downstairs barefoot, so I slip on a pair of simple ballet flats. My hair is wavy from being in a bun all day, but I let it down over my shoulders and run my fingers through it until it looks somewhat presentable.

  I try to fill the anxious waiting time with reading a few chapters of my AP Bio book, but can’t force my mind to concentrate. Every time I get to the bottom of a page, I completely forget what I just read and have to go back and read it again. After several painful minutes of this, I toss the book aside in frustration and promise myself I’ll do it later. I pull up the Closet Atheists webpage and occupy my time scrolling through the different discussion threads instead.

  All too soon, the doorbell rings, and suddenly every nerve in my body shoots to life. I squeeze my hands into fists at my sides over and over again to calm myself. Squeeze, release; squeeze, release; squeeze, release. I shouldn’t be this nervous. There’s nothing to worry about.

  Really.

  It’ll be fine.

  Harper’s head appears in my doorway. “Sam’s here.” She hesitates when she sees my face and straightens. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say too quickly, smoothing my hands over my dress.

  Harper’s wearing a red scalloped dress with short-sleeves and a murderous expression. I smirk a little at her black Converse.

  “If you give me grief for my shoes—”

  “You look great, Harp. And if it were up to me, we’d both be wearing jeans right now.”

  Her face relaxes a shade. “Maman’s really blowing this out of proportion, isn’t she?” She fusses with her hair, done in a loose side braid, and tucks the escaped strands behind her ears.

  I join her in the doorway. “Just let her have her fun, I guess.”

  Sam and his dad are standing in the foyer when Harper and I descend the stairs. Papa stands with his arm around Mr. Johnson’s shoulders, grinning at something his friend said. Sam meets my eyes. He looks nice. Okay, more than nice. He’s in gray fitted slacks and a white button-down, slightly unbuttoned at the collar, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his dark hair perfectly pushed back and styled. When he looks at me, he doesn’t quite smile, but his lips part like he wants to. I raise my eyebrows and roll my eyes as if to say, Yes, this entire situation is completely ridiculous. This time, he does smile, and gives me a wink as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  The sound of clacking heels announces Maman’s approach before she appears, still wearing bright pink oven mitts on both hands. I don’t smell any smoke, so that’s a good sign. “Ah, parfait! We’re all here. Come in, come in! Everyone have a seat!”

  I sit between Sam and Harper on one side of the table as Maman, Papa, and Mr. Johnson take their places across from us. Sam seeks out my hand under the table, and I squeeze his fingers, cringing at how damp I’m sure mine are.

  “Smells amazing, Colette,” Mr. Johnson says.

  “Oh.” Maman waves her hand and places her napkin on her lap. “It’s nothing.”

  Yeah, she only spent four hours cooking it today.

  “Meredith,” Papa says. “Why don’t you say Grace for us?”

  How about I just stab myself with a fork instead?

  I shift in my chair, skin prickling. It isn’t the first time I’ve been asked, of course. But a blanket of anxiety settles over me like a second skin all the same. It’s not about the words themselves—I’ve heard it so many times that I know exactly what to say to make them happy. It’s that I don’t want to say them, but it doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice. That tiny reminder of how trapped I am is enough to coax my claustrophobia into a slithering vice around my throat.

  My mind darts to that post I saw on Closet Atheists, and __Oblivion__’s suggestion about calmly explaining how I won’t participate, but I’ll respect if they want to continue. I could do it. Right now. I could tell them.

  One look at their expectant faces reminds me that, no, I absolutely cannot.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Beaumont, I can do it,” Sam offers.

  Surprised, I glance sideways at him. Surely, the thought makes him just as uncomfortable as it does me, and then I realize he’s doing it so I don’t have to. As we join hands and bow our heads, Sam clears his throat and begins.

  “Lord, we thank you for this wonderful meal and even better company.” He pauses, probably scrambling for something else to say, and I squeeze his hand for reassurance. “So, um, please bless this food that we’re about to eat and, uh, keep us on our right paths. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the three adults echo.

  “Thank you,” I mouth to Sam. He winks at me.

  “So, how’s the petition going, Andrew?” Mr. Johnson asks.

  Papa lets out a long sigh as he fishes his spoon around his bowl. “Not as well as we’d hoped. Another group of parents have teamed together to argue against us, if you believe that.” Papa shakes his head as if he actually cannot fathom such a thing. “We have another meeting with the principal and the other group this week. Hopefully we can make them see reason.”

  “Petition?” I ask, gaze shooting back and forth between the two of them. “A petition for what?”

  Papa shifts in his seat, not quite meeting my
eyes. “Yes. I, along with several others parents, were alarmed by your core health curriculum and decided we should do something about it. Honestly, I’m appalled that no one spoke up before now.”

  Other parents from school. When Maman had said Papa was meeting with some other parents after church the other day, I’d thought nothing of it. He meets with other parents to chat or pray all the time—in the Christian community, he’s kind of suburban royalty, and everyone is always lobbying for a few minutes of his time. It hadn’t even occurred to me she’d meant a formal meeting. And about this? It had been stupidly optimistic of me to think he’d drop it.

  My fingers tighten around my fork until the metal bites into my skin.

  “I don’t know how they live with themselves, honestly,” adds Mr. Johnson, generously topping off his glass of wine. He pours until it reaches a precarious height just shy of the top, so he has to slowly bring the glass to his face, lips out stretched, to prevent any from spilling. “Actively fighting for their children to be having premarital sex—having it taught in schools?” He shakes his head. “Who lets these people be parents?”

  My hand stings so much, I think the metal might be drawing blood. Sam lightly touches my arm, and the trance breaks. I take a long, slow breath in through my nose, and release my hold on the fork.

  This whole situation leaves such a sour taste in my mouth. Papa wants my entire personal life to bow to his religious agenda? Fine. I’ve grown to live with that. But now he wants to come in and start slashing health and science classes from my school because they don’t align with his beliefs? He’s not even just trying to pull Harper out of the class—he doesn’t want anyone taking it. And the fact that so many other parents are following him, so many agree with him. Has no one ever heard of separation of church and state? Teaching abstinence only doesn’t stop teenagers from having sex—it just creates an entire generation of uneducated people who don’t understand anything about safe sex, STIs, and how their own bodies work.

  A rage so heavy and violent fills my chest that I don’t think I could speak right now even if I wanted to. And the fact that he actually thinks this is okay, that what he’s doing is right? It’s unfathomable. It’s deluded. It’s arrogant, is what it is. Thinking he knows better than everyone else; that everyone else needs to follow what he believes with no exceptions. That no place is safe from his uninvited tampering.