Firsts

by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn

  I pushed it out of my mind, something I got good at doing after Luke. I figured I could write it off as a life experience, something that might give me an edge when I started high school. I had one up on most thirteen-year-olds, who spent their summers at the mall blowing their allowances on designer skinny jeans and bright makeup. They wanted to make themselves look older, but I was older. I convinced myself that what happened with Luke was the best thing that could have happened to me.

  Until I missed my period. I spent days in denial, unsure if I should talk to Kim but uncertain of what I would say. I got the sex talk early from Kim. The one hard-and-fast rule she stressed was, “Use a condom.” And I even got that wrong. I figured maybe my period was just late. I had only started it the year before. I read that it was normal for girls my age to be irregular. I couldn’t possibly be pregnant after my first time.

  I let myself believe that for almost a week, until the other signs were too hard to ignore. I looked them up online. Morning sickness. Fatigue. Back pain. I had them all. I bought a pregnancy test in the mall, the one nearby that I could get to on foot. I was only thirteen, so I couldn’t drive, and I wasn’t going to ask Kim to drive me.

  I couldn’t think straight when I saw the two lines on the stick. I figured I did it wrong, so I was glad I bought two tests. The second one had two lines as well. I remember not being able to breathe. My life was over. I couldn’t be a mom. But how could I get an abortion without Kim finding out?

  It took me two more days to get up the nerve to call Luke. I dialed his number from the pink phone in my bedroom, my hands trembling and my heart pounding. I could barely hear my own voice over the blood rushing to my head.

  “I have something to tell you,” I started.

  “Who’s this?” he said. Just two words. Who’s this? If he would have punched me in the gut, it would have hurt a lot less.

  I should have stopped talking there and realized he wanted nothing to do with me. But I wanted to do the right thing. And I needed him. I needed to tell somebody what was happening to me, that I was a hostage in my own body.

  “It’s Mercedes,” I said. “Can you come over?”

  “I’m busy,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s important,” I said, to which he said nothing. Finally I just blurted it out.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  A long pause. Then he said something I’ll never forget. “How do you know it’s mine?”

  His words hung there in the air, suspended like the humidity outside. There were so many things I could have said. It’s yours because you’re the only person I have slept with. You made me. I didn’t even want to. But I said nothing. I didn’t cry, either. I didn’t make a sound.

  “It’s not mine,” he said. “Look, Mercy. We had fun. But now you’re trying to keep me around and it’s not working. I moved on. You should, too.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye. He never said good-bye to me.

  I looked up abortion clinics online. I made an appointment at one for the next week. I still didn’t know what I would tell Kim. I could keep a lot of things from her, but not something that big. Every day leading up to that appointment, I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in. I prayed for the baby to go away. I begged, with my hands pointed to the ceiling and tears streaming down my face, for God to give me a second chance. I promised I wouldn’t screw up my life again. I told God I would never ask for anything ever again, as long as He gave me my life back.

  And it turns out, somebody up there heard me, because I woke up in the middle of the night with the worst cramps of my life and knew I was losing the baby the size of a speck inside me. I sat on the toilet and bit the insides of my cheek and waited for it to disappear. When it was over with, I flushed the toilet without even looking. It was just a speck anyway, not a real person. My prayers came true. It was everything I asked for.

  I should have been happy, but I was mad. I felt like God must have taken something else inside me away, too, because I just felt empty.

  I thought a baby was the worst thing that could happen to me. I thought being pregnant would ruin everything.

  But it turns out I ruined everything on my own.

  39

  I told Angela all about Luke in the letter, and I told her about the baby. I told her that I don’t blame Luke for what I have been doing, that what he did to me doesn’t make it right for me to sleep with other girls’ boyfriends. I told her that I don’t even know if I really enjoy sex or if I just like the control I feel during it. I told her that I really did want to make them better at it so that their girlfriends would have better first times than I did. That was a big part of it for me, no matter how wrong it sounds out loud or how bad it looks on paper. But I’m still expecting an onslaught of questions from her, if she even gives me the chance to answer them.

  I wait on the porch for her for almost an hour, staring at every blond head that saunters down the sidewalk. When she doesn’t show up, I open the front door to let myself in. She’s not coming. She thought twice about it and doesn’t want anything to do with me.

  But Angela is on the other side of the door and looks just as surprised as I feel.

  “Your mom let me in,” she says. “She seemed happy to see me. Even though she forgot my name. I guess you probably haven’t told her about … you know.”

  Considering this is the most Angela has said in over a week, I’m much more optimistic than I was alone on the porch.

  “God, no. Kim knows nothing about my life.”

  Angela frowns.

  “Sorry. I won’t say God anymore. Bad habit.”

  We head upstairs. Usually we would sit on my bed, but that seems wrong somehow. I sit cross-legged on the floor, and Angela does the same.

  I open my mouth to speak, but she starts talking first and cuts me off.

  “I’m sorry I stole your nightgown,” she says. “I don’t know what made me do it. I never stole anything in my life, not even a chocolate bar. Stealing is a sin. And I was only looking for a cardigan, I swear. But then I found the nightgown and thought it was pretty and Charlie kept hinting around about sex and all of my pajamas are old and ratty and one pair even has feet attached and I couldn’t wear them in front of him so—”

  “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I would have just given it to you,” I say, stopping her before she forms the world’s longest run-on sentence. Her face is turning red, and her voice is high pitched.

  “I don’t want it. I never wore it. That’s why I gave it back.”

  “Fine.” I say. “But that’s not important.”

  I stop talking when her words hit me. I never wore it. With those words, I feel about ten pounds lighter, like an elephant has stepped off my chest and I can breathe normally again.

  She inhales deeply. “My mom found your letter in the mailbox and gave it to me. At first it made me sick. I was mad. Then it just made me sad.” She looks down at her fingers, where she is methodically peeling the skin off her cuticles. She must have picked up that habit from me. Thankfully it’s the only habit she picked up from me.

  “I know. It was a lot of information. That’s stuff I never told anybody before, and I probably never will.”

  “No, Mercy. I’m glad I read the letter, because Charlie is kind of like Luke. What he said, to get you to do things.” Her voice gets hushed and she looks at the door, like somebody might be eavesdropping outside.

  “No, Ange,” I say. “Please tell me he didn’t make you do anything.”

  “He didn’t,” she whispers. “But he tried. He told me we were as good as married, that being engaged is the same thing. I kept telling him I wanted to wait. I still want to wait.”

  I want to hug her, but her body language indicates that she might not want to be hugged. So I listen to the story unfold.

  “He got us this hotel room on the weekend, while my parents were gone, and tried to get me to drink wine with him. But I was nervous and didn’t need anything that would make my head clou
dier than it already was. So I said no, and he started acting kind of funny. Kind of mean, actually. I told him we could sleep in the same bed, and we could kiss and stuff, but that I wasn’t ready for, you know.”

  “Sex.”

  “Exactly. And he knew that.” She looks at me and sighs. “That was when he started to say stuff like, if you’re not ready now, when are you ever going to be ready? We’re already dealing with a long engagement. When are we ever going to do stuff normal couples do?”

  “I can’t believe he said that,” I say through gritted teeth, even though I’m not surprised at all.

  “Anyway. This is so embarrassing, but when I got in bed, I faced away from him and just wanted to go to sleep. But he didn’t let me. He was naked and kept wanting me to touch, you know, it. Then he grabbed my wrist and made me. That was when I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in and pretended to be sick.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ange. I didn’t want anything to happen to you.” I want to add that I would love to cut the offending it right off his body, but I restrain myself.

  “Well, nothing did. I stayed in the bathroom all night, even though he hammered and pounded on the door. He started saying things like, I’m so lucky that he has stayed with me and how he could find somebody else. Eventually he fell asleep, and I slipped out before he woke up. He has been calling me nonstop ever since, saying he’s sorry, blaming it on the wine.”

  She starts to cry. This time I do hug her. She cries into my hair, taking shuddering breaths. I wish I could find Charlie and punch him in the face. Or worse.

  “The thing is, I was mad at you,” she says, her voice muffled by my hair. “I was mad at you because he kept saying that you were ready and willing to give it up for him. I was mad at you because I didn’t know who else to be mad at. But now I just never want to see him again.” She wipes her nose on her sleeve. I grab a box of tissues off my nightstand, but she waves them away.

  “You had a right to be confused,” I say. “I don’t blame you. Especially after everything I have done. Or, everyone,” I say, cracking a little smile. Angela laughs weakly, but I haven’t heard her laugh in so long that it’s a beautiful sound.

  “The thing is, I had been starting to feel pressured by Charlie before I even found out about you. He kept talking about it. We used to talk about other things, but then he only ever wanted to talk about sex. When I changed the subject, he would get all sullen and moody. He asked me not to wear skirts to school, because other guys were looking at my legs. He got really controlling. And I let him be.”

  “Trust me, I know what it’s like,” I say, and I realize exactly who I sound like. Faye. Trust me—her life motto. And if I can be half the friend to Angela that Faye has been to me, I might just be deserving of that trust.

  “But your story, about how he threatened you, I really didn’t know who to believe. He kept saying you seduced him. And he had that book of names to back it up. And you said he came onto you, but I guess I needed proof.”

  Now it’s my turn to pick at my cuticles.

  “There’s something else I don’t understand,” she continues. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me. But I don’t get why you never told the police about what happened with Luke. Why didn’t you report him? You were thirteen! And pregnant!”

  I knew Angela was going to ask me this if she ever decided to speak to me again. And I don’t blame her. It’s something I have asked myself about a million times—something I probably won’t ever stop asking myself. I read the news, about guys like Luke who get a second chance to do it all over again because some timid victim didn’t come forward. And now I have to tell my best friend why.

  “Here’s the thing, Ange. It was my word against his. None of Luke’s friends knew I existed. Nobody knew about our secret little relationship. He told me not to tell anybody, that it was more special because only the two of us knew.”

  Angela pulls a tissue out of the box and shreds it into little pieces of confetti, which she promptly pushes around the carpet with her fingers. For a long time she says nothing, and I don’t, either. I give her time to absorb it. Considering not a day has gone by where I haven’t thought about Luke and wondered if I should have done things differently, I can’t expect Angela to process the information on the spot.

  When she does say something, it’s not what I expect.

  “I hope you can forgive me,” she says quietly. “I believe you, and it makes me sick that Charlie almost turned me against you.”

  I hug Angela fiercely, relief flooding through me. I have my best friend back. And that’s something I’ll never take for granted again.

  “I have one more question for you,” she says when we pull away.

  “Ask away,” I say. “I’m not hiding anything from you ever again.”

  “Why did you do it? Why did you sleep with all those guys?” She looks at the carpet.

  “I think a lot of it was about control.” I exhale shakily. “When I was the one who had it, even for a few minutes, I felt powerful. And the more guys I slept with, the more I craved it.” With every word, I realize how terrible it sounds out loud. That I got greedy for that feeling. That it became an obsession. It wasn’t about helping the virgins.

  It was about helping myself.

  Angela reaches for my hand. She will never understand it, but she loves me.

  “You asked me before if I was in love with Luke,” I say. “The answer is no. Luke was using me, and I was too young and naïve to figure it out. I might have a lot of experience, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love.”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m any authority on relationships,” Angela says. “I thought I loved Charlie. I mean, I thought I wanted to marry him. But maybe I was just under his spell. I don’t think I really know what love means at all.”

  I smile. “Some lucky guy will be very happy to be your boyfriend,” I say. “And he will respect you and never pressure you, because that’s what love is. He’ll want to be around you all the time. And nothing you do will make him leave, no matter how many times you push him away. And you’ll never have to be afraid of him.”

  Angela narrows her eyes, and I’m not sure if she’s about to laugh at me or chastise me.

  “What?” I ask. “Sorry, that was cheesy. But it’s true.”

  She takes my hand in both of hers, her delicate little hands with fingernails that will never have blood under them.

  “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.”

  I cock my head. “What?”

  Angela rolls her eyes. “First John 4:18. If you had been paying attention during prayer group, you would know.”

  “I’m sorry I lied about prayer group, Ange. I promise I won’t lie to you ever again.”

  “That’s great, but how about lying to yourself?”

  I shrug. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” she says slowly, drawing out each syllable, “it sounds like you might have more experience with love than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

  I roll her words around in my head. Perfect love casts out fear.

  Then, my own words. Nothing you do will make him leave, no matter how many times you push him away.

  I stand up so fast that the blood rushes to my head.

  “Angela,” I say, “there’s somewhere I really need to be.”

  40

  The Jeep can’t get there fast enough. Every second is wasted time, grains of sand slipping through my hand. By the time I screech into my usual parking spot and run for the door, I realize I have no idea what I’m even going to say.

  But I don’t let that stop me.

  He’s not in the library, where he said he was going to be. I dart down every aisle and check every cubicle, hoping to see the top of his head. A few people look up as I dash by, but no Zach.

  I sprint down the hallway, passing my locker. The blacked-out WHORE and SLUT have been joined by BITCH, but I don’t let any of those words slow me down.

 
I almost run right past the chemistry lab. It’s mostly dark and the door is closed. But something stops me. Instinct, or some greater force. When I look in the window, I see him at our old desk, with his head in his hands.

  I don’t hesitate. I don’t give myself the chance to chicken out or change my mind and run away. I open the door and stride up to the whiteboard. I clear my throat and pick up a whiteboard marker, just like I did that day when I didn’t know Jillian was watching.

  “Today, we’re going to be talking about ionic and covalent bonds,” I say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds, how sure of myself I seem.

  Zach leans forward in his chair. “Mercy, what are you doing here?”

  I keep talking. “You’re probably wondering what the difference is. Well, in an ionic bond, the oppositely charged ions are strongly attracted to each other.” I use the whiteboard to draw two little stick people, the extent of my artistic ability.

  “Ionic compounds have high melting and boiling points.” I add arrows to one of the stick people. Highs and lows, ups and downs. “Lots of energy is required to melt ionic compounds or cause them to boil.”

  Zach taps his pen against his notebook and squints at the board.

  “Ionic compounds are hard and brittle.” I draw a box around the stick person, trapping it inside. “Hard because the positive and negative ions are strongly attracted to each other and difficult to separate.” I erase the first stick person and redraw it closer to the one in the box.

  “But the electrostatic repulsion can be enough to split the crystal, which is why ionic solids are also brittle.” I rub out the box with my finger and whip around to face him. “Is any of this ringing a bell?”

  Zach scrapes his chair back and raises his hand, something he never does during class because he never knows the answer. “Opposites attract,” he says. “Two things come together and make something stronger. Like table salt. Sodium and chloride.”

  The corners of my mouth start to twitch into a smile. “You’re learning,” I say.