Firsts

by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn

  “Did you love Luke?” Angela says, leaning into my shoulder.

  The question catches me off guard. I can’t let her know how much this question means to me, how often I have thought about it, even after everything.

  “I don’t know,” I say. This, at least, is honest. “Maybe I don’t know what love is.”

  “Fifteen,” she whispers, gazing at Faye. “I was still kissing my Justin Bieber posters when I was fifteen.”

  I wish I could tell her so many things. I wish I could tell her that there really is a Luke, and he really was from Nevada. But there was no art class, and it wasn’t last summer.

  And if Angela thinks fifteen is bad, I wonder what she’d think of thirteen.

  14

  I don’t plan on sleeping with Jeremy Roth. He isn’t part of my plan, and Don Wannabe really was supposed to be the last one. But when Angela and Faye leave, I need something to take away the edginess I’m feeling. I don’t want to be alone. Jeremy didn’t even find me the old-fashioned way—in person. I told myself when this started that I would never sleep with a guy who solicited me through Facebook or via text message, but that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

  Hey beautiful. I have a situation I could use some help with. Can we meet somewhere?

  The message has sat in my in-box for days, but I haven’t paid any attention until now. I didn’t click on it, but I didn’t delete it, either. I almost didn’t want Angela and Faye to go, because I knew I was going to open the message and respond favorably when they did.

  “You guys could stay,” I told them before Faye ushered Angela out the door. “We could order pizza or something.”

  Angela looked at me wistfully, like she wanted to take me up on it, but she had plans with Charlie, like a normal person in a relationship would on a Saturday night. And Faye had her own plans.

  “I have a date,” she said. “And I can’t go out looking like this.” She looked down at her perfect body in her tight jeans, which prompted Angela to roll her eyes.

  When I shut the door behind them, I was equal parts sad and confused. Sad because I’m the only one without plans on a Saturday night, the only one with an evening of bad reality TV and stale microwave popcorn stretching ahead of me. Confused because all afternoon Faye seemed to be flirting with me, when the other day she was flirting with Zach. If this is her idea of playing with my head, I can play that game, too.

  So I do the only thing I know will make me feel better. I message Jeremy back with my address and tell him to come over in an hour. I know he will be late, because he’s in my English class and always sneaks in late and heads for a desk in the back row. Which happens to be where I sit, not because I’m late but because I hate being called on in English class, where there’s no right answer and no wrong answer. I hate the murky in-between and when Mr. Bell brings up some cloudy subject like “Iago’s motivations as the antihero” and expects somebody to spout out some brilliant response. “Enlighten me,” is his catchphrase of choice. I wish somebody would just hit him over the head with “enlightenment” and help him see things in black and white, like they should be.

  “Hello,” Jeremy says, standing at my doorstep with a bottle of wine an hour later. “I thought this might be nice. I stole it from my dad’s stash. The label says it’s a Merlot.” He says it like Mar-lot. Not surprising from a guy who thinks Hamlet is a type of deli meat.

  “I don’t drink,” I say, leading him upstairs. Which is only partially true. I do drink occasionally, but not with guys like Jeremy and never before sex. I only had to make that mistake once to learn from it.

  “That sucks,” he says. “It loosens you up. Don’t mind if I do, though.”

  He doesn’t wait to see if I do mind before unscrewing the top and downing a quarter of the bottle. A few droplets leak down his chin and onto my cream-colored carpet, where they proceed to bloom like little flower petals. Jeremy doesn’t notice.

  “I’d watch how much of that you drink,” I tell him. “Alcohol and soft dicks have a very close and personal relationship.”

  He laughs, a slow, overly confident laugh, a laugh in which every staccato syllable—“ha, ha, ha”—can almost be seen as well as heard.

  “Wait here,” I tell him as I slip into my walk-in. I have already decided what not to wear for Jeremy. Nothing light colored. He has proven that he’s the kind of guy who leaves stains where he shouldn’t.

  But the drawer containing my black lacy negligee is suspiciously empty. I mentally catalogue where I could have left it. It’s not in my laundry basket, which is the only place it would be if not in its proper drawer. I momentarily entertain the horrifying thought that Kim found it—or even worse, borrowed it—but that’s impossible. I keep my closet locked unless I’m in my room. And the only time I was in my room today was—

  All afternoon, with Angela and Faye. Angela would never steal something from me, which only leaves Faye. But why would she steal a negligee? She did mention going on a date, but I would assume she has her own fancy undergarments. I shrug and decide to blame Kim after all. Of the three of them, she’s the least trustworthy.

  “Everything okay in there?” Jeremy says. I shoot him the middle finger, almost wishing he could see it from his side of the wall. If he has this little patience now, I feel sorry for his girlfriend.

  I pull out my second choice, a sheer crimson teddy, and shimmy into it. The color matches the wine.

  Jeremy lets out a low whistle when he sees me, a noise I always thought was super cheesy.

  “Bring that hot ass over here,” he says. His shirt is already off, revealing a chest with just enough muscle. Jeremy might not be my type, but his body is. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. It might even be kind of fun.

  Jeremy unbuttons his jeans and kicks them off. He has his dick in his hand and it’s already hard. He’s grabbing my hand, trying to make me touch it. Then he does something completely inexcusable.

  He tries to push my head down.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, springing away from his grip with trembling hands. “You don’t need it.”

  He pouts, but only for a minute, before pushing me onto my back against my pillows. Usually I’m the one in control, but this feels different. This feels like everything is moving a bit too fast.

  “Slow down, stud,” I say in a tone I hope is playful. “Let’s get a condom first.”

  I let him open the packet and roll it on. He does everything right. And once he’s on top of me, he does everything right there, too. For a minute I forget I’m even supposed to be showing him how to do it. For a minute I start to feel like I’m his girlfriend and he’s my boyfriend and we’re just taking a study break.

  I’m surprised he’s still going strong when I flip him onto his back. Usually this is where they’re happy to let me take control to show them what to do. But he’s still leading somehow, locking his hands on my hips and grinding deeper into me. When he finishes—loudly—I look at the clock.

  Jeremy lasted eight minutes. In my bedroom, that’s a new record. He’s panting a bit but doesn’t even look all that winded. I guess some people were just meant for sex.

  Either that, or Jeremy has done this before.

  He turns away from me and I stare at his back, at the little red dents my fingers left. I’m definitely not going to come out and ask him. What would I say? “Are you sure you’re a virgin?” Somehow I don’t think that would go over well and would probably hurt my reputation more than his. And if he really was a virgin until eight minutes ago, I would be giving him a seriously unnecessary ego boost.

  “You’re not going to have any problems,” I say instead, poking him in the back. “Your girlfriend is going to be very satisfied. Maybe just go a bit more gently on her.”

  He turns around and gives me a strange little smile. “Can we do it again? That was great. But I’d feel way more prepared if we could do it one more time.”

  I bite my lip. I really shouldn’t. I have no reason to sleep wi
th him again, and I should kick him out. But at the same time, it felt so good. Maybe if we do it again, I’ll get off, too.

  “I know how to convince you,” he says and snakes down to the end of the bed. Before I know it, he’s between my legs, working something I can only describe as magic with his tongue. This is definitely not the work of a virgin. Now I know he must be lying, but I’d rather he not admit it at this point. The deed has already been done, so what’s wrong with doing it again?

  He takes me right to the brink, to the point where we both know a second time is inevitable. And a third. A third time has never happened in my bed until now.

  Neither has a guy sleeping over.

  But I’m learning that there’s a first time for everything.

  15

  I’m woken up by two things: Jeremy’s morning wood poking into my back and a loud knocking on my door.

  “Mercedes, honey, wake up! We have yoga in half an hour! I made you a detox tea; it’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  A nightmare. That’s my first thought. But the knocking doesn’t stop. And when the knocking does let up, doorknob jiggling commences. That’s when I bolt upright.

  “Kim! I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Okay, honey, but your tea is getting cold.” The voice on the other side of the door is unnaturally chipper. I groan and fall back on my pillows. Since when do Kim and I do yoga together? She hasn’t even been home all weekend. She told me she was spending it with Fred from the bar, or was it Ted the investment banker? Maybe they’re the same person. If this is one of her ideas for a bonding ritual, it couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time.

  “Morning, beautiful,” Jeremy whispers in my ear. He has an unfortunate case of morning breath, so I turn the other way. I feel hungover, even though I had nothing to drink last night.

  “You need to leave,” I say, but it’s muffled by my pillow. He could probably sneak out the front door easily enough—Kim is most likely in the kitchen, reading the entertainment section and drinking her disgusting detox tea, so she probably wouldn’t hear him slip down the stairs. But it’s risky. I can’t help wondering what he told his parents. Most parents would be concerned if their teenager didn’t come home at night. Maybe Jeremy and I have more in common than I thought.

  “Come on,” he says, stretching out his arms. “Let’s have one more round, as a good-bye.”

  “Absolutely not,” I say, rolling out of bed and gathering his clothing from the floor. I ball it up and toss it at his chest without looking at him. “Here’s the plan,” I continue. “I’m going out with my mom. When we get back, you won’t be here. Just go out the back door and pull the screen door shut.”

  I sit on the side of my bed and pull on my underwear. It would be easy to flaunt Jeremy in front of Kim. She would know that I’m keeping myself busy, that I’m taking advantage of being young and thin, the two attributes in which Kim places the most value. But that would be giving her what she wants. So I’d rather slip him out the door and pretend I’m a regular teenager going to yoga class with her regular mother on a regular Sunday morning, even just for an hour.

  “Don’t I get any feedback?” Jeremy says. He’s making no attempt to move. I feel my face get hot, but I never blush. I walk to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Jeremy whistles as I walk away.

  When I’m safely in the bathroom with the door shut, I sit on the toilet. My body shakes and my throat swells. Worst of all, I feel hot tears prick the back of my eyelids. I never let guys sleep over. I never let guys have a third time. Not even a second time. That’s not part of the plan. My system only works because it is a system, a routine with an order to it. I am reliable, or at least I used to be. My system has rules, and I just broke a big one.

  I stand and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Jeremy won’t tell anyone. He can’t. That’s the system. That’s how it works. He won’t mention this to his friends at school, because that’s how rumors start. If the rumor is about me, it’s also about him. And if it’s about him, his girlfriend will find out. But his not mentioning our sleepover to anyone rides on my pretending nothing is out of the ordinary. I push my bangs off my face and blow my nose. I need to get my shit together and go to this fucking yoga class and get Jeremy out of the house.

  When I leave the bathroom, he’s fully dressed. I find a T-shirt and shorts in my dresser drawer that will suffice as yoga gear. By the time I turn around to face Jeremy, my hair is in a perky ponytail and I have a smile pasted on my face.

  “Ten out of ten. Extra points for your confidence, because that’s usually the thing that needs the most work. Technically flawless. That’s your report card.”

  Jeremy grins. “I could get used to this,” he says.

  “You will,” I say. “With your girlfriend.” I find his shoes on the floor and hand them to him, suddenly aware that I don’t even know his girlfriend’s name. The realization hits me like a punch in the stomach. He didn’t bring her up once, and I didn’t ask. I was supposed to sleep with Jeremy to ensure she gets a perfect first time, and I have no idea if she even exists, or if he just sent me that message because he wanted to get in my pants. If that’s the case, I’m not sure who I’m more horrified with—Jeremy or myself.

  I clear my throat. Now would be the time to bring the mystery girlfriend up, but I don’t even want to. I would rather not know the truth.

  “See you Monday at school. Don’t forget: we have that poetry thing due.”

  He slaps his forehead. “You’re amazing,” he says. “Best sex ever and saving me from failing English.”

  “Bye, Jeremy,” I say before closing the door behind me. I rush to meet Kim downstairs, hoping that forcing myself to go through the motions quickly will clear my head of all the jumbled thoughts inside it. By the time we’re in the downward dog position in a class full of women, Jeremy is the furthest thing from my mind. Almost.

  “How did you get so flexible?” Kim whispers. “This position is impossible.” When I shrug, she says, “You must be a yoga natural.”

  But when our instructor stops talking and tells us to lie in corpse pose and clear our heads, all my thoughts come rushing back. Best sex ever. That’s what Jeremy said before I shut the door in his face. Normally, best implies having something to compare it to. And if Jeremy lied about being a virgin, how many other guys have lied to me, too? The whole point of doing this was to provide the perfect first time and to teach the guys how to give their girlfriends the perfect first time in return. But when did it stop being about that?

  When did it start becoming about me?

  When Kim and I are back at home, Jeremy is gone, just like I told him to be. He even made my bed and fluffed the pillows. Maybe he has hope for being a good boyfriend after all. Maybe.

  I retrieve my notebook from underneath the boxes of condoms and make an entry for Jeremy. His nickname is easy. Unlucky Thirteen. The rest is harder to write, but I write it anyway. Maybe it’s good for me, to put my thoughts into words. If numbers and facts are my lifeblood, maybe words can be my therapy.

  We had great chemistry. But it’s bothering me that it was that great. It shouldn’t have been that great. I have my doubts that this guy is a virgin. But if he isn’t, why wouldn’t he just go sleep with somebody else? I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask about his girlfriend, but I didn’t. Maybe I don’t care about her as much as I thought, since I don’t even know her name.

  I stare at the words on the page and then at the hand that wrote them. I wasn’t even thinking that, but there it is. What I didn’t want to see. I sound like a monster, like somebody who doesn’t care about anyone but myself. Maybe I am.

  I tuck the journal back into its spot, grateful for the secrecy of my nightstand, grateful to the dark wood for concealing so many of my secrets. I walk into my bathroom and lean over the sink, taking a series of deep breaths. Then I walk down the hall to Kim’s room.

  I’m almost hoping Kim will want to make a day of it. After all, this is the
first time she ever woke me up to attend a yoga class. Maybe she wants to spend time with me, go for brunch or take a walk through the park. Things that mothers and daughters do. But I set my expectations way too high, as usual.

  “I have a mountain of work to do,” she tells me as she stands in front of her giant bathroom mirror, applying way too much eyeliner to ever constitute a “mountain of work.”

  “What work?” I say. “You don’t have a job.”

  My voice sounds caustic, but Kim doesn’t notice. She just blinks her eyes and applies coat after coat of mascara in rapid succession. “I don’t have a paid job, but I do work. I’m on the board for that big charity gala. You remember, the one you went to? You wore that gorgeous dress.”

  I roll my eyes behind her back. The event she is talking about was three years ago. I had wanted to wear a dress I found while shopping with Angela, but Kim bought me one to match hers, a size smaller than I wore. She refused to have it taken out, so I had to starve to fit into it.

  “Fine,” I tell her, turning to leave her room. “I’m going to spend a bunch of your hard-earned money.”

  “Have fun,” she calls absentmindedly after me. I slam her bedroom door for good measure, but she probably doesn’t notice that, either.

  I always shop by myself for lingerie, and I never go to the obvious choices, like the plaza near our school or the bigger shopping center downtown. I go to an out-of-the-way mall with a swimwear-lingerie section. It’s more expensive than Victoria’s Secret, but I don’t care, since Kim is footing the bill. Besides, it just looks better. None of this neon, uber-padded crap. I don’t believe in padding, not because I’m all that well-endowed but because guys are going to know what’s under there when the bra comes off anyway, and why disappoint them? Nobody really looks like the Victoria’s Secret Angels.