Angela and I walk to chemistry together after prayer group. It’s our first class of the day, and the only one I consistently enjoy.
“You should tutor me,” Angela says.
I shake my head adamantly. This has been happening every semester for the past two years: Angela asks me to be her lab partner, and I turn her down.
“You’ll distract me,” I say. “We’ll spend too much time talking about the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John and not enough time talking about the quadratic acid compound.”
I stop in the middle of the hallway, suddenly wanting to throw up. It was meant as a joke, but the third name might as well have reached up and punched me in the face, like it always does when it comes up during prayer group. Luke.
“The what?” Angela scrunches up her face and keeps walking, not noticing my momentary panic.
“Exactly,” I say, readjusting my armful of books and pasting on a wide grin.
I don’t like mixing friendship with anything else. If I’m thinking in chemical terms, friendship is an undiluted solution, something weakened by adding more to it. Unlike Kim, I’m a firm believer that the different compartments of your life should be kept separate—I can’t just up and switch schools the way she changes gyms when the backstabbing gets too intense to bear. This is why instead of Angela I sit with Zach Sutton during chemistry, and why every Wednesday at lunch, Zach and I slip back to my bedroom to make chemistry happen there. And if sex with other guys is a science that I teach them, sex with Zach is more like art.
Zach is not my friend, nor my boyfriend, although he has asked at different times to be both. It’s not like I haven’t toyed with the notion of us becoming a couple, but we have absolutely no base upon which a relationship could be built. We’ve had sex more times than we have had conversations. I don’t know Zach’s middle name or even where he lives, but I do know that he wears boxers with goofy cartoon characters and loves when I wear thongs.
“What am I, then?” he always asks.
“My chemistry partner,” I always say.
After our morning classes, Angela and I walk down the hall and stop in front of her locker. “You’re doing lunch with your mom today, then?” she says, turning her combination lock and swinging the door open.
I nod. Ever since Zach and I started sleeping together, I have let Angela believe that I have a long-standing lunch date with my mom on Wednesdays. She thinks it’s cute. I think it’s just far-fetched enough to actually work.
“See you later,” Angela says, pulling out a brown bag lunch from her locker. “Have something fancy for lunch that I can’t pronounce.” Her lips curl into a smile. I wave and head out toward the parking lot, trying to shake off my nagging guilt.
Before Zach, and before the virgins, Angela and I spent more time together. Nights spent sprawled on her bed, drinking tea, and reading the celebrity gossip magazines her mom loves to buy. Afternoons in my kitchen, trying to make chocolate-chip cookies but mostly just eating the dough instead. Sleepovers where we argued about which movie to watch—always romantic comedies for Angela and action for me—and talked about everything.
Almost everything.
Not lately, though. Now I can barely open my mouth without a new lie slipping out. And Angela never doubts me, because I haven’t given her a reason to.
But the Kim excuse is convenient. It gives me ample time to meet Zach in the parking lot, smuggle him into the back of my Jeep, and drive to my house. Chemistry class is all the foreplay we need. Zach considers himself the master of sexual innuendos.
“You’re getting my beaker all wet,” is his favorite line, even though it makes no sense whatsoever to somebody who actually pays attention in class and knows that a beaker is in fact a receptacle.
But as bad as his sense of humor—and attention span—is at times, Zach knows exactly where and how to touch me without being told. His first time was definitely not with me. According to Zach, he lost his virginity back in the eighth grade to his older sister’s best friend. I have no way of knowing if this is true, but I don’t ask questions, and neither does he, which is one of his best qualities. Zach knows when to shut up. Considering all the vocal instructions I give the other guys I sleep with, it’s nice to be completely nonverbal with Zach.
“You looked so hot today,” he says as he drops his backpack at the front door and kicks off his shoes. Shoes at the door aren’t a problem in my house, since Kim never comes home at lunch. Lunch is always reserved for manicures and gossip with her equally divorced and equally Botoxed friends. And probably for boning her Pilates trainer, too, although I’m not one to judge.
“Don’t you mean I still look hot?” I say, throwing my coat on the floor. “Looked implies past tense.”
“Your level of hot is omnipresent,” he says, coming up behind me and biting my neck.
“I see you learned a new word.” I turn around and meet his mouth with mine.
“I don’t think I can make it upstairs,” he says as he pulls my shirt over my head and expertly unhooks my bra. His fingertips alone send jolts of electricity through my skin, and he trails them down my back, starting feather-light and getting harder as he nears my tailbone. I grab Zach’s hand and pull him down the hall into the kitchen. Behind me, I can hear him undoing his belt and unzipping his fly.
“The kitchen?” he says when I press him against the stainless steel refrigerator. “I never did it in a kitchen before.” He grabs me around the waist and lifts me onto the granite counter, where he puts his hand up my skirt and pulls my panties off. The counter happens to be the perfect height for sex, a fact I never noticed until yesterday morning, when I bent over it to paint my nails and purposely mess up Kim’s daily ritual of polishing the granite. This has been on my mind ever since, taunting me in prayer group and distracting me all through chemistry. This is a regular occurrence for me, using Zach to play out my little fantasies. Somehow I don’t think he minds being a guinea pig.
“These are my favorite,” he says, clutching my pink lace panties in his hand. All of my panties are either lace or satin or sheer—no dingy whites or high-waisted monstrosities. I don’t even want to know what those would do to my reputation. Lucky for me, Kim tossed out all my childish floral panties back in elementary school, the day I got my period and she decided I needed something more grown-up.
Zach lets his own pants fall to the floor and abruptly closes the gap between us. He stands right between my legs, ready to go—until I reach out and slap him in the face.
“Condom, Zach,” I say, snapping my fingers. “You didn’t want to make it upstairs, so you should be ready.”
“Come on,” he says, leaning in to bite my lip. “I’m clean, you’re clean. I got tested six months ago. And we’re not sleeping with other people. It would feel so good without it.”
I reach out like I’m about to slap him in the face again. “No condom, no love, Zach,” I say. “Those are the rules.”
He exaggerates a frown, but there’s a smile behind it. “Hit me again,” he says. I roll my eyes. I forgot that Zach likes when I get rough with him.
“Lucky for you, I come prepared.” He bends over and rummages in the back pocket of his discarded jeans. When he stands up, he’s holding a condom in a purple packet. I recognize it as a Trojan Ecstasy. I have a box upstairs with one missing from last week’s devirginization of Bobby Lewis.
“You’re the one who’s lucky,” I say, opening the packet. “Come prepared or don’t come at all.”
He doesn’t waste a minute. I lean my head back and put my arms on the counter to steady myself. A low moan escapes my lips. Evan Brown could definitely learn a thing or two from Zach about how to handle a girl’s breasts.
Today, neither of us lasts long. Zach has the distinction of being the only guy who has ever gotten me off, although I’d never tell him this. I don’t even want to know what that would do to his ego.
“God, Mercy,” he says, collapsing his upper body on me. “You’re amazing
. We’re amazing.”
“Mercedes,” I say, heaving him off me and straightening out my skirt. “My name’s Mercedes.”
He frowns. “Even after four months of this?”
I kiss him on the cheek and mock gasp. “Has it been four months? Is today, like, our anniversary?”
He clenches his jaw, an indicator that Zach is about to get serious. I turn away and survey the handprints—and butt prints that could be passed off as handprints—on the countertop with pride, half hoping Kim notices and cares enough to ask me what happened to her pristine kitchen.
“Seriously. It could be our four-month anniversary. I’d treat you right.” He grabs my arm and twirls me around. “I think I’m in love with you.”
I zip up his fly and buckle his belt. Everything in reverse. I hate this part, the part where the physical act is over and the mental act begins. This is the part where one of my secrets is most likely to slip out and I’m more likely to stop being Zach’s dream girl and start being something else.
“That’s your orgasm talking,” I say. “You’re not really in love with me.”
“You can’t tell me how I feel,” he says. His voice gets quiet, trails off at the end. “I could be your boyfriend.”
Zach hasn’t told me he loves me before, but I sensed it building up. I dreaded hearing the words, knowing they’d be the end of our Wednesday lunch dates. I can’t have a Wednesday date with somebody who loves me. Not when I don’t love him back.
I look Zach squarely in the eye. He’s making his sad puppy-dog face, which makes me feel even worse. The stakes of our relationship—remaining chemistry partners and nothing else—depend on the delivery of my next line.
“You can love me like a friend,” I finally say. I almost wish I could relent and give him what he really wants—relationship status. When I started with the virgins, they were my excuse to keep Zach at bay. There was no way I could have a boyfriend. But now my pay-it-forwards are done, completely finished. There’s no real reason, besides the nagging feeling that I know I’m going to let him down, and letting him be my boyfriend would just end badly for both of us.
“I thought we weren’t friends?” he says, his mouth turning up at the corners.
I sigh. “We’re chemistry partners. But I guess there’s no reason chemistry partners can’t be friends.”
“I’m going to call you Mercy, then,” he says. He squeezes me in a tight hug. I can tell he’s smelling my hair, but I don’t stop him. “You so love me, too.”
I find his balled-up shirt on the floor and drive it into his stomach. “I so don’t. Now let’s get out of here before we’re late for school.”
“No way,” he says, dangling my panties in the air. “You can’t go back without these.”
I head for the door and grab my backpack. “Sure I can,” I say. “But I bet you can’t get through the day knowing I have nothing on under my skirt.”
He pulls his shirt over his head and shakes his head. “You’re evil,” he says. “What do you say about a sequel to this, after school?”
I shut the door behind us and give him a soldierly pat on the back. “The sequel’s never as good as the original.” He staggers and pretends to fall over. “Besides, I’m busy after school.”
“Busy doing what?” he says.
“Big assignment. Group project. Not in chemistry,” I add quickly.
“Can I come?” he asks.
“No, Zach,” I say. “But I think you already did.”
He laughs and slings his arm around my shoulder. “Next Wednesday, then,” he says.
“Until next week,” I say, trying to keep the relief out of my voice. Next Wednesday is part of our routine, another chance to spend lunch hour doing it somewhere else in Kim’s immaculate house. Maybe on the white leather couch next time, the one she loves too much to even let me sit on. Zach wanting to see me next Wednesday is almost like Zach asking me on a date, if I were a regular girl wanting a regular relationship.
But I’m not a regular girl. I don’t want to hold hands in the hall at school and slow dance at prom and see a movie with Zach. I don’t want to be the girl he dates senior year and loses interest in when he goes off to college. I want to be just fast enough for Zach to have to run to catch up, because if I stay ahead, I won’t ever have to see his retreating back.
3
I wasn’t lying to Zach. I really do have an assignment after school. I’m meeting with two other people from my French class, people I have to work with not by choice but by where my name falls in the alphabet. Adams, Ames, Ayres.
“Adams” and “Ames” are friends outside of class, which makes me feel like even more of an outsider. Adams—whose first name is Laura—went to my elementary school and we actually used to be friends, before life got complicated by boys and boobs and the hierarchy of high school popularity. I toyed with the idea of inviting Laura and the other girl over to do the assignment at my house but chickened out. Anything could go wrong at my house. They could stumble upon my negligee collection or my condom stash. So I suggested the library instead, which screams (actually, whispers, since screaming is disallowed) professionalism.
Or, is supposed to, until Laura shows up in tears, interrupting the silence at our table.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” Ames—Britney, “spelled like the singer”—jumps to her feet and wraps an arm around her sobbing friend.
“I think Trevor is going to dump me.” Laura wipes her face on her sleeve. “We had this whole plan. For this weekend. You know.” She drops her voice, as if she’s just now noticing I’m here and realizing she hasn’t spoken to me in years. I lower my eyes and pretend to be intensely interested in the list of French verbs we’re supposed to be conjugating.
“You can talk in front of Mercedes,” Britney says as Laura slumps into the chair across from me. She opens her mouth to say something else but shuts it promptly. I know what she was about to say. You can trust Mercedes—she’s a prayer group geek. I arch my eyebrow at her serious face but try to soften my expression.
Laura looks up at me through her tears, as if deciding whether I’m an ally or an enemy. I smile weakly, not sure myself.
“So, what happened to the big plan? Did your parents decide not to go away? Or did Trevor get cold feet?” Britney chews the top of her pen.
Laura drops her head onto the table. Her hair spills onto my pencil case. “All I told him was that I was nervous. I was scared it was going to hurt. And he wasn’t sensitive at all.” She looks around, even though the tables beside ours are empty and there’s nobody in sight besides Mrs. Woods, the ancient librarian. “He kept saying all these positions he wanted to try. I guess he was watching porn and got these ideas, and I just freaked out.” She frowns and looks directly at me. For a terrifying second, I think she knows everything.
“Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all this.” She half laughs, half sobs.
I shake my head and shrug at the same time in an attempt to look both nonchalant and considerate. Laura would flip out and most certainly violate the library’s vow of silence if she knew that I specialize in hearing stories like hers.
Britney pats her friend’s arm sympathetically. “I remember my first time. It does hurt. But Orlando was, like, so sweet. He kept saying how beautiful I was.” She flutters her eyelashes.
I rest my head against my palm and pretend to take study notes, but my jaw is tightening. I taught him that, told him to say beautiful when he really meant hot. There’s only one Orlando at Milton High. I remember him as the Watcher, because of the way he stared at me before, during, and after I took his virginity. Except he wasn’t with Britney then. He was with a girl named Clara, a girl he told me he loved. I helped him make a special night for her, even told him a romantic out-of-the-way hotel to take her to. He told me he planned to be with Clara forever. I guess forever didn’t even last halfway through senior year. I don’t know if I’m angry or disappointed to hear that Orlando and Clara are over, or if I even have
a right to be either one.
Orlando was number five for me. He was supposed to be the last one.
Until six happened.
“Anyway, I don’t know if I can be with a guy who doesn’t care about my needs.” Laura wipes her face, leaving streaks of smeared mascara behind.
Both Laura and Britney seem to have forgotten I’m here, which is part of where prayer group comes in handy. Everybody assumes I’m still a virgin, so they’re never going to ask to hear my first-time story. Which is probably for the best, because I would never tell them, and they wouldn’t believe me anyway.
“Just give him another chance,” Britney says, rubbing Laura’s back. “He’s probably nervous, too.”
Somehow Laura calms down enough to get through our list of French verbs. By the end of the hour, Laura and Britney are even laughing, comparing stories about their boyfriends’ penises.
“I’m glad I at least saw Trevor’s first,” Laura says. “I don’t know if it’s big or small since I have nothing to compare it to.”
“I’m pretty sure Orlando’s is huge,” Britney says with a giggle. “He told me it was nine inches.”
I cough into my hand. Nine inches? Orlando is definitely not the guy he was when I slept with him, when he was kind and considerate and eager to learn. And he was definitely not nine inches of anything. I wish there were a way I could take the Watcher off my list, but that’s the thing about sex. Once it happens, it can’t unhappen.
I’m relieved when the project is done. Laura and Britney are more than happy to let me do the grunt work of typing it up and putting our names on it, and I’m so glad to get rid of them that I don’t even care. My heart is pounding and I’m nowhere close to figuring out what just happened. I sit in the library until I’m the only one there, and Mrs. Woods comes over to tell me she’s about to close up. The look she gives me from behind her bottle-cap glasses—a mixture of pity and annoyance—makes me want to cry, although I don’t know why.
The lights are dimmed in the hallways as I head to my locker, so I don’t notice the tall, lanky kid until he’s almost right in front of me.
Firsts Page 2
