by Nicole Maggi
I grabbed a stack of the pamphlets away from her. “Nobody’s asking you to get behind it.”
“I’m sorry, I just—you know, studies have definitively proven that comprehensive sex education is the best way to prevent teen pregnancy and STIs.”
Hearing that word on her lips, just thrown out there so casually like I was a statistic, something bubbled over inside me. “We’re not talking about preventing pregnancy or STIs. We’re talking about making a commitment and sticking to it. About respecting yourself enough to wait.” I bit down on my lip to shut myself up, because I could feel the tears coming. I would’ve stuck to that commitment if I’d been allowed to.
“Okay,” she said. “I can get on board with that reasoning. But you can respect yourself and still have sex before marriage too, you know.” She shrugged. “I just don’t think it’s for me. I mean, I wouldn’t buy a car without taking it for a test drive, would you?”
I glared at her. “That is a disgusting analogy.” I threw the last few pamphlets in the bin and snapped the lid on. “You’re talking about the sacred bond between two people, not a car.”
“But you can be in love—real, true, sacred love—without being married,” Lise said. “Look at Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “Are you serious? That’s the best you can come up with?”
“Eva Mendes and Ryan Gosling?” Lise suggested.
“Ryan Gosling?”
“Come on, you gotta give me Eva and Ryan. Ryan, Mellie.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Ryan.”
I looked at Lise. A smile spread across her mouth and she started to laugh, crinkling her eyes up at the edges. I snorted again. I couldn’t exactly bring myself to laugh but the sound, the feel of her laughter lightened something inside me. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll give you Ryan Gosling.”
“Anyway, sorry for scaring you.” She lifted the bin off the floor and held it out to me.
I took its weight into my arms. It felt heavier than it should, full of shame and doubt and broken promises. “Thanks.” I opened the door with my back, sweeping cold air and the smell of snow into the hallway. The sky was gray and cloudy, limning the world in shadow. I started down the steps.
“I saw you take that pamphlet.”
Lise’s voice, quiet but firm, made me turn. The chilly air swirled around me. “What pamphlet?”
“The RAINN one.” Lise stepped down one stair so that she was just one above me, our eyes almost equal. “I saw you put it in your pocket.”
“No… I—” I swallowed. My whole body went hot and cold all at once, from the inside out. I couldn’t scramble up a lie fast enough, none that were believable. “It’s not for me.”
Lise raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s for—the church. The secretary was saying the other day they wanted to have more crisis resources. So I grabbed one to show her. In case they want to have them at the church too.” God, it sounded so stupid, then, as I said it and, now, as I write it down. An excuse so paper-thin that she had to see right through it. It actually seems impossible that no one else has seen it when it feels so obvious to me.
But after an eternally long moment, Lise just lifted a shoulder. “Okay,” she said, dropping it in a shrug. “If you say so.” She jogged down a few steps, but before she reached the bottom she turned back to me again. “But if that’s not the truth—if it wasn’t for, you know, the church…” She took a deep breath, and I could feel the weight in her next words, how she measured them with care. “You can talk to me, Mellie. I mean it. I’m here.”
She left it at that and hurried up the sidewalk, her head bent against the wind. I just stood there and watched her go. She gave me one last wave as she turned the corner. I watched her for a long time after she disappeared, unable to move.
One minute or a lifetime later, it started to snow.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 22
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I’m writing this during my prayer circle meeting. I’m writing this during my prayer circle meeting because no one but me is here. I got here early, so it wasn’t weird at first. Three minutes turned to five, then ten… Finally I got up and walked out into the hall and down to the big picture window that looks out over the front steps of the school. Sure enough, there was Delia with Susanna and all the rest of my friends, walking away from the school, presumably to have their own prayer circle somewhere else, without me. I feel like Delia saw me at the window, but I can’t be sure. I’ve always known she has this vindictive streak, but it’s never been directed at me before.
I wish I could say I don’t care, but it hurts my heart, like a pulled muscle that won’t heal. All those years of friendship, of shared secrets and memories, were a lie. She wasn’t ever my friend, not really, not if she can’t be my friend when it counts the most. If she was really my friend, she wouldn’t write me off so easily. And honestly, I wish I were still living in the blissful ignorance of our fake friendship. I wish I didn’t have this thing I can’t tell her and we could just go on the way we’ve always gone on, even if it is a lie.
At least it’s quiet in this empty classroom.
It’s easier to piece out my thoughts in this kind of quiet.
I know you think I’m a hypocrite. I am.
All these years, I never thought abortion was okay. But now it’s me and it’s okay. That is the textbook definition of hypocrisy.
Here’s the thing. It wasn’t me before. Meaning, I believed what my family told me I should believe. I didn’t really think about how I felt about the issue myself, if I were to put myself in someone else’s shoes. I didn’t know what it was like to actually walk in these shoes. And now I have them on, and they’re too tight and uncomfortable and they rub on my heel and I’ve got blisters all over my toes. I get it now. This isn’t a situation anyone would ever choose to be in. You just find yourself in it, and then you have to make all sorts of horrible decisions in order to get yourself out.
I used to think abortion was a black-and-white issue. If you had one, you were a bad person. If you chose not to, you were good. Except there are a thousand shades of gray in between those two extremes. I get it now that I’m one of those shades.
My mom is one of those shades too. I always put her in the good camp because she’s my mother. You don’t really want to think about your mom being a bad person. But now I realize—she’s not good or bad. She’s just human.
In all those speeches she gives, my mom talks about how much she regrets her abortion. How she wonders who that child would’ve been, how she counts how old she/he might’ve been, how she prays every day for forgiveness for the choice she made. But now, I’m replaying her speeches in my head, and I’m hearing what she doesn’t say. How if she had kept that baby, she never would’ve married my dad. She doesn’t talk about how she lives in a nice, big house with a husband who supports her so she can stay at home with her six children—all of whom she probably wouldn’t have had if she’d kept that baby. Everything she has, she has because she didn’t have that baby.
But that’s never the way it’s been presented. Instead, it’s all about her regret over one baby.
I was ten years old when my youngest sister was born, and I remember it well. Joanie was born at home, so I was there when she came into this world. It was such a happy occasion, especially because it was easy. Having already had five kids, my mom’s body had gotten good at the process. When Joanie came out, she was laid on my mother’s chest, and she got this smile on her face. “What a blessing,” she said. I assume she said it after each of us. Because we were all blessings. Every baby is a blessing. That’s what I always thought. How would I think any different, seeing how incredibly happy my mom was bringing my sisters into the world? I’ve never known a baby who wasn’t wanted, a cherished addition to their family.
Ma
ybe that’s why it’s always been so easy for me to accept that every baby, no matter how he or she was conceived, is a blessing.
Every baby. Every baby. Every baby. I’ve heard all the speeches about it in my dad’s campaigns, at the pro-life rallies my mom has taken me to. It’s been drilled into me, ingrained in the fiber of my brain.
Have you ever tried to change something that is so fundamental to your being? It hurts. Like physically hurts. Right now, that change and that pain is all beneath the surface, invisible to anyone but me.
Pretty soon, the reason for all this change will become clear to everyone. My jeans already feel too tight. I had to sew in an elastic to close them and make sure my sweater covers the zipper even when I raise my arms in the air.
I don’t have a lot of time left before everyone can see, and all that pain will be visible on the outside.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 22
Dear Ms. Tilson—
Rowan and I almost had sex today.
This afternoon he came over, because our moms were both at work, so of course we made out on the couch. We would’ve done it, except neither of us had a condom, and we were not going to risk it. After he left, I started to doubt what I felt when we were together. Did I really want to have sex with him? Am I ready for that?
First of all, I want to make clear that he’s not pressuring me in any way. Rowan is a good guy. His mother is a granola hippie who’s been talking to him about consent since he was two. So that’s not the issue. He’s not the issue.
Then what is the issue? Is there one, or am I just overthinking it because that’s what I do? The thing is, in the moment, on the couch, I wasn’t thinking at all. I was lost in him, lost in how good it felt, lost in how happy I was. It was only when we stopped that I started to think.
Sometimes I think I should think less. See how bad I am? I have to think about not thinking. I guess what I mean to say is, I should do more, jump in faster, be spontaneous.
Because the truth is, if there had been a condom, I would’ve done it. Without thinking too much.
So I’ve made up my mind. I should just do it, right? Right. Right? I guess the next time I’m at the drugstore I should buy some condoms.
—Lise
February 22
Night
Dear Ms. Tilson—
Okay, my mind is not made up. I’m all twisted and I can’t sleep. I’m lying here awake in the middle of the night, listening to the creak of the house and the wind outside. Maybe it’s excitement, you know, nervous anticipation about making the decision to finally do it. Except…I don’t think that’s it.
This afternoon, on the couch, I thought I knew what I wanted. I mean, hands everywhere, clothes half off, my skin so warm wherever it touched his… It was good. Going further would probably feel even better. Why wouldn’t it? Rowan loves me. At least, I think he does. He’s never said it. But he does stuff, like leave me a Snickers bar inside my locker before seventh period because he knows I need a little afternoon sugar to get through biology. He calls when he says he’s going to call. He helped his mom make homemade veggie noodle soup when I had the flu and brought it over, then sat on the couch and watched about seven hours of Gilmore Girls with me. GILMORE GIRLS, Ms. Tilson. That’s gotta be love.
But he’s never said the words.
Neither have I.
The thing is, I’m not sure I love him. I mean, I love him. I love him in the way a girl loves a guy for sitting through seven hours of Gilmore Girls. But I’m not sure I love him, like buy-a-plane-ticket-and-run-through-an-airport-to-give-him-one-last-kiss-at-the-gate kind of love. That gotta-have-him-now kind of love. That can’t-live-without-him kind of love.
Then again, maybe I’m asking for too much. Maybe that love is just in movies. I mean, I know all about this Cinderella fantasy that society has created for women. My mom says the best kind of love, the best kind of marriage, is built on friendship. Partnership. Gee, Mom, thanks for making marriage sound like the most unromantic thing ever.
But maybe in the long run, growing old together on a foundation of mutual respect and understanding is the most romantic thing ever.
UGH. Do you see why I’m so twisted up about this?
Do I lose my virginity to someone I’m not sure I love, but I know cares about me and respects me, or do I hold out for an elusive ideal that may never come?
I guess I always imagined I’d lose my virginity to someone who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Even if we break up a month later, at the moment we have sex, I want to believe we’re going to be together forever. That he is the one, the love of my life. But if it turns out that he isn’t the one, does that make the fact that we slept together better or worse? Will it break my heart?
If I have sex with Rowan, I don’t think I’d be risking my heart. I think…if we broke up…my heart would be okay.
I know it may sound weird, but maybe I should lose my virginity to someone who has the power to break my heart.
And I’m not even getting into all the risks of pregnancy, STIs… So what’s my rush? I know plenty of girls who are still virgins. Well, three. No—wait—two. Jesus. Only two of my friends are still virgins? So again I ask—what is the rush? Why does it feel like girls are expected to lose their virginity in high school?
I don’t want to be a statistic.
I wish there was some magical sign that would tell me what the right decision is. Some neon billboard flashing DO IT or WAIT.
What would Lorelai Gilmore do?
Wait. Lorelai Gilmore got pregnant at sixteen.
Bad example.
—Lise
February 23
Night (back in the closet)
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I don’t get Hannah anymore. I just don’t. Three days ago we were laughing over old times while eating cake. Today she’s a different version of herself, one I’ve never seen before, smug and self-righteous. She’s already acting like those perfect wives at our church, their smiles wide and bright while they whisper behind each other’s backs. Where is the old Hannah, who used to make fun of them? I want to smack this smugness off her face. She acts like she understands the secrets of the universe because someone proposed to her. Like she’s got it all figured out. Well, I have news for her. She doesn’t have a clue. Not one teeny tiny inkling of a clue.
Tonight during dinner, she turns to me and asks in front of the whole family, “How come you’re not talking to Delia anymore? What did you do to her?” Everyone at the table stopped, forks in midair, and stared at me. Delia and I have been best friends since forever, and if we’re not speaking, they assume it has to be something I did. Because Delia is the daughter of our pastor and that makes her golden. Spotless. Untouchable.
Also, me and Delia not talking? That just happened. Like, two days ago. And Hannah knows about it already? Delia must’ve told her brother, who told Hannah. All within the last two days. Like a game of telephone.
I looked around the table at my family, their eyes all on me like firebrands, and swallowed the chicken that was still in my mouth. It stuck to my throat. “I didn’t do anything,” I said. “She stopped talking to me.”
“She must’ve had a reason,” Mom said.
I didn’t even look at her. Of course she would take Delia’s side. I can’t rely on her to protect me like the Mama Bear she used to be. She won’t stick her neck out for me. Not if it means risking Dad’s reputation.
“I have no idea,” I said to Hannah, instead of answering Mom. “We hosted the Girls for Christ table at the Women’s Day Fair on Wednesday, and after that she stopped talking to me.”
“She said she didn’t think you pulled your weight,” Hannah said.
No wonder Delia told her family we weren’t speaking. She wanted to throw me under the bus before I threw her under it.
<
br /> “Okay, so if you already knew why she was mad at me, why did you ask me?”
“Mellie,” Dad’s voice boomed, making me jump. “I don’t like your tone.”
“I don’t understand why Hannah is bringing this up,” I said, slamming my fork down. “It’s between me and Delia. It’s none of your business.”
“I can’t have my maid of honor fighting with one of my bridesmaids,” Hannah said. More like whined. Like the Hannah that I tasted cakes with a few days ago has left the building. “Fix it before you ruin my wedding.”
“OH MY GOD!” Then it was my voice that made everyone jump. “That’s all you care about! Your stupid wedding! You don’t even care that I got dumped by my best friend.”
“Mellie!” This time it was Mom.
I stood. “May I be excused?”
“Actually, young lady, you can go to your room and think about your attitude. I’ll call you when it’s time to clean up. Which you will be doing by yourself.”
“Fine.” I stomped upstairs. But by the time I reached the second floor, the chicken had risen up to my throat. I barely made it to the toilet.
As I sat on the cold bathroom floor, I wanted to hate Hannah. What is wrong with her? One day she’s the old Hannah, and the next day she’s the soon-to-be Mrs. Talbot. I don’t get it. If she were awful all the time, I could write her off in my mind and not care anymore.
But then I think about what she’s marrying into, and I feel pity.
Pity and fear.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 24
Night (after a looooong day)
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I wish I were eighteen. You know why? So I could not vote for my father. I would get an insane amount of pleasure in that. Walking into that booth and checking off someone else’s name on the ballot.
