The Anti-Virginity Pact

by Katie Wismer

“He left a note in my locker a few days ago with his number. I didn’t know who he was, not really. And after the whole kidnapping thing with Ashley, I was just so mad and frustrated that people were treating me like shit for something I didn’t even do, so I guess I just figured I might as well do it. So I went over there, but I couldn’t go through with it.”

  Johanna is quiet for several moments. “Mare…are you sure she doesn’t already know? That she wasn’t the one to…”

  “The thought crossed my mind, but I don’t think so. I think he’s been cheating on her.”

  “So what exactly were you planning to do with these pictures?”

  “I don’t even know anymore.” Sighing, I sit up again and take the phone from her. “Revenge, I guess.” I laugh bitterly. “Which is clearly not my style, because I don’t even know how to do it right. This isn’t me.” I stare at the pictures on my phone for a second. “I don’t want to stoop to her level. And what can I even do with these? She’d probably somehow manage to spin it and make me look even worse.”

  “True. And you know how badly I want that bitch to go down for something, but I don’t think this is the way to do it.”

  I laugh and put my face in my hands. “When did everything get to be such a mess, Jo?”

  She rubs a hand on my back. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

  “Why did we even sign that damn thing in the first place? Nothing good has come out of it.”

  “It made sense at the time,” she mumbles. “I guess growing up, and watching all of these movies and TV shows, I had expectations for high school. You know, going to parties and football games and dances and pep rallies. I never snuck out of the house, or ditched class with my friends, or got detention—not that I really want to do any of those, I just assumed they would be a part of this piece of my life. High school just didn’t turn out to be anything like I expected.”

  “You can say that again,” I mumble.

  “But you know what? Who cares? We’re almost done anyway, so just screw it. Screw everything.”

  “I thought trying to screw everything was what got us into this mess in the first place.”

  Jo gasps, but she’s grinning. “Damn, Meredith killing it with the sex jokes. I’ve taught you well.”

  “You know what’s stupid? We didn’t even need boys for any of those things. We could have gone to the pep rallies, or the games, or the dances. Having sex with some random boy wasn’t going to change the fact that we never did anything.”

  Jo squints at me. It’s the look she gets in history class when everything’s going over her head. “Mare. We are so. Stupid.”

  “That’s what I’m saying—”

  “No, no, no. I mean, yes, you’re absolutely right. But I mean, we’re stupid because we made the wrong pact. We had the right idea—kind of. We just made the wrong pact. So all that means is we need to make another one.”

  I actually laugh out loud. It comes out harsh and full of sharp edges. “Are you insane? One pact has caused enough problems. Why the hell would we make another one?”

  “Screw boys and virginities.” She scoots over so we sit facing each other on the bed. “Let’s make the pact that we should have made in the first place. One where we’ll do all of the things we never did in high school. You and me.”

  I shake my head, but a small smile has begun to form on my lips. “What would we do?”

  She shrugs. “We’ll go to a party—just think about the looks on the Pretty Committee’s faces if we showed up! We can be each other’s dates to prom. We’ll go to some sports game that we don’t really care about and eat hotdogs or whatever disgusting food they sell there. We don’t need boys.”

  Now she’s grinning, and despite my best efforts, a small, stupid grin has found its way onto my face, and we probably both look stupid, but I couldn’t care less, because I’ve been waiting all this time for a boy to come around and tell me all the words that I need to hear. Words full enough to fill whatever void still remained in my chest. And I’d never even considered that I could fill it with something else.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.” I roll my eyes, still smiling. “It’s a deal.”

  She holds out a hand to shake. “By graduation,” she says.

  “By graduation.”

  21

  It’s just past ten o’clock on Saturday night and Sam still hasn’t called. And since Johanna refuses to let me sit around in my bedroom wallowing for the rest of the weekend, she talks me into doing something absolutely insane.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  “Believe it,” Jo says from the driver’s seat.

  I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. The streets outside our windows are dark and flooded with traffic. My leg jostles against the dashboard, pumping out a nervous rhythm in tune to the country song on the radio. It’s going to be fine. Really.

  Jo laughs. “It will be fine. I’m taking you to a party, Mare, not your execution. Chill out.”

  I really need to stop saying things out loud without realizing it.

  “Sorry.” I force my leg to stop bouncing. “I just can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

  “Of course we are. We made a pact. And lord knows we always follow through on our pacts.” Jo winks at me and turns on her blinker. “Hey, put that thing away.” She snatches my phone from my hands and shoves it in her purse. “No checking for texts or calls from Sam all night. We’re going to have fun. Just you and me. No boys, remember?”

  “Got it.”

  As Jo pulls into the neighborhood, suddenly my skinny jeans and semi-provocative tank top ensemble doesn’t seem like such a good idea. These houses are huge. Mansions would probably be a more appropriate word. They have balconies and wraparound porches and three stories. Their garages look like they could fit my house inside.

  I feel like I should be wearing couture, or at the very least, heels. Why did I ever think flip-flops were a good idea?

  “Jo. Where the hell are we?”

  “I think the real question is where the hell am I supposed to find a parking spot?” she mutters.

  The entire street is jam-packed with cars. They dot the surrounding lawns, double and triple-parking one another. Jo drives past the house—easily distinguishable from the music pouring out onto the lawn and the red Solo cups scattered along the ground. Bright lights blaze from every window, and a group of clearly intoxicated teenagers lounges on the front porch as more stream in and out the front door.

  Jo turns to the adjacent street and lets out a small noise of frustration to find this one just as crowded.

  “Looks like we’re walking, babe.”

  “Why are there so many people? Where are they all coming from?”

  “This is a Madison Prep party, right? So that means it’s gonna be a ton of kids from there and Northfield.”

  Great. Two times the amount of drunk teenagers.

  Another five minutes or so pass before we find a spot—it’s in front of a fire hydrant—but by then Jo’s response is a simple, “Oh, fuck it.”

  We follow the sound of music up the block, and I can’t help but wonder how they haven’t gotten a noise complaint already. “Whose house even is this?” I ask, wrapping my arms around myself.

  “James Dean.”

  I quirk an eyebrow.

  Jo shrugs. “Apparently that’s what everyone at Madison Prep calls him. Honestly, I don’t know his real name. Just that his parents are loaded and he’s the kid to go to if you want some coke.”

  My eyebrows inch further up my forehead. “You ever take him up on that?”

  Jo snorts a little. “Not yet.”

  “How did you even know about this party?”

  “Cecilia from photography club,” she says simply.

  As the house comes into view, my muscles tense, almost stopping me short on the sidewalk. Jo urges me forward with a small t
ug on my hand. I don’t know why I’m so nervous all of a sudden—why my heart is trying to leap out of my chest and make an escape.

  “A hundred bucks says no one here even knows about the pact,” Jo says under her breath. “And even if they do, they probably won’t recognize you.”

  “Is that because they won’t know me, or because they’ll be too drunk to know any better?”

  “I’m guessing a combination of the two.”

  It’s difficult to discern if people really are staring at me or if it’s my own paranoia as we step into the house. There are people everywhere—clustered in the various rooms loosely connected in the wide, open floorplan, clogging the stairway and the hall leading to what I assume is either the laundry room or the garage, lounging against the banister, grinding against each other in the corners. It’s so much sensory overload that Jo and I pause in the doorway for several seconds, taking it all in.

  A guy in nothing but a tight-fitting pair of boxer shorts and a loosely knotted tie comes barreling down the stairs. A drunken grin occupies his entire face as he stumbles into the foyer and grabs the first girl he can get his hands on, who just so happens to be me. I’m torn away from Jo and tucked against this strange man’s side before I realize what’s happening. Suddenly I’m eye-to-nipple with his chest.

  “Hot tub!” he announces and presses his hand to the small of my back as if to lead me out back. His skin is hot to the touch. I’m not sure if he thinks I’m someone else or if any female company will do. Jo wraps an arm around me and slips me away as the guy turns and shimmies through the crowd toward the back door. If he noticed that he lost his companion, he doesn’t show it.

  I meet Jo’s eye and we both burst out laughing. Her mouth moves in what appears to be a question. I point to my ear and shake my head, the pulsing music drowning out her words.

  “Drinks!” she yells and jabs a thumb over her shoulder.

  Nodding, I fist my hand in the back of her T-shirt so I won’t lose her as we snake our way through the mass of sweaty, dancing bodies.

  A huge bowl of red punch sits on the counter surrounded by Solo cups lying on their sides. Beyond that winks several cases of beer, some soda, and a keg. The noise is duller here, but still prominent enough that Jo and I have to yell to communicate. A group of three skinny, nervous-looking guys hovers on the opposite side of the kitchen by the chip bowls. Freshmen, probably. Other than them, Jo and I are alone.

  Jo doesn’t even hesitate before picking up two red cups. “I’d steer clear of the punch,” she says. “Probably more than just a little spiked.” Instead, she mixes some Coke and another dark liquid, hands it to me, then does the same for herself.

  “So, what do we do now?”

  She shrugs. “Dance? Socialize?” She tips back her cup and swallows. “Drink?”

  “Huh.” I try the drink, which surprisingly isn’t disgusting. It burns a little on the way down, but I find the corners of my mouth twisting into a small grin.

  The song shifts into some upbeat pop tune, and Johanna starts jumping up and down. “I love this song!” She grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the living room. “Let’s dance!”

  Holding our cups close to our chests so people don’t knock into them, we plunge back into the crowd. More people are dancing now. Spinning and bobbing, hands waving in the air, jumping—though some people are just straight up dry-humping one another.

  We weave our way in, and instantly the room feels warmer. The people around us are really getting into the music, their expressions serious as they bob their heads. Some scream out the lyrics—though it all just blurs into one stream of unintelligible words in my head.

  Johanna wastes no time. She jumps around, the hand not holding her drink pumping up and down in the air. I bounce along beside her, laughing as she spins and shakes her hips.

  “I love this song!” she shouts again.

  The music pounds so loudly, it feels like it’s vibrating my bones, reverberating in my chest. Sweat collects on my lower back, between my breasts.

  The song changes once, twice. Jo and I don’t stop dancing.

  “I’ll go get us some more drinks!” Jo offers when she notices that both of our cups are empty.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Nah!” She waves a hand and starts cutting through the crowd. “I’ll be right back!”

  She’s gone before I can respond. Taking a deep breath, I nod. I don’t need her by my side every second of the night. I’m perfectly capable of being on my own, of being around other people my age. I can absolutely do this.

  And, surprisingly, this has been kind of fun. Way more fun than I was expecting. The music is decent, the drinks are free, and no one has called me a whore yet.

  But after about a minute of standing there alone, nodding along to a song I’ve never heard and surrounded by people I don’t know, I come to the conclusion that I cannot, in fact, do this. People keep looking my way. They’re just glances, but every time I make eye contact with someone, heat flashes through my chest. And then nausea is building in the pit of my stomach and threatening to boil over. Suddenly the room feels hot. So, so hot. How can anyone breathe in here?

  The couple dancing next to me disappears, heading for the kitchen, offering me an opening to escape. I look up and my entire body goes still. Across the room, red Solo cup in hand and foot propped against the wall behind him, is Sam. He’s wearing black jeans and a gray band T-shirt. He leans over, saying something to the tall blonde guy on his right.

  I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

  He looks so calm, so content. Like everything is fine. Like what happened between us hasn’t affected him at all.

  I have to get out of here.

  The crowd of people has constricted again, filling in the gap of the departed couple. Before I can escape, Sam looks up, and for one horrible second, we make eye contact.

  I have to go I have to go I have to go.

  I break free from the crowd and look around wildly for the bathroom or some empty room or something away from all of this. I turn for the front door. At least then I’ll get some fresh air.

  I’m nearly there when an arm grabs my shoulder and turns me around. My heart leaps into my throat. Did he come after me?

  “Sam—?”

  I choke on the words. The guy looking down at me definitely isn’t Sam. I have no idea who he is, but he’s looking at me like he knows me. He’s tall, with tousled black hair, a hazy look in his eyes.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Nope,” he says cheerfully. “But I know you. Meredith, right?”

  “How…?”

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “Sorry, that came out creepy. I’m Derek. I’m a friend of your friend’s. She was looking for you.”

  “Jo? Where is she?” I glance around Derek’s shoulder, but can’t see anything through the clumps of people. I try to peek around to where Sam had been moments before, but he’s gone.

  “You want me to take you to her?” he offers.

  I hesitate.

  “I’m a tall guy,” he laughs. “Probably a lot easier for me to spot her in this mess than it is for you.” He makes a gesture with his hand to illustrate how short I am. “No offense.”

  “None taken. Sure, I guess. That’s actually really nice of you, thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He salutes me and extends an arm. When I don’t move, he adds, “So I don’t lose you in the crowd.”

  Conceding, I take his arm and follow as he weaves through the room. Seeing Sam has left me shaken. I just want to find Johanna and get the hell out of here. Instead of heading straight for the kitchen though, he veers right down a hallway. We pass the couples making out against the walls and keep going until we reach the end. As he opens the last door on the left, an odd feeling tickles the back of my neck.

  “Jo’s back here…?”

  He holds the door open. “Yeah, go on in.”

  The moment my
foot crosses the threshold, I know something isn’t right. Not only is the bedroom empty, but every nerve in my body is tingling like screaming alarm bells, urging me to run.

  I whip around, but he’s followed me into the room and closed the door behind him. He leans against it, swaying slightly on his feet, and watches me.

  “My friend will be looking for me,” I say, my voice stretched thin, and point to the door. “I should probably go back out…”

  “I think you’d have more fun in here with me,” he says, taking a step toward me. I immediately step back, my heart leaping to my throat.

  This just makes him laugh. “Oh, I see. You want me to chase you. I’m down. Let’s have some fun.”

  He advances, drunkenly stumbling forward, and I try to skirt around him. He catches me by my upper arms, fingers digging in hard, like he’s using me to keep himself upright.

  “Let me go.” I try to pull out of his grasp, but his fingers just dig in deeper. The panic growing in my chest is on fire.

  “You are a little tease, aren’t you?”

  His mouth reeks of whiskey as he shoves his lips on mine, slobbery and rough. I try to pull away, but he swings me around and backs me toward the bed. My lips are sealed shut, but he keeps trying to break in with his tongue. When that doesn’t work, he bites my lower lip, hard, and the shock of pain makes me open my mouth.

  He seems to take this as encouragement, groaning.

  “Stop—” I try to shout, but we fall onto the mattress, and his weight knocks the air from my lungs. He pins me down, and I can taste the alcohol radiating off of him, feel his sweat soaking through his clothes and pressing against my body. “Don’t touch me.” I try to sound authoritative, calm, but it comes out shaky.

  I try to kick, roll, squirm, anything to get out from under him, but nothing works. My futile attempts at escape only grant me a drunken, slurred laugh.

  “Get off!” I squeeze the words out through gritted teeth.

  This only seems to encourage him, like this is all some role-playing game, and shoves his mouth back against mine. His hands roam over my body, and every time he finds a new piece of skin to touch, I flinch.