Confessions of an Angry Girl

by Louise Rozett

  “It’s not that, Rosie. I just think it would be great to get all our friends together, and maybe you and Matt could figure out how to get along a little better.”

  “I can tell you right now that he is not going to want his name on an invitation with mine.”

  “What makes you say that?” she asks, sounding hurt.

  “Face it, Trace. Matt and I do not like each other anymore, and we probably never will again.”

  “That’s not true. He likes you. He just thinks you’re a little…possessive of me.”

  I practically do a spit take, although I’m not drinking anything.

  “Did he tell you that?” I say, my voice rising to Alvin-the-Chipmunk pitch as the door to the mysterious inner sanctum of the doctor’s office opens. “Does he know that I’m ‘possessive’ of you because he’s a total jerk who treats you—”

  “Tracy Gerren?” the nurse calls.

  Tracy is so excited by the prospect of getting the pill or the ring or the whatever that she doesn’t hear the last part of what I say. She pops out of her seat like she’s on springs.

  “Don’t even think about going anywhere,” she says to me. “We made these appointments together, and we are going to keep them. You’ll make me look bad if you freak out and leave.”

  I love how Tracy is able to make everything about her.

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m actually really looking forward to trying out those stirrups for the first time. I hear they’re lots of fun.”

  “Come on, Rosie, this is important for your health,” she says, taking Parent out of my hands and giving me her Lucky, as if I’m supposed to be studying up on clothes. “And you like to do things that are good for your health. It makes you feel…virtuous, or something.”

  The nurse calls her name again, and Tracy disappears down a long hall with her, looking as confident as if she were about to buy a new dress at Forever 21. I’m relieved that she’s gone—I can still run out of here if I want to.

  Should I? I mean, what am I doing here? I don’t need this appointment. I’m still learning how to kiss.

  I look around the waiting room and notice a display of pamphlets with titles like, Which Birth Control is Right for You? and Coping With HPV, and Thinking of Getting Pregnant? What You Should Do NOW. I was sort of hoping there’d be one that said, What to Expect During Your First Appointment, or at least, What We’re Doing When You’re Lying There on Your Back With Your Legs in the Air.

  No such luck.

  I can’t really read now anyway. I’m so agitated that I can’t focus on anything.

  The door opens again. “Rose Zarelli?”

  I consider saying nothing, pretending that I’m somebody else, waiting for the nurse to assume that Rose Zarelli isn’t here today. But the nurse looks right at me and asks, “Rose?”

  Tracy must have tipped her off that I might run. After all, what are friends for?

  I stand up on shaky legs.

  “Right this way,” the nurse says, smiling sympathetically. I follow her down the hall as the door closes behind me with a thud and a click. There’s no turning back now.

  “I’m Betty,” she says over her shoulder as we walk. “I’m the nurse practitioner, and I’m going to be performing your exam today. Is this your first time?”

  “Yes,” I say, sounding as scared as I feel. She leads me into an exam room, and I see them instantly. The stirrups. They’re sticking up from the table like some sort of torture device. Betty follows my gaze. She crosses to the stirrups and gives each one a shove. They fold back slowly against the table like the legs of some creepy insect.

  “I know they look intimidating, but they’re not that bad, I promise,” she says kindly. “Now hop on up here and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”

  I approach the exam table cautiously, worried that the stirrups might spring back up and grab me. They don’t. I step on the little black platform attached to the table near the floor and vault myself up backward, white paper crinkling loudly underneath me as I position myself on the edge, facing Betty.

  “Tell me a little about yourself. You’re in high school?”

  “I’m a freshman.”

  “What do you like to do?”

  “Um, I’m a runner—well, sort of. I’m going out for the track team next week.”

  “Ah,” says Betty, making a note on the chart. “So you’re an athlete. Well, that’s good.” I want to ask her what being an athlete has to do with my gynecological health, but I can’t seem to make the question come out. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I…well, I don’t…um…”

  “Let me rephrase that. Are you sexually active?

  I don’t know how to answer that, either. “There’s a guy who, um, I kissed a few times. Is that sexually active?”

  I expect Betty to laugh at me for not knowing the technical definition of “sexually active,” but she doesn’t.

  “I was asking if you are having sexual intercourse, but sexually active can mean any kind of sexual activity, and kissing fits into that category. Has anything else happened with this friend?”

  “No.”

  Betty hesitates for just a second, then says, “Do you think it will?”

  I shake my head, unsure whether I’m lying. “We might kiss again, but I’m not…I don’t want to do anything else right now.”

  Betty smiles and surprises me again. “That’s great, Rose. It’s good to know where you stand, to know what you do and don’t want. Don’t do anything until you’re absolutely ready.”

  I wish I had a tape recorder so I could play Betty’s words for Tracy. I envision getting Betty and Ms. Maso together for a sex intervention where they gang up on Tracy and tell her she’s making a terrible mistake.

  But then it occurs to me that maybe Tracy really is ready for all this stuff. Maybe the problem isn’t Tracy.

  Maybe the problem is actually me.

  “So what brings you here today, Rose?”

  Sometimes I think my life is just one long string of questions that I have no idea how to answer.

  “Um, I just thought… I figured I should make an appointment, I guess,” I say, not wanting to admit that my best friend is so skilled at getting me to do what she wants that I’m here even though I have no real reason to be.

  “Okay. Let’s go through a few basic questions. Are your periods normal?”

  “What’s normal?”

  “Regular. You get them on a regular basis?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you have any pain?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I have really bad cramps.” This is, in fact, a lie. I hardly ever have cramps. But I’m suddenly feeling the need to justify being at this completely needless exam.

  “Okay. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to perform a pelvic exam. What that means is, I’ll be checking inside you with my eyes and my hands to make sure that everything is okay. Since you’re young and you haven’t started having intercourse yet, there’s no reason for me to do a Pap test—that involves me collecting some cells off your cervix with something that looks like a long Q-tip, and sending the cells to the lab for testing. But you don’t need that right now, because you’re not having sex. Right?” she says, looking at me very carefully, as if she thinks I might be lying about why I’m here.

  “Right,” I respond with as much confidence as I can muster as my eyes dart back to the stirrups.

  “Okay. Now,
I’m going to give you a paper gown. Take everything off and put the gown on, open to the front. I’ll come back and knock on the door to see if you’re ready in a few minutes.”

  Betty leaves me in the room, and it takes me a full minute just to take off my jeans. It’s not like I’ve never been to the doctor before, but I’ve never had anyone check me inside. I take off my underwear, but I don’t know where I’m supposed to put them. Should I hang them up on the peg, like I did with my jeans? Then she’d see them up there, and they might gross her out. Should I put them in my bag? That grosses me out. After another minute of contemplation, Betty knocks on the door.

  “All set?” she asks.

  I crumple my underwear into a wad and hide it—in my fist.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Okay!” she says, coming into the room with the enthusiasm of someone about to spend an afternoon at an amusement park. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to put the stirrups up and you’re going to put your feet in them, okay?” She turns around for a second and puts some supplies on a tall tray on wheels. Then she pulls the tray over and sits on a low stool in front of me. “Here we go.”

  She pulls up the torture devices and instructs me to lie back on the table. “One foot up,” she says as she snaps on a pair of plastic gloves.

  I can’t make my leg move.

  “Rose, I’m going to pick up your foot and put it in the stirrup, okay?” I feel her hand on my foot, lifting it into the air. I expect the metal to feel cold on my skin, but I realize I’ve left my socks on. It seems I’ve left my shirt on, too. I wonder if this was wrong—was I supposed to take these things off? I can’t remember.

  I feel her hand on my other foot, placing it in the stirrup. Then I notice a strange silence in the room, as if she’s waiting for something to happen.

  “I need you to open your knees a bit now,” says Betty quietly, like she’s afraid I’ll freak out if she talks too loud. I realize that my knees hurt because they’re pressed together tightly even though my feet are spread wide in the stirrups.

  I really don’t want to spread my legs.

  “You said you’re going to try out for the track team, right?” I can’t imagine why she’s suddenly talking about track until her hands are on my knees, gently pressing them open. She’s trying to distract me.

  Cold air hits my crotch, and I have to fight the urge to snap my knees back together. “Yes,” I say, trying to sound normal. “Tryouts are next week.”

  “You’re going to feel a little pressure and some coldness as I put the speculum in now.” She holds up something that looks even more like a torture device than the stirrups. “So what do you have to do at a track tryout?”

  I can barely answer her because the sensation of having what looks like a giant eyelash curler pushed into me is too weird for words. It doesn’t hurt, but she should have said a lot of pressure instead of a little. I sort of feel like I have to pee.

  “Um, I have to run some sprints— Ow—”

  “Sorry, I’m opening the speculum inside you now, so I can take a look at your cervix. What were you saying?”

  “I, uh, I just have to run some timed sprints, I think,” I say breathlessly.

  “I see. And the people with the fastest times make the team, is that right?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, wondering just how long I have to have this thing inside me.

  Betty doesn’t ask me anything else. In fact, she’s quiet for a good twenty seconds. I’m just starting to get freaked out when she says, “Rose, are you sure you haven’t had sex yet?”

  If I weren’t so terrified about whatever it is that’s making her ask that question, I would laugh. Because yes, I’m positive I haven’t had sex yet. Is there any way to not be positive about that?

  “Um, yeah, I’ve only done kissing—kissed—however you say it.”

  She looks up at me from between my legs—it’s a really strange view—with a serious expression on her face. “Has anyone ever touched you down here, inside? Anyone at all?”

  “No. I swear,” I add. I don’t know why, but it seems really important to convince her that I’m telling the truth. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong. Do you know what a hymen is, Rose?”

  “Uh-huh,” I answer, thinking of the chart of female reproductive organs Ms. Maso showed us in health class one day, when someone asked where the expression “popping her cherry” comes from. Ms. Maso will answer any question, as long as she’s sure it’s genuine.

  “Well, girls who haven’t had sex usually have a hymen, but you don’t.”

  “Is that…bad?” I ask, not sure whether I should be upset about this or not. I mean, I know I’m supposed to have one, but I’m not sure if it matters that I don’t.

  “No, not necessarily. Some girls lose theirs if they’re very active playing sports,” she says as she reaches behind her to the tray and picks up the giant Q-tip. “That’s probably the case with you, since you’re an athlete. But I’d like to do that Pap test after all, okay?” Before I can say anything, the creepy Q-tip disappears between my legs.

  “Now I’m taking some samples of the cells on your cervix with this swab, and we’ll send it off to the lab to make sure everything is normal, which I’m sure it will be.” I feel her moving the Q-tip around in there, and then she takes it out, sticks the swab in a container and writes something on it.

  “The next step is the pelvic exam,” she says as she finally takes out the giant eyelash curler. I’m relieved until she grabs a tube, squeezing some clear gel on her gloved hand. “I’m going to put my fingers inside you while I press on your abdomen. I want you to tell me if anything hurts.” She slides her fingers in and starts pushing on my stomach.

  I wonder if this is what it would feel like to have a guy touch me inside. Then I try to stop thinking about it because it’s probably a bad thing to think about when your gynecologist is examining you. I look up at the walls and try to concentrate on the framed black-and-white poster of the bottom half of the Eiffel Tower that is hanging there. There’s a layer of dust on top of the black plastic frame. In the picture, there are pigeons on the ground, looking for crumbs. There are people walking arm in arm, and a couple is kissing. Just when I think I’ve successfully transported myself to Paris, I find myself twisting away from her and sitting halfway up. “This feels really weird,” I say, suddenly wanting her to stop touching me.

  “Weird bad, or just weird?”

  “I guess just weird.”

  “That’s okay,” says Betty, putting one hand on my shoulder and gently urging me to lie back down while her other hand is still inside me. “It feels weird because what I’m doing is checking your uterus and your ovaries just to make sure—”

  “Are you finished yet?” I interrupt loudly. I’m so done with this.

  “Almost. Are you all right?”

  “I have to…pee,” I lie, saying the only thing I can think of that might convince her to stop.

  “Okay,” she says, pulling her hand out of me and snapping off her rubber gloves. “That’s it. We’re done.” Her eyes land on my shirt, which I remember now I was supposed to take off. “Usually I perform a breast exam at an annual appointment, but I think we’ll just do that next time. I want you to come back and see me if you become sexually active—if you and your friend advance beyond kissing, okay? We can talk about what you should be doing to protect each other. Also, feel free to call me if ther
e’s anything you decide you want to tell me, something that maybe you didn’t want to tell me today. Here’s my card.”

  Betty thinks I’m lying about something. Is she wondering if I was sexually abused, and that’s why my hymen is already broken or gone or whatever?

  This whole thing is making me totally paranoid. I have to get out of here.

  Betty, who has been staring at me while I’ve been trying to figure out what it is she thinks I’m not telling her, realizes that I’m not going to say anything. “You can sit up and put your clothes back on, and when you’re ready, you can meet your friend back in the waiting room. It was nice to meet you, Rose. I’ll call if there are any problems, which there won’t be.” She looks down at the chart. “Is this your cell phone number?”

  I shake my head. She looks back down again.

  “Oh, I see. It’s your friend’s number. But I can leave a message for you there?”

  I nod, practically catatonic.

  “You did really well,” she says and starts to go out the door.

  “Um—”

  She stops sharply. “Yes, Rose?”

  “I’m still a virgin, right? I mean, even though I don’t have a…” I can’t finish the sentence.

  Betty nods slowly. “Yes, Rose, if you haven’t had sex, you’re still a virgin.” She waits another second, then smiles at me and leaves, closing the door behind her.

  After I manage to extract my underwear from the death-grip of my fist, I get dressed. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the paper gown and the sheet she used to cover me, so I throw them in the trash can. I find my way back to the waiting room where Tracy is pacing and texting like a crazy woman.

  “Trace, let’s go,” I say. “I don’t want to miss the bus and have to wait an hour for the next one.”

  “Would you believe that doctor wouldn’t give me birth control?” she hisses. “I’m texting Lena right now.”

  “Lena?” My mind spins at the implications.

  “Yes! She told me that they don’t ask any questions here, and they just give you what you want. But the doctor said she wouldn’t give me anything unless I came back with my ‘partner.’ She wants to talk to us both,” she says, rolling her eyes.