“You can tell me anything, Ali,” he says, his eyelids squinting open.
“I don’t want to say it,” I wail. “And I want you to shut your eyes!”
“You want to write it?” he says, and rummages for paper in the junk drawer, coming up with a pink Post-it Note and a pencil.
So I look at the paper. I squeeze my hands together.
This is what I write:
SEX
I push the paper close to him.
“Can I open my eyes?”
But when he opens his eyes, I’m going to be a different girl. I want to warn him. I’m not your daughter anymore. I used to be. Until last night.
“Ali—I’m opening my eyes.” And he does. He sees the note. Sighs. Rubs his fingers over his face. No matter how hard you rub, Dad, this isn’t going to go away. I feel bad for him actually. I want to hug him, apologize. Explain more.
He trails his finger over the paper and then flips it over. That word SEX is gone.
“Do you love this boy?”
I can’t talk now because I just told my father my biggest secret ever. And he’s a man. I can’t imagine what he thinks. My stomach knots up.
I shake my head. No.
“Does he love you?”
I laugh, tears spilling down my face. My body erupts into a crying fit, and I cover my eyes with my hands. I’m so ashamed. It was such a mistake. Such a stupid, stupid mistake. And now I’m going to pay for it forever.
My father comes around the table and kneels on the floor, wrapping his solid arm over my back as I grunt and snort.
“Is that why you mangled your bangs like that?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. Because it’s as good of a reason as any.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I scream. My face fires up, my whole body full of angry heat. But I can’t say any more. I’m not ready to. Because this is what it would sound like if I spoke: I didn’t want to have sex with him.
He cups my face in his hands like I’m a little girl again and I’m choking on something awful.
“Look at me, Ali,” he says. I stare at his furrow. “Are you telling me everything?”
“He’s never going to call me. He used me,” I say, stuttering. “That’s what I’m telling you. And now all the girls who drool over him are going to start bashing me on social media. I’m going to be the school slut, and you’re probably going to have to homeschool me.”
The TV is on in the other room. A breakfast cereal commercial. All the vitamins you need to live a healthy life.
Sammi texts again: Now?
No. Later.
I pray that my father doesn’t think I’m disgusting.
My father is processing this. This is what he tells me: “Of all the talks we had about sex. Of letting the first time be with someone you love and who loves you back. About drinking. I’m so open about all of it. And this is how it goes down?” he says. But he’s not asking me. This is a rhetorical rant to the teenage gods.
He needs to shut off the TV. He needs to process more. He’s not mad at me, he promises. I didn’t do anything wrong—though I beg to differ, because according to the laws in this country, I was drinking, like, a shitload. And though I have no problem admitting that yes, I will most likely drink again at some point soon before I reach the legal age of twenty-one (though never again around a boy I’m obsessed with), it was most certainly illegal.
He keeps telling me that it’s okay. But I’ve broken my father’s heart.
* * *
* * *
My father calms down. Apologizes for making me feel bad. But I know what it is. It’s not like he expected me to lose my virginity when I’m married or anything ridiculous like that. But he expected me to lose it to someone I at least had a relationship with. He expected something better for me than this. He holds me tighter and I snuggle into his armpit. He’s all soft under there.
* * *
* * *
Later, in my bed, Sammi’s texts firing away, wanting details, wanting information, and every text I get from her, there’s a part of me that expects it to be Sean Nessel. Isn’t that crazy? That every time my phone buzzes, I think it’s going to be him saying, “I’m sorry.” Or “I was really drunk.” Or something. Anything.
I know this isn’t good. I know that I shouldn’t be having these thoughts.
Because he held me down. He put his hand over my mouth. I shouldn’t want this person to be in my thoughts. Rainbows, sunsets, roses. I stretch my arms at the sky. Why do I still see forever in his stupid eyes? I have to see gray. I have to see black.
Sammi texts me again because this is Sammi: impatient and persistent.
What the fuck? You’re freaking me out. Just come over.
“I’m going to Sammi’s house,” I yell to my father, and before he can say anything, I’m out the door, on my bike. Riding into the wind.
* * *
* * *
Sammi’s mother is making lasagna when I get there because it’s Sunday, and this is what mothers do when they live in your house and are not having a nervous breakdown in the desert. Speaking of mothers, I still have to call mine back.
We sit on Sammi’s bed staring at each other. Neither of us saying anything. Her eyes bugging out. Too wide and scared.
“What did you do to your hair?”
I cover my forehead with my hands, flinching. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
But Sammi pushes and pushes, her eyes flaring. She wants to know about my bangs. Wants to know what happened last night. She’s relentless.
I crawl under her sheet. Hold it over my head.
“Holding a sheet over your head isn’t going to stop me from harassing you.”
“I can’t say it, otherwise,” I say from under the sheet.
I crunch the sheet in my hand. But it’s not enough. I want to suffocate under here. I shove the pillow to my face and scream.
“Ali? What the hell?” Sammi practically climbs on top of me. “What’s going on?”
“I sort of had sex with him.” I’m still under the sheet.
We had this whole plan about how we were going to talk to each other about when we lost our virginity. That we’d call or text even if we were, like, lying romantically in front of a fire with the guy, the imaginary boyfriend. That was the plan, and now I feel so bad that I fucked it up. Because I was so eager to go upstairs with Sean Nessel. I was so eager to give him everything.
“Wait, what? I knew you went upstairs with him, but sex? Actual sex? Is that why you ran out?”
Cherie busts into Sammi’s bedroom. I can see her shadow in the door.
“Why are you screaming like that?”
“It’s Ali. She’s under the covers.”
“Ali? We can see you under there,” Cherie says. “What the hell happened to you last night?”
I whip the sheet off my head, wrap it around my shoulders.
“She had sex.”
Cherie sits on the bed. “Nessel?”
I nod my head.
“Don’t question her, Cherie.”
“Sean Nessel is freakishly good looking, but the guy has a shit reputation,” Cherie says. “Everyone knows it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have warned you.”
“I already knew about him. Nothing would have changed my mind. I followed him up there like an idiot.”
I wish I was just the girl who had sex with Sean Nessel. Rather than the girl who was . . . I can’t say it. I can’t say it because if I say it, it’ll be real.
“Look, Ali. You’re a girl who chose to have sex, or whatever. Who gives a fuck who you fuck? Anyway, when you get to college, forget it. Everyone has sex with everyone.”
I shudder, thinking of Sean’s hands all over me. The blood on his jacket.
“I’ve practically slept with half the guys in my dorm,” Cherie says.
“Wait, what?”
“I’m just kidding. But seriously. If I wanted to, whose business is that? Anyway, if you’re fine with it, then that’s between the two of you,” she says. “Are you fine with it?”
Am I fine with it?
Cherie was Miss Cheerleader–Key Club–Peer Leadership–School Spirit Girl all through high school. Something changed last year when she was a senior. She was done with cheer. Done with the C-wing bathroom, which is basically Invite Only. She joined the Feminist Club, started preaching to us about Tarana Burke, Liz Phair, and Kathleen Hanna. Now she’s a women’s studies major. Cherie really went after the Core Four when she was a senior. Rumor is that Cherie told Blythe group names are a sign of insecurity.
When Sammi and I asked her about it, she went silent, which was weird at the time because Cherie told us everything. “I don’t want to talk about those girls,” she’d say, until finally she told us this: “There’s a lot that those girls have done to get accepted in this school. Stuff that no one should have to do.”
I like to make fun of Cherie—as in “Oh, Jesus, no bong hits until we recite some feminist manifesto or learn the lyrics to Bikini Kill’s ‘Rebel Girl,’” but I know she’s right.
My vagina and my body are mine.
Am I fine with it?
I’m not at all fine with it.
I chose to do this with Sean Nessel.
Well, not really.
Well, not at all.
* * *
* * *
At dinner with Sammi’s family. Mom. Dad. Sammi. Cherie. Pretend like everything is fine. Please pass the red pepper flakes. Yes, thank you, it was delicious. Sorry I didn’t eat all of mine. I guess I wasn’t that hungry. How am I? I’m great. I’m great. I’m fine.
* * *
* * *
Back on my street, just as I turn the corner, my bike light shining on the leaves, I see my dad in the doorway talking to Raj.
Raj is standing there all sweaty as I get closer. No glasses on. His face is flushed. And though I love his glasses, you can really see those soulful green eyes without them.
There have been times when I’ve considered Raj. Considered kissing him. Considered him as a possible boyfriend. Weighed it over in my mind. How my body sometimes lights up around him. And then sometimes nothing. We tried it once. It was at a party. He was leaning against a wall. Just easy.
“I think we should kiss,” I said, real business-like. Big smile. He reached forward and took my hair in his hands, and I stepped forward into him. We kissed, and my heart stopped. I bit my lip. Covered my mouth. My hands shook. I looked up at him, his hair drooping in his face, those eyes.
“Nothing,” I said, stepping back. “Like kissing a wall.”
“Same,” he said. Those eyes, not off me once.
And we never talked about it again. I promised Sammi it was nothing. Just a drunken experiment.
Raj knows how I feel about Sean Nessel, anyway.
Felt. Fuck. Felt.
* * *
* * *
My dad smells like pot and patchouli. He must be so stressed out about this whole thing with me and Sean Nessel that he had to light a late-afternoon joint. He can’t even wait until I go to bed, which is when he usually gets high. This isn’t something we discuss. This is just something I am aware of. What would he say? “I smoke weed.” So I’ve figured out his I’m going to bed early is code for I’m getting high. Give your old man some space.
Raj tells me he’s been running in the neighborhood and he just thought he’d stop by.
My father pulls me into the hallway, and Raj waits outside. He hands me a white paper bag. “Aunt Marce dropped this off,” he says, his eyes so serious.
I open the bag and look inside. It’s a small mint-green box that says PLAN B. I look up at him, horrified. “Dad, oh my God.”
“Don’t oh my God me, Ali. You need to take this tonight.”
Plan B is the pill you take when you don’t want to be pregnant. Pregnant. The word makes me sick. I think of Sean Nessel. What he looked like. His face. His hair. I pinch the inside of my wrist until I can feel pain shooting down my hand.
My father sighs deeply. I can see how upset he is. And stoned. He keeps licking his lips.
“She said not to take it on an empty stomach,” he says. “Maybe have it with milk and cookies before bed. I don’t know.” And he shuffles off.
There’s a note on the box inside.
Ali, don’t worry about this being any more than a light period. You might get a little spotting. Some cramps. Take some Advil. You’ll be fine, I promise.
I love you,
Aunt Marce
I shove the bag in the bathroom, my eyes tearing up.
* * *
* * *
Raj and I wipe off the leafy lounge chairs out back. They’re moldy from the fall—no one’s cleaned them off in a while. I’m wearing black sweats and a black Pixies T-shirt, so I don’t care about getting all smudged. Besides, I feel so dirty still anyway. Sitting in sludge is somehow fitting.
“You cut your bangs,” Raj says.
I shrug. Place my hand over my forehead.
“Just wanted to see how you were.”
“I’m fine,” I say defensively.
I don’t like that he’s saying this to me. I don’t want him to remind me that he knows something. Or that something happened. I don’t want anything to have happened.
“Okay.” He looks away.
“Why are you even asking me?”
“’Cause I saw you run out of there last night all freaked out. I couldn’t catch up to you. Too many people. And then you didn’t text me back. And Sammi wouldn’t say anything today when I talked to her.”
“I didn’t notice that you texted me.”
I didn’t notice because I had my phone off. Because I chose to ignore everyone.
“Anyway, I saw Nessel this morning at soccer practice,” Raj says.
“Yeah?”
“He said that I should check on you.”
“Oh? What a nice guy.” I crunch my knees to my chest. Hang my head over them like a pretzel.
“Did he say anything else?”
“That you were shaken up.”
“Did he say why I was shaken up?”
I hear Sean Nessel saying it, so innocent. Check on her, dude. She was shaken up, man. And then a surge of rage comes over me, and I turn into a human volcano of spitfire, shaking and sputtering. So I say it because I’m fuming and I can’t hold it in.
“We did it, all right? We did it and it was awful. Like the worst night of my life. Like the worst, worst thing ever. So bad that I don’t even want to talk about it because I can’t believe that it’s me talking to you about something that I feel so fucking embarrassed about.”
I smash my feet in the grass. The damp grass pokes through my flip-flops. It’s the first time since last night that I can feel anything besides my sore thighs and crotch. I don’t want Raj to see me like this. But he’s here. In my yard. And he’s listening.
I cover my face with my hair like that Addams Family character Cousin It. If I could just walk around like this for a few days. I fantasize about finding an escape route through my hair.
I don’t want Raj to worry about me. I know he doesn’t know what to say to me. He knows I’m a virgin. That I was a virgin. We’re close enough for him to know that. If there was a way to bury it. To cover my body with leaves so no one could see me or hear me or find me. Every part of me is telling myself not to speak about last night and to just shove it down into a dark place in my soul so that it just goes away.
Raj curls forward and plops his feet down, leans over so that our knees touch.
But I don’t want
to be touched. So I move my knees away.
“What are you thinking about?” Raj says.
I stare at my rusty swing set that is still taking up space in the yard.
“I’m thinking about how my dad needs to get rid of that old thing because the only person who uses it is the little kid next door.”
9
BLYTHE
Monday morning. It’s not difficult to find her.
In a matter of asking three juniors, I learn that Ali Greenleaf has fourth period class right down the hall from me. I’ve got my leather tote bag packed—I haven’t worn a backpack since freshman year—so when the bell rings, I zip right for the door and zoom down the hall, waiting in front of her classroom like I’ve been there all my life. Her face looks drawn and tired. She has greenish bags under her eyes. And something else. These too-short bangs that are different from that loose-curl-over-the-eye look I saw her with the other night.
She’s fumbling with her books as she walks out. I tickle the back of her arm to get her attention and she turns around. She’s wearing faded jeans, Converse sneakers, and a black T-shirt. I see why Sean thought she was cute. She’s a little rebel. Nothing like me.
ALI
Blythe Jensen is standing in front of me. Smiling. Blythe’s best friends with Sean Nessel. So if she’s talking to me, then it means it has something to do with him. And it has something to do with what happened. I take a step back. My heart stops, almost.
BLYTHE
“Ali, right? You’re friends with Cherie’s little sister.”
She stops and nods at me. Says nothing, her eyes vacant. I wonder if she remembers me from the party.
“Hel-lo?” I laugh. She’s still staring. Like I’m a ghost. “Do you smoke?”
“Smoke . . . weed?”
Something Happened to Ali Greenleaf Page 5
