Notes from a Former Virgin

by Emma Chastain

  Saturday, April 14

  I snuck Tristan over for a sleepover without telling Noelle.

  “Don’t mention you were here,” I told him, once we’d eaten dinner and were hanging out in my room.

  “How come?”

  “Noelle thinks we should only get together in a big group. All six of us.”

  “But you’re in charge, not her,” he said.

  “Kind of,” I said. “I think it’s more like she’s Machiavelli, and I’m the random generic prince.”

  Tris shook his head. “You were the one standing on the table. That’s all anyone cares about. You don’t even need her.”

  “Do you not like her?”

  “I think she’s impressive. But I’m scared of her too.”

  “Same,” I said. “Same.”

  We looked at the skinny evergreen in silence for a minute.

  “I can’t believe we’re popular,” Tris said. I felt a rush of relief. We were going to talk about it! It was fun, sitting at the cafeteria table like careless celebrities, pretending we were so used to the attention that we didn’t even notice it anymore, but it was also an exhausting charade.

  “I can’t believe we’re popular,” I said. “Are we, really?”

  “Yes!” Tris said. “Do you know how many kids say hi to me in the hall now?”

  “I’ve started hugging people,” I said. “It’s so Reese-y. Like I’ll hug Nadia because I can tell she worships me and I feel bad for her. Or, no, that’s not true. I do it because hugging her makes me look nice. ‘Look at the popular junior hugging that unknown freshman.’ ”

  Tris laughed. “That’s extremely Reese-y.”

  “I can do this without turning into a monster, though, right?”

  “Totally,” Tris said.

  Normally we talk about our boyfriends for at least an hour when we’re alone, but today we hardly mentioned them. There’s no time for romance when you’re establishing a new government.

  Sunday, April 15

  The six of us piled into Noelle’s mom’s car and drove to the botanic garden near the city. It was Noelle’s idea. She wanted to post pictures of us sitting under cherry trees. It felt half fake, kissing Grady knowing she was snapping away on her phone, but still, there I was with my beautiful boyfriend, standing in the sunlight, listening to the blossoms brushing against each other in the breeze. If I really concentrated, I could stop thinking about how many likes we were going to get and focus on the feeling of Grady’s mouth on my mouth.

  Monday, April 16

  Dad called. I almost hit decline when I saw his name on my phone, but at the last minute I swiped right. We said hi-how-are-you stuff for a few minutes, and then he said, “Marian and I missed you this weekend.”

  “Sorry to skip again,” I said. “I’ve had tons of homework.”

  “You can do homework over here. We’ll give you space.”

  “OK.”

  “So can we count on you for next weekend?”

  “Sure,” I said, because I wanted to get off the phone.

  After we hung up, I spent a few minutes regretting what I’d said and thinking of ways to weasel out of the visit. Then I clicked on #thesix to see if any new results would surface. Then I tried #the6. Then I forgot about the weekend. I’m so busy thinking about my new position, I have no space for my parents. It’s like they’ve become holograms of themselves. I can see them, I can hear them, but they don’t seem real.

  Tuesday, April 17

  Mom swept into the kitchen wearing a silky robe and flip-flops with thin black straps. “Good morning,” she said, pausing to kiss the back of my neck. The back of my NECK! Who does she think she is, Grady?

  “Morning,” I said, trying not to flinch away from her.

  “You’ve been so busy recently, sweetheart,” she said. “Always on your phone . . . always with your friends . . .”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Keeping up with your schoolwork, too, I hope.”

  “I have a 3.89,” I said.

  “Fantastic!”

  I’d made my screen dark when she came into the kitchen, since she considers clicking while talking the height of disrespectfulness. Now that she’d gone quiet, I wondered if I could wake up my phone without enraging her.

  She stopped with one hand on the refrigerator door handle, turning back to look at me. “How’s the quest for popularity going?” she said with a laugh.

  “Good,” I said. “I did it.”

  Her peppy mood vanished. “You did it?” She sounded surprised and disgusted, like she’d just found a year-old lemon in the crisper.

  “Yes,” I said. “I won.”

  She frowned. “You know, Chloe, popularity in high school isn’t exactly a predictor of future success,” she said. “The idol of my class is living with his mother, and if his online presence is any indication, he still spends most weekends drinking beer with his cronies.”

  I muttered something like, “Yep, thanks,” and scuttled to my room.

  A few months ago I was exactly like my mother was in high school: an unknown theater nerd resentful of the popular kids who barely knew I existed. Now I’m the person who could have squashed my mother like a bug. And she’s jealous of me. My own mother is jealous that I’m popular and she wasn’t. It feels awful, and good.

  Wednesday, April 18

  Noelle, Tris, Elliott, Grady, and I were walking through the hall when Reese and two squaddies turned the corner and headed toward us. We didn’t flinch, of course, and neither did they. It got quiet, though. Reese was eating a protein bar, and as she approached, I looked at it, wrinkled my nose in disgust, and loudly said, “Ew.” I saw her face get pink, and then she was gone.

  As soon as we turned the corner ourselves, Tris said, “Chloe!”

  “What?” I said, but of course I knew. I felt terrible.

  “Yeah, what, Tristan?” Noelle said. “Those bars are disgusting. Chloe was only being honest.”

  Grady didn’t say anything or even look anything, but I could tell from his blank face that he was disappointed in me.

  I feel ashamed, but why should I? She deserves it and more. She’s the one who spread lies about me. I’m not going to apologize for taking a tiny bit of revenge. It’s silly that I’m lying awake, worrying about what Grady thinks.

  Thursday, April 19

  “Hellooooo! I’m taking my clothes off now!” We were in my bedroom, and I was on my phone. Grady waved his hand between me and my screen.

  “One sec,” I said. The pink Vans pic from yesterday was still getting likes, and I couldn’t stop checking. It had been my idea to lie on our backs and lift our feet into the air, where they photographed well against the blue sky. I am a social media savant.

  I knew I should put my phone down and look at Grady, and I did, after I quickly reread all of yesterday’s comments and all the new ones from today. When I looked up, Grady was naked except for his undies, and he looked annoyed.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “You’re addicted,” he said.

  “Like you’re not!”

  “I’m not as bad as you!”

  “Did you see that Hazel Field liked it? She’s the Reese of the senior class. Or the me, I guess.”

  Grady groaned. “Can we please not talk about Six stuff for 10 minutes?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  We were both so grumpy that I thought we might not have sex, but after a few seconds passed in silence, I started kissing him, and he kissed me back, and it was OK again.

  Friday, April 20

  Harper is one of Reese’s top lieutenants, so when she came up to me, I assumed she was going to deliver a threatening message. Instead she said, “That picture of you and Grady was so cute. The TBT one? Where you’re wearing those big heart-shaped glasses?”

  I stared at her. She’d called me a hooker. She’d handed me a bottle of Tylenol for my nonexistent wart-removal pain. Did she think I’d forgotten?

  “We’ve never really hung out
,” she said. “Maybe we could sometime.”

  I wanted to say something honest to her, but I was scared. I’ve spent 14 years trying to get people like her to like me. I don’t have any practice being real. How to do it? I told myself I wasn’t myself, exactly; I was a girl with pink hair who didn’t care what anyone thought of her. What would that pink-haired girl say? My heart sped up, but I got the right words out: “Are you serious?”

  She looked taken aback. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Now that I’d said one bravely rude thing, it was easier to say the next. “You’re Reese’s friend. Not mine.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, but I was already walking away.

  I don’t care if she was just following orders. I’ll never forgive her, and now that I’m popular, I don’t have to.

  Saturday, April 21

  The worst part about going to Dad’s is Snickers. Every time we arrive, he thinks we’ve moved back for good. You can see the relief flood over him as soon as he gets in the door.

  The second-worst part is acting like a distant acquaintance of my own father’s.

  Today was low-key, at least. We hung around the house, went for a walk, then had dinner. Dad asked me about school. Miss Murphy asked me about my friends. Then it was my turn, and I asked Miss Murphy about the baby.

  “I can feel it moving now,” she said.

  “What does it feel like?” I said.

  “It’s hard to describe. Like a tiny pain. The echo of a tiny pain.”

  I tried to avoid looking at her belly. It’s not huge, but it’s there. A stranger would know she’s pregnant. It doesn’t make sense, but the bigger she gets, the more I feel like I’m permanently stuck at Mom’s. The baby’s arrival is getting closer and closer, and pushing me farther and farther away from my old life.

  “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” I said, to be polite.

  She smiled. “I’ve dreamed that it’s a girl, but I’ve also dreamed it’s a kitten I accidentally left locked in a toolshed with no milk while I flew to Florida, so I’m not buying pink rompers yet.”

  Usually there’s nothing more boring than hearing about other people’s dreams, but this one interested me. “So, in the dream, did you fly back from Florida?”

  She shook her head. “No. It was a terrible nightmare, actually. I realized on the plane that the cat was going to die and that I couldn’t get back in time to save it. Then my alarm went off. I still worry about that cat occasionally.”

  Dad said, “The really strange thing is, we saw a tail and two triangular ears during the last ultrasound.”

  “Hardy har,” Miss Murphy said.

  They’re so cute together. It should make me feel happy, not depressed and slightly disgusted. Poor Mom.

  Sunday, April 22

  It’s impossible to relax here, because I keep wondering if I’m in the way and they’re wishing I’d go back to my mother’s already. Like this morning, I went downstairs (fully showered and dressed, because it now feels weird to show up in the kitchen in my jammies) and interrupted a conversation. They were speaking in low voices, so I couldn’t make out the words, but I could tell it was about something serious because of their postures and the look on Miss Murphy’s face.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said when I realized I was interrupting them.

  “No, it’s fine,” Miss Murphy said.

  “Come on in,” Dad said. He turned to pull the clean coffeepot out of the drying rack, like he wasn’t going to say anything more. Miss Murphy looked at him, then me, and said, “We were talking about your uncle Julian.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Is he OK?”

  “Yes,” Dad said. Then he caught Miss Murphy’s eye and said, “He’s been better, actually.”

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  Dad sighed. “He lost his job. He has a complicated explanation about a rival co-worker and a manager who’s intimidated by him, but I assume he was fired because he’s drinking again and he’s been showing up to work drunk or hungover.”

  “How do you know?” I said. “Does he sound slurry on the phone?”

  “He sounds like he’s making a huge effort not to slur his words,” Dad said.

  Since I don’t have a sibling (YET), I can’t know what it would be like to worry about a younger brother, but I’m sure it would be terrible. Dad looked sick.

  Monday, April 23

  I feel bad for Mom when I see Miss Murphy and Dad laughing together. I feel bad for Dad when Mom asks how my weekend was and I say, “Eh, not great.” I feel guilty whenever I snap and call Grady to say something like, “I can’t stand my parents,” or text Noelle, “Did your dad ever kiss Tara’s earlobe right in front of you?” plus the emoji barfing a puddle of green. There aren’t many minutes in the day when I don’t feel terrible about my parents.

  Tuesday, April 24

  Everything about school is easier when you’re popular. Take lunch, for example. When you’re not popular, you have to get through lunch as unobtrusively as possible. The worst mistake would be drawing attention to yourself. If you bring smelly leftovers, laugh loudly, or get caught staring, you could be labeled WEIRD, which is the first step on the road to total social ruin. When you’re popular, you can roar with laughter, chase your friends around the table, and scream at each other for stealing food. You can burp! Whatever you do is interesting because you’re doing it. The kids at the other tables soak it all up like their eyes are tiny cameras.

  Wednesday, April 25

  Everyone’s looking a lot sharper. Elliott got new glasses. Hannah had her lob cleaned up. I haven’t worn a single item from my former wardrobe since Noelle took me shopping. Tris never needed help, but even he’s intensified his look with some extra-preppy items (penny loafers complete with actual pennies, a beaded belt, an aggressively plain canvas tote). I’ve been trying not to ask intrusive questions—no one likes to be interrogated about what they’re wearing—but today when I saw Elliott by the bike rack, the sunlight was actually sparkling off the corner of his frames, and I couldn’t resist.

  “I love your new glasses,” I said.

  He touched them. “Thanks!”

  “Did Noelle pick them out, by any chance?”

  He nodded, looking embarrassed. “I asked her for help. I felt like . . . I don’t know. I want to look good in all the pictures. That sounds so dumb.”

  “No! I do too. I want to look HOT. Hot, cool, pretty. All of it.”

  He said, “I really like your new clothes.”

  “Noelle chose everything. That’s why I thought . . . anyway, thank you.”

  We smiled at each other. Elliott’s so nice. He deserves everything that’s happening to us, unlike me.

  Thursday, April 26

  We were all at our lockers, and Noelle was calling down to Tristan, “No, let’s go to my house. My mom’s leaving for a work trip, remember? I had an amazing idea: we should bust out the Ouija board. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?” Nadia was passing by, and she looked at us quickly, only for a second, but there was so much longing and anxiety in her tiny little glance that I felt bad—I felt truly terrible—that I’m now part of the group that screams about plans in the halls and makes everyone else feel left out. But that’s the weak part of me talking. The same part that makes me forgive Mom every time she screams at me. I have to crush that part. It’s not wrong to have a group of friends. It’s not wrong to like each other, make plans, be loud. If other people are jealous, that’s their problem.

  Friday, April 27

  I’ve been avoiding hanging out with Hannah alone, partly because I’m scared to defy Noelle, partly because I’m worried that Hannah will want to lecture me about how snotty we’re being and tell me we have to stop. I miss her, though, and when she whispered, “Want to come over after school?” I whispered “Yes!” right away. The fact that we were whispering proves that Noelle is really in charge, not me, and we all know it.

  We took the bus, since Hannah lives too far away to walk.

&
nbsp; “How are you?” I said, once we’d found seats. “Tell me for real. How’s school? How’s guy stuff?”

  “I’m stressed about my grades, obviously. Getting ready to apply to schools. All of that.”

  “Right. Of course. Junior year.”

  “Junior year.”

  We nodded. Teachers had been warning us for years about how hellacious junior year would be, and they were right.

  “Guy stuff . . . ,” she said, and stopped.

  “What?”

  “Say, theoretically, Zach and I got back together.”

  I’d been slumped down with my knees resting on the seat in front of me, but I straightened up when I heard this.

  “What are you telling me?” I said.

  “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

  We were shoulder to shoulder. I could smell her herbal shampoo. Every part of her was so familiar to me. Her hand with the clean nails she never bites. Her legs on the seat, in the unripped, unfaded jeans she wears. What if Zach hurt her again? Zach, with his sexy man-bun and his artfully curated social media presence—he’s so unworthy of her.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I think he’s changed,” she said. “He’s apologized a hundred times for what he did. He even wrote a song about how sorry he is.”

  Sappy, obvious, self-centered, I thought. “That’s sweet,” I said.

  “I’m not saying I’ve decided,” she said.

  “You’re mulling it over,” I said.

  “Right.”

  We stared out the window for the rest of the ride. The spring leaves looked so healthy and hopeful, like little freshmen.

  Saturday, April 28

  How am I going to fake politeness when Hannah brings Zach around? I’ll never forgive him for cheating on her. And what if he does it again? I’ll lose my mind. I’ll go full Reese on him.