Notes from a Former Virgin

by Emma Chastain

  She ignored him. “I’m hoping to, although we’ll see if I can unload it this close to the holidays.”

  “And then . . . ,” I said, and paused.

  She shrugged. “Find an apartment. We’ll see.” She cleared her throat and moved a forkful of tandoori chicken toward her mouth, then changed her mind and set the fork down again.

  I heard myself say, “Don’t rent an apartment. You should come here. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “Really?” she said, and when I said, “Yes, really,” the look of relief that came over her made me happy I’d lied.

  Sunday, October 15

  I don’t know what made me ride my bike over to Mom’s. I hadn’t texted her to tell her I was coming. She opened the door wearing loose pants and a T-shirt with no bra. I could feel her floppy boobs pressing against me when she hugged me hello. I felt revolted, and then guilty for being horrified by my own mother’s body. Probably her boobs were so limp because I’d breastfed all the life out of them. God, GROSS.

  “You’ve caught me job-hunting!” she said, gesturing back at her open laptop. “There’s an assistant professorship in creative writing that looks very interesting.”

  “That’s great, Mom,” I said. I followed her to the living room. “What’s going on with your novel, anyway?” I tried to make my voice sound neutral. She took her novel seriously, even if no one else did.

  “I’m struggling to find an agent who understands my vision,” she said. “Self-publishing may be the way to go. You know that’s how E. L. James got her start? Not that I’m writing erotica. Far from it.”

  Most parents know not to discuss erotica with their teenagers, but not my mother.

  She dashed around cracking ice cubes into glasses and putting macadamia nuts in a bowl. “I wish you’d texted me, darling. Of course, you should feel free to drop by whenever you like. This house is your home. It’s just that I’m woefully short on food.”

  She asked how Dad was doing in this exaggeratedly friendly, I’m-totally-fine/I-think-of-your-father-as-a-dear-friend voice that I didn’t buy for a second. I think I’d gone over there planning to tell her everything, because it seems wrong that she doesn’t know, but then I couldn’t. To mention Miss Murphy or the move or Miss Murphy’s mother’s suppository—I couldn’t do it. Mom’s face would have done something terrible. Maybe she would have cried. And it would have been disloyal to Dad.

  “He’s fine,” I said. “Busy with work.”

  “And his friend?”

  Assuming she meant Miss Murphy, I said, “Also fine.”

  “I suppose I can’t fault him for finding love despite being legally married to me. After all, I did, with darling Javi. But there is something strange about it.”

  “What’s happening with the divorce?” I said.

  “Your father hasn’t told you?” She looked excited that I was asking her, not him. “I unilaterally fired that hideous mediator. She was so brainwashed by the patriarchy, she was incapable of identifying objective truths. She took your father’s side on every single point.”

  What a shocker. “So do you have to find a new one?”

  She patted my hand. “I’m in no rush. It’ll happen when it happens.”

  Even she can’t really think a divorce lawyer is going to fall out of the sky when the time is right. She’s so obviously stalling to irritate Dad and torture Miss Murphy. Or maybe she wants to stay married to Dad, which is deluded, sad, and understandable.

  Monday, October 16

  Miss Murphy was at Woodcrest, and Dad was getting dinner together while I sort of did homework, sort of concentrated on eating rainbow Goldfish. I mentioned I’d gone over to Mom’s yesterday, and at first all he said was, “Huh. How was that?” which was fine. I shrugged and said, “OK. Pretty good.” I could tell he was waiting for more, so I added, “She’s looking for a job.” He grunt-laughed and said, “That’s a first.”

  I know I said I wish he’d be more open with me, but I was wrong. I don’t want to hear his snide little remarks. And I don’t want to hear Mom’s, either. I don’t want to hear about the mediator, I don’t want to hear about Javi, I don’t want to hear about any of it. Don’t they know that? Haven’t they Googled it? Read ONE blog post about how to help your kids handle divorce; I promise you it’ll say, “Don’t criticize your ex to your children.” I know, because I’ve Googled! But they haven’t, or they have but they thought, Oh, but Chloe’s different. She’ll understand. No, I won’t! I’m not different! I’m exactly like every other kid whose parents are splitting up, and I wish they’d pull their heads out of their butts and notice that.

  Tuesday, October 17

  Grady and I rode our bikes to the cemetery after school. It was my idea. I wanted to be somewhere quiet. The air was chilly. We held hands as we walked.

  “My mom got rid of the mediator,” I said.

  “Really? What does that mean? Will the divorce take longer?”

  “I guess. It’s not like I’m in a rush for them to do it, but I kind of am. I want to get it over with, and I want to stop talking about it with them.”

  Grady laughed. “Chlo, it doesn’t stop. I mean, not to burst your bubble.”

  “Your parents still say mean stuff about each other?”

  “If anything, it’s gotten worse.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful.”

  The wind picked up, and Grady let go of my hand to put his arm around me.

  I said, “Two years isn’t that long of a time.”

  “Compared to what?”

  “I mean, it’s not that far away. College. I can wait for two years.”

  He dropped his arm. “Man, you are cold! Are you that excited to get away from me?”

  He was trying to sound jokey, but I could tell I’d hurt his feelings. “No! That’s not what I meant. My parents—they’re the reason—it’s all their drama, and the fighting.”

  We’d stopped and were looking at each other in the middle of a smooth paved pathway, underneath a beech tree rustling its yellow leaves. Grady was wearing a black crewneck sweater and half smiling at me. I love you, I thought. The words were right behind my lips. I wanted to say them out loud. But it seemed dangerous to do it spontaneously, without thinking it through and having a plan and building up to it. To blurt out “I love you” in the middle of a cemetery? I couldn’t, so instead I said, “I don’t want to leave you.”

  I put my arms around his neck. Over his shoulder I could see all the hundreds and hundreds of gravestones stretching away toward the trees on one side and the road on the other.

  “These poor people,” I said. “It’s not fair, that they’re dead and we’re alive.”

  He hugged me tighter. “They had their turn,” he said. “Don’t feel guilty.”

  His head was pressed against mine, and his voice made my skull vibrate. My skull, which would one day decompose in the ground.

  “I hope they had fun when they were kids,” I said. “And I hope their parents weren’t jerks.”

  I could feel him smiling even though I couldn’t see his face. “Their parents probably were jerks, but maybe they had nice lives anyway.”

  I touched his hair. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He lifted me up a few inches and set me back down on the ground gently. “Let’s.”

  I held on to him for one more second and thought, I love you. I love you. I love you.

  Wednesday, October 18

  Should I wait for him to tell me he loves me first, or is that outdated self-hating misogynist nonsense that would disappoint Gloria Steinem? I don’t want to say it first, but as a proud feminist, I don’t think I’m supposed to feel that way.

  Was it a mistake to have sex with him before we even said it? Is he not taking me seriously because he’s getting the milk in the barn, or whatever that stupid expression is? But no, this is nuts—I met his parents! He’s into me.

  Maybe he hasn’t said it yet because he’s worried I won’t say it back. Except that doesn
’t make sense. He must know I love him. I think he might have even known I was about to say it yesterday. So, what, is he messing with me? He wouldn’t. This is Grady we’re talking about, not some mean bro. Maybe he’s waiting for a special event! Yes, that’s probably it. He’s going to tell me on our three-month anniversary, or under a full moon, or something like that. I need to calm down.

  Thursday, October 19

  I’m not going to wait for Grady. If the perfect moment presents itself, or if I just can’t help it and “I love you” comes flying out of my mouth, I’ll let it happen.

  Friday, October 20

  Grady and I went to the movies with Tris and Elliott. Everyone held hands with his or her BF or GF, and eventually Grady put his arm around me. It was exactly like I thought high school might be when I was nine years old. Also, Grady and I shared a large popcorn, and he didn’t mind when my fingers bumped into his, and the movie was funny. The only minor distraction was the voice in my head saying, What if you leaned over right now and whispered “I love you”? But I ignored the voice. After the lights came up, we walked a mile down a four-lane highway to get to the pizza place with the good fountain soda.

  Once we were sitting down, Tris said, “So what’s everyone thinking for the Halloween dance? Any costume ideas?”

  The Halloween dance! I’d forgotten all about it. And how could that be, when last year I thought about nothing else for the first two months of school?

  “I’ve got nothing,” I said.

  “We’re going as Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker,” Elliott said.

  “No, we’re not,” said Tris. Making eye contact with me, he said, “Elliott is really into Star Wars.”

  “Like every other normal American dude,” Grady said.

  “Grady and I used to watch A New Hope after school, like, four times a week,” Elliott explained to me.

  “What’s A New Hope?” I said.

  Grady and Elliott looked shocked.

  “It’s—” Elliott said, but Tris interrupted him. “No! If you start, we won’t get to talk about anything else before curfew.”

  “Oh, man,” Grady said to Elliott, “I keep meaning to text you all these old pics my mom found of us. Remember that Darth Vader costume?”

  Elliott snorted. “You mean my Darth Vader costume.”

  “Jesus, you’re still giving me shit for borrowing it! We were in kindergarten!”

  “It’s not the borrowing so much as the breaking.”

  “It was broken when you gave it to me.”

  As they kept bickering, Tris leaned across the table toward me and whispered, “I honestly hate this. It makes me feel itchy all over. Has Grady made you watch the movies? Those ones from the ’70s that are supposed to be amazing? They’re so slow. And so beige.”

  “I have to tell you something,” I whispered. “Miss Murphy is moving in.”

  “Moving in where?” he said.

  “My house!”

  His mouth fell open. “God! When?”

  “I don’t know, actually. I think soon.”

  “So, what, you’ll come home one day and her stuff will be sprinkled all over the place?”

  “They’ll probably give me a heads-up.”

  Tris pushed his milkshake across the table to me. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Elliott’s over at my house all the time now.”

  “That’s great! Do you sneak him in when your parents are out?”

  “Sometimes, but he comes when they’re home, too.”

  “And your dad hasn’t had a meltdown?”

  “He hasn’t said one word. Sometimes he even asks me how my friend Elliott is doing.”

  “Does he know?”

  “He must.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  We smiled at each other, and he said, “I wish we had more time to hang out, just the two of us.”

  “I know,” I said. We were still whispering. My throat was getting hoarse. “Sometimes I think . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing. I miss you.”

  Most of the time I’m sure I’ll be with Grady forever. It’s not that I imagine us being middle-aged with two kids. It’s that I can’t imagine breaking up with him. But sometimes, for a second, I think we probably will break up, because most high school couples do. And I know Tris and I will still be friends when we’re 20, and 40, and forever. And if we’re not still with Elliott and Grady, we’ll regret all the time we spent with them and not each other in high school. We’ll wish we’d taken more selfies together, and written exclusively about each other in our diaries (does Tris keep a diary?), and spent every afternoon at each other’s houses, because we’ll want as many shared memories as possible. I think Tris thinks the same thing. But we can’t not want to be with our boyfriends all the time. We’re trapped in an invisible jail built by our own hormones.

  Saturday, October 21

  Maybe I’m kidding myself, but I swear Grady almost told me he loves me. We weren’t doing anything special, just sitting on the bench outside Strawberry Hills, chatting. Somehow we got to talking about our hidden talents, and I was showing him how I can wiggle my ears.

  “Wait, let me pull my hair back so you can really see,” I said. I held my hair in a ponytail and rearranged myself so he could see me in profile. When I’d finished, I turned back and said, “Pretty impressive, right?” He was smiling at me, and his face was full of affection.

  “Chloe . . . ,” he said, and my heart started racing. But then he chickened out, or maybe I’m wrong and he wasn’t about to say it in the first place. He paused, and then all he said was, “I bet if I practiced, I could do that too,” and we moved on to arguing about whether ear wiggling is innate or learned.

  Sunday, October 22

  Mr. and Mrs. Trevor took Bear to a monster truck rally, so I told Dad I was going to Hannah’s and rode my bike over to Grady’s through the cold fall day, my heart pounding with excitement. Grady opened the door, and I rushed in like someone was spying on us from the street (which someone may have been; in the suburbs, everyone’s an informant).

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” We were both whispering.

  Inside, the furniture, the walls, the air, it all seemed to be watching us. The silence pressed into my ears.

  “Are you sure they’re not coming back?” I said.

  “They’ll be gone until at least eight. My mom was all stressed out about Bear going to bed so late.”

  We didn’t have sex right away. I was nervous, and Grady must have known. I felt better once we were in his bedroom with the door closed. His room is plain and boyish. Navy-blue duvet on the bed. White Christmas lights bordering the walls. A corkboard above his desk decorated with reproduced paintings on postcards: A man in a suit sitting sideways on a red velvet chair. A woman wearing angular sunglasses, a brown fur, and a wry expression. A young pregnant woman (a teenager?) eating a small piece of black fruit, I think a plum. I wanted to look at the postcards for a long time, and ask about them, but I didn’t. This was maybe the art he loved best, and I didn’t want to be intrusive. I wouldn’t want him rifling through my bookshelf, questioning me.

  We got under the covers, fully dressed, and chatted with our faces almost touching.

  “Was it weird when your stepdad moved in?” I said.

  “It’s still weird. Sometimes he walks into a room and I’m like, ‘What are you doing in my house?’ and then I remember.”

  “I wish we could move in together,” I said.

  “You and me? Let’s do it,” he said.

  “I’m sure our parents won’t mind,” I said.

  Pause. I love you, I thought at him. I love you, he thought back at me, maybe.

  Then I took my shirt off, and one thing led to another, just like they tell you it will in sex-ed class. He was on top, and my legs were up on his shoulders, and we were looking right at each other and grinning, and then he started moving faster, and he closed his eyes and
looked tortured, which turns me on so much, and we were really going hard, and then the condom broke.

  I’m the one who started laughing. I don’t know why; it wasn’t funny! But his eyes—they went perfectly round, like a fish’s. And he pulled out so fast I heard a pop like a cork coming out of a bottle. I must have been in shock, because I got hysterical. At first Grady was just staring at me, and then I said, “Did you hear . . . ?” I couldn’t speak, I was laughing so hard, and he started laughing too. “Did you hear . . . that pop?” Soon we were clutching each other’s arms and there were tears running down my cheeks.

  “What do we do?” I said, trying to calm down. “Is there something about Coke?”

  “COKE?” he said.

  “Like, putting Coke up your cooch? Doesn’t it kill sperm?”

  “That’s got to be a myth,” he said. “Anyway, I pulled out in time.” But he was reaching for his phone, and I got mine out too. I was concentrating on typing, but I was also thanking my lucky stars that I can say “cooch” to my boyfriend. I couldn’t say anything to Mac. I would have been horrified if he’d heard me peeing. I wanted to be like a plastic doll for him: odorless and dischargeless and bodily functionless.

  After a few minutes of looking I said, “Coke doesn’t work at all. Krest Bitter Lemon kind of does, but I think it might only be available in Nigeria.”

  Grady said, “Get your pants on. We’re going to CVS.”

  “Why?”

  “To get Plan B. You don’t need a prescription.”

  “Don’t I have to be 18?”

  “Nope.”

  He’s a much better Googler than I am.

  It was exciting, riding our bikes fast, on a mission, speeding along past the colonial houses and the jogging moms who probably can’t remember what it’s like to need Plan B. When Grady was in front of me, I checked out his cute butt, and then I thought, Is it wrong to be looking at my boyfriend’s butt when the condom just broke? Shouldn’t I be feeling worried? I didn’t feel worried, not at all. I felt glad I live in the modern age and can buy a pill at the same store that sells light-up toothbrushes and lotion with avocado oil.