Notes from a Former Virgin

by Emma Chastain

  Wednesday, June 6

  I trust Noelle. I’m sure she’s right that I shouldn’t mention my nomination to anyone. Probably it would look vain or insecure. But I couldn’t resist posting a picture of my shoes and nail polish and pin. It took me about two hours, seriously, to find the right background (a piece of expensive wrapping paper I found in a bin in Mom’s closet), realize that I needed to take the picture outside to get the best light, position and reposition all the objects, and pick a filter. Grady refused to help me, which annoyed me even though I understand why moving a bottle of nail polish seven eighths of an inch might not be as interesting to him as it is to me. After I posted the pic, the likes came instantly. The pin got the most love, but people commented on all of it, even the rainbows on the wrapping paper. I don’t want to jinx anything, but there were even a handful of #promqueen hashtags in the comments.

  Thursday, June 7

  Reese came up to me for the first time since the cafeteria incident. When I saw her heading my way, I was instinctively terrified for a second, and then I remembered she can’t hurt me anymore. Also, she looked nervous.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” she said in a breathy voice.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “I just wanted to say I hope we can let bygones be bygones. I’m totally rooting for you on Saturday.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said, and smiled at her. “Did you vote for me? Because I didn’t vote for you.” It’s still scary, saying stuff like that, but when you force yourself to do it, you feel exhilarated.

  She flinched a little. “Whatever happens, it’s an honor that we were both nominated.”

  She’s so cheesy. I said, “You didn’t happen to see my post yesterday, did you?”

  I could see her deciding how to respond. Then she said, “I think I did. I love your shoes!”

  “Do you love my pin?”

  “Yes?” she said, like she wasn’t sure what the right answer was.

  “I thought you would,” I said, “since you like accusing people of being whores.”

  My heart was racing as I turned and walked away.

  Here’s how I know I’ve beaten her: she called out to me, but instead of saying something to defend herself (“I don’t do that”) or attack me (“It’s not my fault you’re a whore”), what she said was, “Good luck this weekend!”

  Friday, June 8

  Grady seemed quiet when he came over after school. We didn’t talk much, just took off our clothes and had sex right away in my bed. When we were done, he lay there staring at the ceiling. I put my arm across his chest and said, “Sorry I’ve been kind of preoccupied recently. It’ll be better after prom is over.” He turned and smiled at me for what felt like the first time that day. “I can’t wait for summer,” he said.

  “Me neither,” I said, which wasn’t actually true. The thing I can’t wait for is happening tomorrow night.

  I’m pretty sure you can shed your high school life like a snakeskin the instant you graduate. Probably by the time you’re 30 no one can tell what you were like at age 17 or where you fell in the pecking order. Even if they could tell, they wouldn’t care. But I bet even 30-year-olds feel a twinge of interest if they find out you were prom queen. Prom queen! It’ll be like wearing an invisible crown for the rest of my life. Even if I struggle to find a good job, or my dad gets so wrapped up in his new family he forgets about me, or my mother vanishes again, I’ll know that at one point people loved me.

  Saturday, June 9

  We’re almost ready! I’m sneaking a diary entry while Noelle’s outside smoking. She came over at noon so we could get dressed together. Mom made us mimosas, which are delicious. They’re what fairies would drink, if fairies were real. I only had one, even though my mother kept offering me more, because I want to remember every minute of tonight. She stayed out of our way while we prepped. Noelle got my hair wet and blew it out. Same for herself. I’d assumed we’d get our hair done at a salon, but Noelle said getting an updo in the suburbs is liking paying someone to make you look middle-aged. After our hair was done, she did our makeup. She spent 45 minutes on my eyes alone.

  My mom’s going to drive us over to Noelle’s house in a few minutes. Grady and Tris and Hannah and Zach and Elliott are meeting us there with their parents so we can take pictures. Dad and Miss Murphy are coming too. The sun’s shining, and I’m about to stand on the grass with my arms around my friends, smiling and pretending to be embarrassed by all the attention. My skirt is so comfortable, and when I walk, it swirls around my ankles. My top is so skimpy it’s shocking. When I blink, my fake eyelashes are like WHOOSH, WHOOSH. I’m about to put my pin on my waistband. I feel like I could rule a planet. I know I’m going to win win win win win win win.

  Sunday, June 10

  I lost. Maybe there’s a lot to say about it, and maybe that’s all there is to say. I lost.

  Monday, June 11

  Tris was right: pre-prom is the best part. When it’s happening, it feels like a prologue you have to get through before the real event begins, and it is that, but it’s also the part when nothing’s gone wrong yet and you have an adoring audience of parents and you know they’re thinking, It seems like yesterday she was a baby, and, I can’t believe how tall and handsome he is, and for a second you can see yourself through their eyes and appreciate yourself as a young person full of promise rather than the tormented basket case you feel like on the inside.

  Grady looked so beautiful. My heart jumped up when I saw him coming across the backyard toward me, smiling in his tuxedo. He never looks sheepish. He always looks confident. How can you resist someone like that, especially when he also has deep-set eyes and a full mouth and a sharp jaw? When he got to me, he took both my hands, leaned in close, and whispered, “You look amazing.” He kissed my earlobe and snuck a tiny bite onto the end of the kiss. I wanted to say, “Grady, I haven’t been paying enough attention to you, and I’m sorry,” but I was too shy, so I tried to beam the thought out to him silently.

  The parents took millions of pictures on their phones. Mom and Dad and Miss Murphy chatted pleasantly for a minute and then avoided each other. We kids ate some of the food Noelle’s mom had put out, but not too much, because we were so nervous. And then the limo (standard, black) arrived, and we took a million more pictures in front of it, and then it was time to go.

  Felix Nicholson will probably grow up to produce the Academy Awards. He pulled off prom on a boat like it was his hundredth time doing it. We boarded, we ate dinner at long tables inside, we took pictures in the photo booth, we stood outside on the deck looking at the lit-up buildings and taking more pictures of ourselves, we went back inside to find the tables had been cleared away and the dancing had started. Felix moved us around like chess pieces, and it didn’t even feel like he was doing anything. When he came to tell me prom king and queen would be announced in 20 minutes and I should meet him and the other nominees by the DJ booth in 15, I commented on the lack of nautical theming. “I thought for sure there’d be anchors everywhere,” I said. “Or waves.”

  He looked offended. “I loathe themes,” he said.

  I admit my first thought was How dare you speak to me like that? It didn’t occur to me that he knew I’d lost and he didn’t feel he had to be polite to me.

  Noelle and I went to the bathroom so she could touch up my makeup and smooth out my flyaways.

  “You’re doing a good job standing up straight,” she said. “Keep it up.”

  “I have shrimp in my teeth!” I said, looking in the mirror.

  “Here.” She handed me a tiny plastic wishbone strung with floss.

  Two girls came in, saw us, said, “Sorry!” and turned around and left. Noelle and I rolled our eyes at each other. How quickly you forget that non-popular people are terrified, not ridiculous.

  “Feeling good?” Noelle said when we were alone again.

  “Feeling great,” I said. “Feeling calm.”

  We smiled at each other. “Whatever happe
ns, keep it together,” she said.

  I nodded. I thought she was telling me not to scream or over-emote when Felix read out my name. I thought I understood that I might not win, but I didn’t really. I was only telling myself I didn’t know the outcome. In my heart I was convinced I had it in the bag.

  When the nominees were assembled, the lights went dim, aside from a spotlight shining on us, and the music stopped. Felix cleared his throat, then brought the microphone to his mouth and said, “As head of the prom committee, I’d like to thank you all for joining us tonight!” The crowd cheered as if we’d all accomplished something by showing up for a dance. Reese was on my left, wearing a turquoise dress with triangular cutouts. I could feel her presence like a bonfire pouring heat onto my skin. Izzy was on my right, in a flowered gown with an empire waist and a bow that tied in the back. She was no threat. She might as well have been a centerpiece. On the other side of Felix were Tris, Mark, and Griffin. Right at the front of the crowd stood the other four of the Six, looking at me with excited smiles, or maybe nervous smiles.

  Felix was making a speech about the values of our class, which apparently the nominees are meant to embody. Tolerance. Generosity. Open-mindedness. I let myself raise one eyebrow, just a millimeter. Who was Felix kidding? Reese is about as tolerant and open-minded as a honey badger.

  “I’m pleased to announce the runners-up for prom king. Mark Philips.” The crowd clapped and wooed. “Griffin Gonzalez.” As the cheers continued, I realized who had won. “And now I’d like to introduce your prom king, Tristan Flynn.” Shouts of approval from the crowd. Tris ran over to Elliott and kissed him before coming back to Felix and accepting the crown, which the prom committee must have shelled out some real cash for: it looked heavy, it was trimmed with what appeared to be white fur, and in the center was a cushiony part made of maroon velvet. Tris didn’t get a sash, I’m guessing because Felix considers sashes tacky.

  I was still smiling at Tris when Felix said, “And now, your prom queen runners-up. Reese Riley. Chloe Snow.” I don’t remember hearing him say Izzy’s name, although he must have. But I remember her grabbing my hand and looking at me with real shock on her face and then turning to Felix and bowing her head so he could put the glittering tiara on her hair, which he did carefully, making sure he didn’t mess with her updo.

  Tris gave me an apologetic look as Felix said, “Tristan, if you’d lead Isabelle to the dance floor?” Off they went to dance to “I’m Yours.” The first verse lasted an eternity. I could feel everyone staring at me. I kept a serene smile pinned to my lips. I was so close to crying, but I knew I couldn’t, so I knew I wouldn’t.

  I glanced at Reese, who was smiling too. I understand now why she covers up her real self in public. You have to. It’s not even covering up—it’s holding on to your dignity.

  We stood there smiling and smiling until the DJ invited everyone to join the royal couple on the dance floor. Even before Noelle gave me a firm nod, like Start dancing immediately, I was walking to Grady.

  When he put his arms around me, I thought I really might start crying, from the relief of him, but then I spotted the back of Reese’s head over his shoulder and I got it together. Hannah was dancing with Zach and giving me sympathetic looks whenever she caught my eye. Zach hadn’t left her side all night, and more than once I’d seen him lifting her hand to his lips. At least I’d done one good thing with my popularity.

  “You got robbed,” Grady said.

  “Better Izzy than Reese,” I said.

  “Good point.” He pulled back to look me in the eye and said, “You know this is all bullshit, right? It doesn’t matter. It’s dumb high school nonsense.”

  “I know,” I said, and at the time I thought I should agree with him, but now I think, why is it bullshit? Why is it wrong to care about your life, whatever kind of life it is? If your high school years don’t matter, why does your first job, or your wedding, or your pregnancy, or anything? It all matters or none of it does.

  Tuesday, June 12

  Mom was waiting up for us when we got to the condo for our after-prom party. “Should I open the champagne?” she said as soon as we came in.

  “Sure,” I said. “But for Tris, not for me. I lost.”

  Everyone rushed to talk about the photo booth, the dinner, and whatever else they could think of to make me feel less self-conscious. Mom listened to all of it and asked a lot of fascinated questions. She also snuck glances at me, and the glances were smug, like I knew you wouldn’t win, or maybe more like This will knock that chip off your shoulder, you popular bitch.

  Wednesday, June 13

  Everything seems normal at school. We wore our pink Vans. We sat at our table. Nadia clung to me when I hugged her. It’s not like it all turned into pumpkins and rags at the stroke of midnight on Saturday. We’ve still got something.

  Thursday, June 14

  OK, we’ve still got something, but it’s not the same something. At lunch Tris and Elliott talked quietly together, Noelle played on her phone, and Hannah and Grady looked at their food while they ate. We’ve lost some of our fizz. We had a goal, we were moving upward in a straight line toward glory, and now we’ve leveled off.

  Friday, June 15

  Reese laughed in the hall. I haven’t heard her laugh since before the cafeteria incident. I realize how ridiculous I sound, but I’m worried. I don’t want her laughing.

  As a class, we’ve already endured OVER A DECADE of Reese’s rule. That’s longer than two-term presidents serve! Maybe I’m paranoid, but I think she could be mounting a comeback campaign, and even if it only exists as a figment of my imagination, I’m going to squash it. She had her turn, and it’s my turn now. If someone like Izzy were up for taking the throne, I’d cede it to her, but Izzy is back to toting her clarinet around in a carrying case with a cartoon unicorn on it and wearing giant promotional T-shirts tucked into khakis. Which is great! I’m not criticizing her. But she’s not the kind of person who’s going to keep us safe from Reese. I alone can do it.

  Saturday, June 16

  As I was getting ready to leave for Dad’s, Mom called, “Hang on!” from her bedroom. Then she came out wearing a white bathing suit with long tassels hanging from the neckline to the crotch. “What do you think?” she said. “For Saint Thomas!”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  She walked to the mirror by the front door and turned around to check out her butt. “You didn’t forget about the training course, did you? What’s your plan for next month? Did you find a camp?”

  I felt a surge of anger and looked at her cellulite with satisfaction, enjoying being disgusted by her. She must know it doesn’t work like that. Kids don’t research camps, choose the one best suited to them, email the director, fill out the application, put down a deposit, pick up the bug repellant and sunscreen, figure out how long the drive’s going to take, and send care packages to themselves.

  “I’ll stay with Dad, I guess,” I said.

  She made a face. “You’ll have to arrange that with him yourself. We’re not exactly on speaking terms right now.”

  “Fine,” I said quickly, hoping to cut her off before she started complaining about him in more detail.

  “All I can say is thank God you’re old enough to have your own relationship with him without my involvement, because I can’t bear even to discuss scheduling with that man. The inflexibility! The self-righteousness!”

  She went on like this for a few minutes while I tried to tune out and think of something happy, like Snickers running on the beach and barking at the waves.

  “You’ll have the keys, of course, if you need a mental health break from your father.” She headed back to her bedroom, calling, “But no parties!” Like I’ve ever thrown a party before, and like I ever would.

  Sunday, June 17

  I couldn’t pay attention at the Father’s Day brunch Miss Murphy made for Dad, because as soon as she brought out the French toast casserole, it came to me: PARTY. Party of th
e century. Rager that will make me an MH legend for generations to come. July Fourth–themed bash that kids will skip their vacations to attend. Triumph that will make everyone forget junior prom even happened. I’ll make sure Izzy comes, and I’ll treat her like a princess so that everyone can see I’m the cool banger-thrower who’s already forgotten about prom, not some basic nobody sweating over a tiara. The squad will show up, even if they tell themselves they’re coming to make fun of it, and when Reese arrives, I WON’T LET HER IN. Let’s see how long her comeback campaign lasts after that.

  And another thing: I’m not telling Dad about Mom’s trip. I refuse to stay with him. I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll go to his house a few times, like I normally do. I’ll ride my bike over there, and if he comes to pick me up, he’ll wait for me in the condo parking lot, like he always does. He hasn’t once come up to say hi to Mom, so he won’t figure out that something’s wrong. And he and I text to arrange these visits, so it’s not like he’ll get in touch with her and figure out she’s not there. It’ll be a cinch to get away with this. Actually, it’s sad to think about how easy it’ll be.

  Monday, June 18