Notes from a Former Virgin

by Emma Chastain

  “No,” I said.

  We sat there in silence for a moment.

  “I don’t think we realized what an impact it would have on you,” she said. “Me moving into your house, I mean.”

  I traced “Fuk” with one finger. “Well, I don’t think you’re going anywhere now,” I said. “Since the baby’s coming and everything.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “I guess it’s too late, but I wanted to apologize for intruding.”

  I looked over at her teacher’s desk. She’d draped a cardigan over the back of her chair. She’d worn that cardigan the day she and Dad went apple picking. Also the night after she moved her mom into Woodcrest.

  She said, “I know your father can be rigid, but . . .” She sighed. “I told you my dad moved out west when I was a kid, right? I used to dream about living with him. Whenever I visited, he bent over backward to be the cool parent. He never gave me a curfew, he thought it was hilarious when I came home drunk, that kind of thing. I begged my mom to let me move in with him and his new family, which I’m sure just about killed her. But when she refused, some buried part of me was relieved. My 16-year-old self wanted to live with the more permissive parent, but my ageless self knew it was a terrible idea. Hedonism is fun for a day or two, but it doesn’t actually make you happy.”

  “It doesn’t make me happy being grounded for months on end either.”

  She was trying to make eye contact, but I wouldn’t look at her. “I understand how you feel,” she said.

  “I don’t want to live with my mother,” I said. “I don’t want to live anywhere. I’m just counting down the days until college starts.”

  “Right. That makes sense.”

  Silence.

  She said, “All I can say is that I know I’ve made it worse, the feeling of not wanting to live anywhere, and I’m sorry.”

  “That’s OK,” I said, because that’s what you say when grown-ups apologize.

  I was on my way out the door when she said, “I shouldn’t get involved, but, Chloe, if you could call your father, it would mean a lot to him.”

  “I definitely will,” I said, and I meant it at the time, but now it’s almost midnight and somehow I still haven’t done it.

  Wednesday, February 28

  Dad showed up in the parking lot of Mom’s building right as I was locking up my bike. He must have left work early. The only other time I can remember him doing that was the day he came home to catch me hooking up with Grady.

  “Hi, Dad,” I called. It was hard to speak, because seeing him in person was such a surprise, and so sad.

  “Is it all right that I drove over here unannounced?” he said.

  “Sure,” I said.

  We sat on these uncomfortable wooden benches by the parking lot that no one ever uses. The air was damp and cold, but I was warm from my ride.

  He was going to make a big effort to stay calm. I could tell that right away.

  “How’s it going so far?” he said. “Living with your mother?”

  “It’s fine.”

  He thumped one heel against the brown grass underfoot. “She can be a little harsh.”

  I laughed. “ ‘A little harsh’! Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “I worry about you,” he said.

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “I’m not eight anymore. I’m not, like, scared of her.”

  “That may be true, but it would be irresponsible of me—”

  “Dad, I’m not coming back.” I took a breath. I would be calm, like he was being. Adults really respond to a nice, measured tone. “I’m not mad at you, and I’m sorry I snuck off like that without talking to you about it first. I just need a break. It’s hard, living with you and Miss Murphy. I like her, but she was my English teacher, you know? And now she’s your girlfriend, and she’s pregnant. Which is great. I’m happy for you guys. But it’s weird for me. I’m sure you can imagine.”

  He didn’t respond, but he nodded.

  I said, “I mean, I don’t know if you could get a judge to, like, order me to go back to your house.”

  “Oh, probably I could,” he said. The way he said it, I knew he wouldn’t.

  “Dad, I’ll still visit you on the weekends. It’s not like I moved to another state.”

  He didn’t smile. “If you change your mind, tell me. Don’t be embarrassed. And don’t worry about the consequences. I can deal with Veronica.”

  “OK. Thanks.”

  He rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at the ground. “I should bring over all those banana chips we have. You’re the only one who likes them.”

  That’s when I knew this was really happening: he was going to let me stay with Mom. I felt sick. Stop me, I thought. Don’t let me do this. Insist that I come home with you this minute.

  But I didn’t say it out loud, and he didn’t read my mind. I watched him get in his car and drive off, and then I sat on the bench until I was freezing cold.

  Thursday, March 1

  Mom is so excited I’m here and trying so hard to make me feel at home, she’s vibrating like a hummingbird. Tonight she made a quinoa salad and told me about her new job.

  “Two new jobs, actually. Until the divorce comes through, I still have access to the shared accounts, but I won’t take a penny more than I feel I’m owed. It’s essential for women to be able to support themselves, Chloe. Don’t feel you can depend on a man to prop you up. You never know what life will bring. Divorce, disability, death . . . You don’t believe me now, but you will someday. Or maybe you’ll never find out. I pray you don’t.”

  “Yeah. So, what kind of work are you doing?” I said.

  “That professorship didn’t pan out. Apparently 20 years of writing workshops count for nothing. You need to publish work to qualify even for the interview stage. So, for the moment, I’m teaching an MCAT prep class in the morning and assisting at Greenworks Yoga in the afternoon. I’m seriously considering getting certified as a yoga instructor, too.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “I’m so glad you think so!”

  While she told me about the classes she’s been researching online and the “unprivileging of the mind over the body,” I sat there half feeling sorry for her and half hating her for being so pitiful. I don’t want to feel bad for her. She’s my mother! She’s supposed to be a lighthouse in the fog. Instead she’s flailing around, breaking up with her boyfriend and being a test-prep tutor like she’s 23 years old.

  “Has it been lonely, being here by yourself after school?” she asked.

  “I’m used to it,” I said. “Dad and Miss Murphy worked until 6 or 7 too. Or work, I mean. Obviously they still do.”

  Mom gave me a fake smile. “How are your father and his friend?”

  “They’re good,” I said.

  “I assume she approves of all this grounding he’s doing,” Mom said.

  “I’m not really sure.” Parents! They think they’re being so subtle. They might as well wear a poster board that says PLEASE TELL ME YOU LOVE ME BEST.

  Friday, March 2

  At least I’m not grounded here. And Grady and I can relax after school, knowing no one will burst in on us and have a meltdown. We were naked together for three hours in a double bed today! Living with Mom has its good points.

  Saturday, March 3

  I still can’t get to sleep in this weird room with its weird evergreen-tree view, though.

  Sunday, March 4

  One thing about Mom is, she’s not big on traditions. Dad loves them and has them for every holiday, and I’m realizing now he also has them for days of the week. On Sundays we’d sleep in, eat a late breakfast, putter around, and do work/homework. Mom slept in today, but then she took some coffee to her room and stayed in there with the door shut for a long time, and now she’s out somewhere. Snickers is getting sick of sitting on my lap, but if I don’t have him to snuggle with, I’ll expire from loneliness. I phonebanked for hours upon hours today, for the comfort of he
aring human voices, even in the form of recorded greetings.

  I’m sure I’ll get used to living here. It’ll take some time, that’s all.

  Monday, March 5

  I saw Miss Murphy in the hall, and maybe her baby’s had a growth spurt, or maybe I’m seeing her with more objectivity now that I’m not living with her, but wow, her bump has gotten big. I feel maybe 5% sad that I won’t live with this little brother or sister and probably will be basically a stranger to him/her, and 95% embarrassed and enraged that my dad knocked up my English teacher and that she’s walking around my high school all smiles, occasionally pressing a hand to her belly.

  Tuesday, March 6

  Mom hasn’t gotten mad at me yet. Maybe she never will again. Maybe yoga has melted away her anger. I can’t stop worrying that she will, though. I think it’ll always be like that, even when I’m 50.

  I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to be at Dad’s. And here I can see Grady, and no one’s watching me come and go on a camera connected to his phone.

  The best parts of the day happen when I forget where I am because I’m so engrossed in writing or goofing around on my phone or doing homework. The screen, the pages—they’re like Lucy’s wardrobe. I’m in my new bedroom; then something happens and I’m in another world, and snow is falling.

  Wednesday, March 7

  Mom had to stay late at the yoga studio, so I heated up a frozen burrito and ate by myself. Which is fine. Most kids do that kind of stuff all the time. It’s unusual, the way Dad cooks dinner every night. I guess I got spoiled.

  Thursday, March 8

  I called Dad before school to ask him if this would be a good weekend for me to stay at his house.

  “Oh, honey!” he said. “I would love that, but we have plans. Maybe we should cancel them.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “Marian found a last-minute deal on a flight and hotel package, and we’re supposed to leave for Miami in a few hours. Just a long weekend. We can probably reschedule.”

  “Dad, come on,” I said. Like he was really going to cancel a sexy beach trip to hang out with his surly teenage kid! It was annoying that he’d even pretended to consider it. “I’ll see you around,” I said.

  “Next weekend for sure, right?” he said.

  “Tell Miss Murphy I hope she doesn’t get Zika,” I said, and hung up on him.

  Why do I have to do that? I lose my temper, say something horrible, and give up all the moral high ground. It’s genetic: Mom does the same thing. Am I going to turn into her? God, in a few decades I’ll probably be doing sun salutations and eating coconut oil by the tablespoon.

  Friday, March 9

  “Miami!” Mom said, pouring soy milk into her coffee so fast it slopped onto the counter. “Isn’t that lovely for them.”

  “Did you see we’re supposed to get five inches of snow on Sunday?” I said. “Where’s the cereal?”

  “I don’t buy cereal anymore, sweet one. Why start the day with a carb explosion?”

  I found a jar of natural peanut butter and a spoon.

  Mom sat down at the table with her coffee. “I had been having second thoughts about applying for the teacher training course, but now I can see lavish trips are fair game.”

  “What training course?”

  “I’m sure I told you,” she said. “Saint Thomas? The entire month of July? Vinyasa on the beach? I just hope I’m accepted.”

  “The whole month?” I said. “What will I do?”

  “Oh, you’ll be off at some camp, I have no doubt,” she said, waving her fork. “Or why not consider getting a summer job?”

  “I’ll have a job,” I said. “I work at the pool, remember? But I’ll still need to eat dinner.”

  “You’ll be 17 by then, darling,” she said. “Presumably you’ll be able to press start on the microwave. Besides, think of that contestant on the baking show—she was 17 and already making vol-au-vents like Julia Child!”

  Her name is Martha and she didn’t make vol-au-vents—that was Flora, from season three, not that I was going to mention that and give her the opportunity to tell me I’m petty and missing the point.

  The actual point is that Mom’s going to leave me on my own again. Has she seen me trying to operate an iron? It’ll be a miracle if I don’t burn the place down before she gets home. Not to mention I don’t have a credit card, a driver’s license, or a car. I guess I could move back in with Dad for the month. If he’ll even let me.

  Of course Mom is abandoning me. This is what she does. I knew that when I moved into this dump. It’s not like I thought she’d changed. I knew she hadn’t. I didn’t come here to rebuild our relationship or anything. I came here because I had to get away from Dad. So I don’t feel betrayed now. I really don’t.

  Saturday, March 10

  That didn’t take long.

  I was sitting on my bed doing my homework. The headboard was cutting into my back, and I couldn’t hold my textbook and my notebook on my lap at the same time. After an hour I went to find Mom, who was sitting on the couch, wearing her striped bathrobe and reading a book. I said, “Do you think I could have a desk for my room and maybe a lamp for it, and also a lamp beside my bed?” I admit, I could have phrased it a lot more politely.

  Mom sat up fast. “You WILL speak to me with respect,” she said.

  “Sorry, Mom. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” My heart pounded. I knew I couldn’t prevent what was coming, but I had to try.

  “Do you know how much care I took with that room?” she said. “Hours to put together the bed with that little Allen wrench. And the new duvet, which you’ve never even mentioned. Here I am cooking dinner, rushing home from work, catering to your every whim, and your response is to demand more from me.”

  Anger rushed up from under my ribs. At least I can get mad at her. The day I can’t, I’ll know she’s beaten me. “You’ve made dinner, like, three times since I got here. Congratulations. Do you know how long Dad’s been cooking for me?”

  She loomed over me, hissing, “I’m not your dad.”

  In the span of an instant I thought about saying nothing, and then decided I’d hate myself later if I didn’t talk back to her. I faked a scoffing laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”

  She got in my face and screamed, “YOU TAKE AND TAKE FROM ME LIKE A LEECH. I WILL NOT ALLOW MYSELF TO BE USED THIS WAY. YOU’RE AN ENTITLED FUCKING BRAT.”

  When she loses it like that, her pupils contract and her lips quiver. It feels dangerous to look away from her, but I forced myself to turn and walk to my room. Snickers had been sleeping, but he sat up to stare at me when I came in. I locked the door and lay down on the bed with my face next to his doggy face, smelling his venison jerky breath and looking at the tiny black dots on his nose like they were a secret code explaining how to find a new family.

  Sunday, March 11

  The worst part is the apology. Mom came into my room sobbing and actually kneeled by my bed. “I didn’t mean it,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “It’s fine, Mom,” I said. She’ll never shut up and leave if you don’t say you forgive her, so you might as well do it fast.

  “It’s not,” she said, still sobbing, but I could hear the relief in her voice.

  I waited. Eventually she calmed down and sat by my feet. “I’m not excusing myself for losing my temper,” she said. “But you can understand why I got angry, can’t you? It’s fine to ask for things you need, but to be asked in a tone like that . . .”

  I didn’t say anything. I looked out at the skinny evergreen. What if I were a giant and could rip it out of the earth with my bare hands and smash the condo building to bits with its trunk?

  It’s not like she hits me. Other people have it so much worse than I do. Some people are impoverished or persecuted or both and their mothers yell at them or hit them.

  I don’t know. I guess I am an entitled fucking brat.

  “I’m not asking for an apology, of course,” she said. “I
t’s I who need to apologize. And I do, profusely.”

  I kept waiting. Finally, finally she left, but not before kissing my forehead.

  Monday, March 12

  “Are you OK?” Grady said after school. We were in bed, and I had my face pressed so far into his neck, I couldn’t breathe very well. It felt great.

  “I hate my mother,” I said.

  “Yeah?” he said, and waited.

  “That’s it,” I said into his neck. “We’re fighting. No big deal.”

  He nodded. I could tell he wanted to keep talking, but I didn’t, so I went down on him, and that changed the subject effectively.

  Tuesday, March 13

  This is the part where Mom plays the role of a perfect mother. She brings home fresh muffins for my breakfast, leaves flowers on my dresser, reminisces about cute things I did when I was a toddler, surprises me with a new desk and two lamps. Everything she does means Is it OK yet? Do you forgive me? Do you still love me? I’m trying to be aloof, but it’s hard not to give in to the barrage of affection. She can be charming when she wants to be. Also, the longer she keeps tenderly smoothing my hair away from my face and asking about my day, the less real Saturday seems. This hair-smoothing, how-was-your-day-asking mother is the kind of mother who would never scream at her daughter, so maybe she didn’t really scream at me. Or maybe it was someone else, some other version of her.

  She always tries to erase what she did, and it shouldn’t work. It doesn’t, because I never forget. But after a while it feels too awkward to keep making things unpleasant in our daily lives. She wears me down, and I don’t have the strength to stay cold. Maybe this time will be different, and I’ll ignore her until it’s time to leave for college.