Notes from a Former Virgin

by Emma Chastain

  Sunday, February 11

  Mom took me to an art museum in the city. It was strange to see paintings of girls around my age, some of them running away from fauns, some of them posing with books, some of them sitting there looking out at you. They must have had problems at their schools too. They probably spent entire years cringing in embarrassment. What did their enemies say about them? What is Reese saying about me?

  Monday, February 12

  I got it out of Jacqueline. I thought I might, because she’s both incredibly gossipy and also clueless or rude enough not to worry about hurting people’s feelings.

  I pulled her aside first thing, right before homeroom, and said, “Can I ask you something embarrassing?” (No human can resist this question.)

  “Yeah, sure,” she said.

  “I don’t know what Reese is telling people about me. Is it really bad?”

  “You don’t know?” She looked like I’d just read out her winning lottery numbers. She was going to get to pass on juicy dirt to the source of the dirt itself!

  She came closer and lowered her voice. “She’s telling everyone that at Noelle’s party, you texted her asking her to come upstairs, and when she went, you and Grady were having sex. And then you asked her if she wanted to have a threesome.”

  I laughed. It was half forced, half real. “No one believes that, right?” I said.

  She lifted one shoulder. “People aren’t sure. Is it true?”

  I looked at her. “Obviously not.” Didn’t she see? None of it made sense! How would Grady and I have managed the timing so that we were sure Reese would walk in on us? Did anyone who wasn’t filming porn ask someone to join in on sex that was already under way? If I wanted to have a threesome, isn’t my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend the one person I’d never ask to be the third? Why do the Puritans at this school even care if someone has a threesome? What’s the big whoop? And doesn’t anyone notice that Reese made up ALMOST THE EXACT SAME LIE about Noelle last year?! It’s like she’s a burglar with a signature and her signature is threesomes! It’s not only obvious, it’s lazy!

  I tried to explain all of this, but I could tell Jacqueline didn’t believe me. It didn’t matter what I said or how stupid Reese’s claim was. I could go around denying it to every single junior individually and they’d all assume I was saying it wasn’t true because I was embarrassed. The sex part is plausible, and that makes the rest of it plausible too.

  Tuesday, February 13

  I finished my homework early and decided to do an hour of phonebanking. As usual, my ratio was 97% voicemails to 3% humans, but one of the humans was a woman who said “Hello?” in a warm, quavery voice. When I told her why I was calling, she said, “How wonderful! My granddaughter ordered me one of those fabulous Planned Parenthood book bags—you know, the ones that list all the services—and it’s my favorite library tote!” She sounded so kind and understanding. For a second I considered telling her about Reese and asking her what to do, but I got control of myself and stuck to my script. Still, I was thinking, Maybe we’ll start talking, she’ll ask me about myself, we’ll become friends, and THEN I can tell her! But of course we only discussed dwindling access to health care for women, which is much more important than me and my “problems.”

  Wednesday, February 14

  My Valentine’s Day present to Grady was a heart-shaped box of chocolates, a handmade card, and a promise not to mention Reese or my hashtag for the entire day. He said, “Why would you say that? Talk about it all you want. It’s a big deal!” He is my valentine for life, and it doesn’t matter if we break up when we get to college. I’ll always love him.

  Thursday, February 15

  Whenever I’m with Grady at school, even if I’m not touching him, everyone around us leers and stares and whispers.

  Friday, February 16

  Reese posted a picture of herself kissing her own reflection and captioned it “menage a moi.” So many likes. So many cheerleading comments. So many subtweets about what a disgusting slutbag I am. (I’m paraphrasing.) I hate going to school. The only thing that helps is pretending I’m a statue, like Noelle told me to do back in September. A statue with a stone brain that can’t process what’s happening to me. Thank God break starts tomorrow.

  Saturday, February 17

  Hannah thinks I’m being punished because I lied to my dad (punished by God, I guess) and that it’ll be her turn next. I don’t believe in God, but I get where she’s coming from.

  Sunday, February 18

  Hannah has ruined my life.

  She felt so guilty about getting away with lying and drinking that she confessed to her mom, who promptly called Noelle’s mom and my dad. Dad doesn’t yell, but he yelled “CHLOE!” from downstairs, and from the tone of his voice, I knew exactly what had happened.

  He was irate. I’d lied to him again, I’d endangered myself, I couldn’t be trusted, etc., etc.

  “If you think I’m going to give up on you, you have another think coming. You’re grounded again, for a month. I’m going to check on you every single night and morning to make sure you are where you’re supposed to be, and I’m considering installing cameras in public areas of the house—”

  “Oh yeah? Oh yeah?” I shouted. I wasn’t even trying to be calm. I was screaming like a little kid. “Go ahead! Install cameras! I’m moving in with Mom!”

  “Chloe, calm down.”

  “Don’t TELL me to calm down!”

  “You living with Veronica—that wouldn’t work for either of you.”

  “This again! You think I don’t know she’s a mess? I know that! I don’t care! At least she’s not a dictator! At least she understands that I’m not 10 years old anymore!”

  “I think we should both take a break and discuss this again once we’ve cooled off.”

  “Great! Whatever! I’m not changing my mind!”

  Chloe: Dad grounded me for a month

  Mom: Not again! What was your supposed crime this time?

  Chloe: I jumped out the window to get to a party after he told me I couldn’t go

  And then stayed out all night

  Mom: Oh darling, nothing could be more healthy at your age.

  Chloe: Would I be grounded at your house?

  Mom: Of course not. I’m philosophically opposed to grounding. Read up on the Stanford Prison Experiment. I would never turn myself into a prison guard, or you into my prisoner.

  Chloe: I might need to move in with you for a while

  Maybe until college

  Would that be ok?

  Mom: Darling, of course! This is what I’ve dreamed of!

  Perfect. Wonderful.

  Monday, February 19

  Dad has seriously installed one camera in the front entryway and another one, an all-weather model, on the roof of the screen porch, overlooking the backyard. He showed them to me and explained that they connect to his phone. “I didn’t want to resort to a hidden nanny cam,” he said, like I was supposed to thank him for being so open with me.

  Tuesday, February 20

  Dad and Miss Murphy fought about me. Or discussed me, I guess.

  “It seems extreme, Charlie,” I heard Miss Murphy say. I was sitting on my bed with the door open, and they were in their bedroom with their door closed. They seem to forget our house was built by colonial Americans who knew nothing of soundproofing.

  “I put them out in the open,” Dad said. “It’s not like they’re in her bedroom.”

  Miss Murphy didn’t respond.

  “I know I’m losing it a little,” Dad said. He probably sighed, although I couldn’t make it out. “She’s terrifying me. I never thought she’d act like this.”

  “She’s a teenager.”

  “But she’s not like other kids. I expect more of her.”

  Again Miss Murphy didn’t say anything.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Dad asked. He sounded angry. “Just let it happen? Let her do God knows what? Have you seen the stats on heroin deaths in this county o
ver the past five years?”

  “Charlie, you know she’s not a heroin addict.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I can imagine how scary it is to know she might get hurt, but you can’t keep her locked up until she graduates.”

  “I can’t let her defy me like she’s been doing.”

  There was a pause. “She’s your kid,” Miss Murphy said. “I don’t want to interfere.”

  It’s not that she said anything wrong. I am his kid. She’s not my mother. But it feels like a superhero appeared on a rooftop and was about to fly down and rescue me but then changed her mind and flew home to do the crossword puzzle.

  Wednesday, February 21

  Mom: Let me know if and when you think you might like to move in. Fingers crossed you’ll say SOON!

  Chloe: Sorry to be a flake but I’m not sure what’s going on

  Thursday, February 22

  That was the last straw, I’m pretty sure.

  Miss Murphy has spent the break reading, going to prenatal yoga, and looking at websites about baby names, baby furniture, baby clothes (gender-neutral, because they’ve decided not to find out what they’re having), and baby-raising advice. I can tell she’s trying not to talk about it too much in front of me, but Dad always brings it up at dinner, and then they get carried away and have a 40-minute discussion about, for example, whether cord-blood banking is a scam or a worthwhile and relatively low-cost gamble.

  Tonight they got onto the topic of sleep training, and Miss Murphy brought up her college friends.

  “Devorah and Ben still have Ezra in their room, and he’s got to be five by now,” she said. “But Jillian sleep-trained Claire at four months. She said it was two weeks of screaming, and then Claire caught on. Now she sleeps for 12 hours straight, apparently.”

  “Wow, two weeks of screaming,” I said. “So you’re not gonna go that route, right?”

  “What’s your concern, Chloe?” Dad said, staring at me.

  “I mean, I have to get up really early in the morning. I don’t think it’s fair to make me wake up all night.”

  Dad looked at Miss Murphy, then back at his plate. I saw him decide to say nothing and then change his mind. “It doesn’t seem to have sunk in yet, Chloe, so let me spell it out for you,” he said. “Our family has changed. Miss Murphy is part of it now, and soon a new sibling will be too. We’ll all have to accommodate each other and be flexible. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered.

  Now he was angry. “Do you understand?” he said again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Try again, Chloe.”

  “Yes.” My tone still wasn’t perfect, I guess, because he said, “Again.”

  “Charlie,” Miss Murphy said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Again,” he said.

  I took a breath. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He can punish me, he can be disappointed in me, but for him to talk to me like he can’t stand to be in the same room with me? For him to tell me the baby comes first, and if I don’t like it, I can shut up about it? I’m not sticking around for that.

  Friday, February 23

  I’m packed. I’m going. I’m sitting by the window watching for Mom’s car.

  Dad’s at work and Miss Murphy’s at yoga. I got up early this morning after a bad night’s sleep and started putting my things in bags. I’m taking only the things I like, which turns out to be almost nothing. A few pairs of jeans. A couple of tops and sweaters. My favorite books. Etc. It all fit into a rolling suitcase and a few zip-top bags. When I was ready, I called Mom. She started twittering with excitement as soon as I told her I was ready to move in. She said it’s fine for Snickers to come too.

  Dad’s going to be furious, but this is for the best. He doesn’t want me. Like he said, he has a new family. Mom doesn’t want me either, even though she thinks she does. But if neither one of them is interested in being my parent, I’ll choose the one who doesn’t treat me like Rapunzel.

  Saturday, February 24

  Dad hit the roof. Mom told me she had to call him to tell him I was safe, and a few minutes after she did, he showed up at her door. They stayed on the balcony outside her apartment to talk. I was in the guest bedroom with the door open, and at first I couldn’t hear anything they were saying, but then they raised their voices, and I got bits and pieces.

  “. . . her decision, Charlie. That’s what I’m trying . . .”

  “. . . in her ear, spewing lies . . .”

  “. . . outrageous accusation . . .”

  “. . . not staying here . . . ludicrous.”

  I crept out of the bedroom and closer to the front door so I could hear better.

  Mom said, “You’re so used to being the quote unquote good parent, you can’t conceive that she might actually want to live with me!”

  “She’s here because she’s mad at me,” Dad said, “which is fine and developmentally appropriate.”

  “Please don’t lecture me on child development, Charlie.”

  “Even granting the premise that she wants to be here, which I’m not, what makes you think you’re fit to take care of her?”

  Mom laughed bitterly. “Besides 14 years on the job?”

  “Not quite 14,” Dad said.

  “And now you throw Mexico in my face.”

  “Jesus Christ, Veronica. Mexico wasn’t a little tiff we had that I’m raking up because I’m annoyed. You abandoned her! Do you think any judge would consider you a fit guardian?”

  “I’m her mother, Charlie. Her mother. And don’t you dare threaten me. I’m not a lawyer, as you love to remind me, but I am a storyteller. And the story I’d tell a judge is that Chloe fled an overbearing father and his live-in girlfriend after months of feeling like an unwanted guest in her own home.”

  Huh. I’d never said anything like that to her, but she’d understood my motivation anyway. Maybe her novel wasn’t as terrible as I’d assumed.

  Dad said, “Is that how Chloe explained it to you?”

  “I’m not going to betray her confidence by confirming or denying.”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “I’m sure she’s heard you bellowing out here. If she wanted to talk to you, she would emerge.”

  “Just go get her, Veronica.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t do that.”

  Silence. Snickers was by my side, staring at the door. He looked up at me to see what was going to happen next. I half hoped Dad would push past Mom and barge into the apartment, but he didn’t, and after saying something I didn’t catch, he left. Mom came in glowing with self-satisfaction and excitement, wanting to tell me exactly how the conversation had gone and then dissect it with me for hours. I got away as fast as I could and hid in the guest room—my bedroom—feeling sick. Had I really run away from home? Was I really going to sleep in this strange, half-empty place?

  Sunday, February 25

  Dad called me three times yesterday and another three today, but I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The most I could muster was a text telling him I’m fine and I’ll call him soon.

  I haven’t slept a wink since I got here. I have the same feeling I got the time we visited Uncle Julian in New Orleans, like I’m twice as awake as normal and all my senses have been heightened. At home—at Dad’s—I hardly even looked at my surroundings. Everything was so familiar, I didn’t need to observe things consciously. Here nothing is familiar. The mattress is thin. There’s no lamp on my bedside table, and the overhead light makes the room look bluish. The walls are bare. The window looks out on a very tall, very thin evergreen tree.

  I’ve never been so grateful for my phone, or this little diary, or Snickers, who is currently sitting on the end of my bed, staring at the closet with a nervous expression. They are the three things that make me feel a little bit less alone.

  Monday, February 26

  I thought maybe people would forget about my supposed threesome attempt over the break, but no
, nothing has changed. If anything, everyone seemed refreshed, like they’d spent the vacation resting up so they could come back and make fun of me with new energy. One of Reese’s minions actually called out “Hey, Chloe Ho!” across the hall to me. Some kids looked shocked, but many laughed. I pretended I hadn’t heard, when of course I had, which everyone knew, especially since I was blushing bright red. I thought maybe my parent problems would put my school problems in perspective, but it turns out school is still torture.

  Tuesday, February 27

  Miss Murphy pulled me into her classroom after first period. “Do you have a minute?” she said. “I’ll give you a late pass for your next class.”

  “Don’t you have kids coming?”

  “Not for a while. This is my prep.”

  We sat next to each other at two student desks. Someone had written Fuk this shit on mine. Was the defacer a bad speller, or did s/he think leaving off the c would make the word less sweary, or more cool?

  “I’m not going to lecture you,” Miss Murphy said.

  “OK.”

  “I guess I’m wondering if you went to your mom’s to escape me.” She said it with a little laugh, but I knew she wasn’t joking.