“Lacey!” she says, shocked. “You can’t be embarrassed by your beautiful body! Have I taught you nothing?”
“You know, she might just be objecting to you saying all this in front of company,” Charlie says gently.
“I’m gonna walk Theo out,” I say. “I promise I love my body and all of its life-giving functionality.” I grab Theo’s hand and pull him up the stairs to the foyer before my mom can say something else.
Outside it’s surprisingly warm for the end of October. “I can practically feel my cello going out of tune,” Theo says as he puts it in his trunk.
“Where are you headed?” I ask him. Since the youngest of his three older sisters went away to college, Theo avoids being home as much as possible. He doesn’t really talk about it, but Evita and I know.
“I guess I’ll try to catch up with Evita.”
“You want company?” I ask him.
“Nah. Don’t you want to see how the sexist TV show pans out?”
I really don’t want him to leave. “You should stay. We can just hang out in my room. I have something…” But I shake my head. I should wait until it’s totally finished.
“I gotta catch Evita at some point anyway. Unless you’ll miss me too much,” he says. He’s joking. I think. But something in the way he says it makes me think he’s fishing for something, wondering if I miss him when he’s not here.
“Nah. Have fun. I’m tired.” And I want to work on your quartet.
He nods. “All right. Good night, Lacey.” He hugs me. “Please don’t wear turtlenecks for auditions. I don’t want to be embarrassed to be seen with you,” he deadpans.
“Sexist pig,” I joke.
“Is it sexist to tell you that you smell good?”
I laugh at this. He’s always asking Evita and me about what shampoo we use, because he wishes his hair smelled good. “No. But it’s weird.”
“Okay. See you later.” He folds himself into the driver’s seat of his dad’s old muscle car. I watch him drive off, kind of wishing he would stay.
Five
Wednesday, I’m heading into senior seminar ready to note every ridiculous detail of whatever lesson Mrs. Einhorn has planned. It’s more than just wanting to report back to my mom, though. I get a little thrill at being outraged. I’ve prepared for this class like I’m going into battle, armed only with common sense, statistics, and memorized lectures from my mom. I’m just hoping to prove someone wrong. But, then again, maybe it’s ridiculous that I’m going into this class feeling like I know anything at all about sex.
Theo holds up a sheet of paper. “I’m going to tally again.”
“And I am going to try very hard to roll my eyes silently,” I say.
When the bell rings, without saying a word, Mrs. Einhorn carefully places two clear plastic cups on her desk. In the first one, she pours an inch of water from a pitcher. “This is you. Your body is healthy and pure.”
I draw in an audibly loud breath. Screw being silent. I might be healthy, but I’m not pure, and that whole idea is bullshit. I know exactly where this is headed.
Then she fills the second cup, only this time she adds a dozen drops of blue food coloring. “Can anyone guess what this is?”
Evita raises her hand. “From what I understand from television, that’s menstrual blood.” She’s completely deadpan. Everybody giggles.
“Evita. You can see me after class,” Mrs. Einhorn scolds. “This is another person. And they have been exposed to a sexually transmitted infection.”
I could scream. Or, at the very least, I feel a big eye roll coming. Theo turns around and raises his eyebrows at me even though I’m pretty sure it was a silent eye roll.
“And if the two of you engage in sexual activity…” Mrs. Einhorn takes the two cups and pours the water back and forth between the two of them a few times. “Now look at your body.”
“Hey! But my sexual partner’s STI has cleared up a little!” Evita calls out. There are more snickers, but Mrs. Einhorn ignores it.
“This is an apt illustration, don’t you think? It perfectly shows the exchange of bodily fluids.” This comment elicits a slew of groans.
She pulls out half a dozen more cups and fills them all with water. She begins to mix the cups, pouring them back and forth, demonstrating sex in the stupidest way possible. I can feel my palms clenching and sweating, I’m so personally offended.
I think of what Alice would feel if she were here. She said she was embarrassed to have gotten pregnant. And that’s without anyone telling her she isn’t pure or that the sex she had with her boyfriend was nothing but a gross exchange of bodily fluids. Alice deserves better. We all do. Because what if some of these kids in this class believe what Mrs. Einhorn is saying? Even just a little bit.
My mind is racing with problems with this demonstration. It’s completely ignoring sex that isn’t heterosexual intercourse. It’s presenting virginity as a state of purity, when it is just someone who hasn’t had sex yet. And what about victims of sexual abuse? What would they say about this “purity”?
I am so tired of hearing this same shit over and over and not having it help anyone.
And something just clicks into place for me. A crucial piece of information is missing from this equation.
I tap Theo, and even though I don’t want to know the answer, I ask him, “Do you have a condom on you?”
“Uh … seriously?”
“Yes!” I whisper. “If you do, hand it over.”
He digs through his backpack and produces one.
“Gross, dude. Were you gonna do it at school?” Evita whispers to him.
I snatch it and march to the front of the class. “Mrs. Einhorn,” I say, my voice sounding more confident than I feel. “It’s a pretty good demonstration, but perhaps we could provide a few more variables.”
She’s shocked that I would interrupt a lesson, so she’s speechless as I unwrap the condom and stretch the opening over the top of one of the cups of now-light-blue liquid. I turn the cup upside down over a “pure” cup.
“And, look, we have prevented the transmission of the STI,” I say. The class applauds.
Mrs. Einhorn shushes the class and turns to me. “You can see me after class as well. Return to your seat.”
I sit back down. Theo turns around and whispers, “I hope that’s the last time you walk around without being prepared. You never know when—”
“Theo! You may see me after class also,” Mrs. Einhorn calls. She turns back to the class, trying to get their attention back on the inane cups of blue liquid. “Perhaps the transmission of disease can be somewhat lessened.”
“Eighty percent reduction in incidence of HIV,” I call, armed with that particular statistic from one of the brochures my mom has given me.
She ignores me. “But what of the emotional consequences?” She tries desperately to regain the class’s attention, but it’s too late; everyone is whispering and giggling. I even get a couple smiles and nods of approval. “You may use the rest of the class to do homework and to ponder the demonstration.”
Evita reaches her hand under the table for a low five. “You are such a badass.”
* * *
After class, Evita, Theo, and I stay in our seats. We’re gonna be late for government, because Mrs. Einhorn makes us wait before she says anything.
“I have been teaching at this school for almost twenty years,” she says. “I have never, in all those years, been so disappointed in my students as I was today.”
My heart speeds up. I have never been in trouble at school. I still remember when a teacher had to raise her voice at me for giggling with Evita during a lesson. My cheeks burned with shame for almost an hour. The pounding of my heart isn’t actually unpleasant this time, because her lesson was bullshit, and I’m righteously furious.
“I expect you all to listen to the knowledge I’m imparting. You need to trust that I am trying to teach you. That I care about you.”
“We don’t doubt t
hat,” Theo says. He glances at me, and I think maybe he’s trying to draw the heat off me, since, obviously, I was the most disruptive. “But if we have opinions or questions or other thoughts, shouldn’t we express them? Start a discussion that benefits all of us?”
“Not how you did it,” Mrs. Einhorn says, looking right at me.
“Are you saying that condoms don’t lower the transmission of sexually transmitted infections?” Evita asks.
“I’m saying that interrupting and derailing my demonstration was rude, disrespectful, and inappropriate. I’m not going to be taking official disciplinary action, but as this class’s grading mainly focuses on class participation, you all have some work to do to bring your grades up. You will each hand in five pages on healthy life choices on Monday if you want to improve your grade. And any further inappropriate outbursts will not be tolerated.” Mrs. Einhorn, who’s normally a mild-mannered teacher, practically glares at me when she says it.
The bell that indicates our tardiness to our next class rings. Evita squeezes my hand under the table. She knows I hate being late.
“Gladly. Thanks for the chance to make it up,” she says. “Can we go?”
Mrs. Einhorn nods. I grab my backpack, eager to leave as soon as possible. Theo puts his arm around me as soon as we’re in the hall.
“Don’t let the man get you down,” he says.
“No way,” Evita says reassuringly. “You were and are amazing.”
“Guys. I am surprisingly unruffled. I kind of feel awesome.” I just did that. Me. Straight-A Lacey who hates to make waves. But today felt right.
“I would write a million papers to see you rip open a condom like that again.”
I just blink at Theo.
“Oh god. I just heard myself say that out loud and I’m mortified. No. Not like that,” Theo laughs.
“Suuuuuuuuuure,” Evita teases him.
“You guys are nuts,” I tell them, but I’m laughing along with them.
Six
Even with Theo and Evita giving me puppy-dog looks and begging me to hang out at Evita’s, I get in my car after school to drive home.
“I gotta check in with my mom!” I tell them. “I’ll catch up with you guys soon. I promise.”
“I will buy you a coffee!” Evita says from Theo’s car, which is parked next to mine.
“But no one will appreciate the condom demonstration like Ms. Burke. She’s gotta go tell her,” Theo says to Evita. “Although you will be missed.” He smiles at me, then asks Evita, “Do I get a free coffee? I supplied the condom.”
“Actually, I don’t have my wallet. So the coffee has to be on you,” Evita says with a toothy grin.
Theo rolls his eyes playfully and shuts his door. He waves after he starts his car. Evita sticks her tongue out at me as they back out of their spot, but then blows me a kiss. I follow them out of the parking lot, and drive home.
My mom is folding laundry when I walk in the door. She puts a finger up, letting me know that Dylan is napping. She points to the bouncy seat where he sleeps. I nod and sit on the living room floor next to her, helping her fold.
“How was your day?” she asks me.
“It was … interesting,” I whisper. “I actually couldn’t wait to tell you all about the sex-ed drama.”
“Oooooh. Tell me.”
I start recounting the blue water demonstration. My mom is appropriately outraged.
“So, I borrowed a condom from Theo, marched up to the front of the class, and put it over the opening of a cup.”
“Genius!” my mom whisper-yells. Dylan stirs.
“Yeah. Well. The teacher wasn’t too happy about it.”
“I guess she probably wasn’t. But that’s okay.”
“I have to write a five-page paper as punishment.”
“About what?”
“Healthy life choices.”
“Such as…”
“Well,” I say, folding together a pair of tiny socks, “I’m not sure it’ll help my grade, but I thought I could write it about condoms.”
“Yes. Absolutely. In fact, I bet if you were armed with statistics about how freaking stupid abstinence-only education is, you might even convince her.”
“That’s a little more optimistic than I am feeling. But I just don’t feel like I should totally cave.”
“You know if you get in any kind of trouble about it, I’ve got your back, right?” my mom says.
“I’m sort of counting on that,” I tell her.
“I can find some scholarly articles for you, too. About abstinence-only education, or maybe some big public health studies about condom use and efficacy. You can’t argue with facts,” she offers. “I love a good medical study.”
“I know you do.” I laugh. When she was studying for her nursing degree, she used to share studies that fascinated her. She loves public health stats. Proof that her job makes a difference in the big picture.
“You know … Speaking of this paper, and medical studies, and volunteering at the hospital…” Mom is going for a segue, and it’s not very subtle.
“Were we talking about volunteering?” I ask.
“I still think you might want to submit an application for a nursing program or two. There are so many great in-state schools.” She gets up from where she’s sitting. “Hang on a sec.”
She walks to the kitchen and I hear her rustling through the junk drawer where we keep chargers and pens and notepads and other sundries. She comes back with a manila envelope. She shakes the contents out on the carpet next to us. They’re college brochures.
“Mom. Seriously. How long have you been squirreling these away?” I ask her.
She shrugs guiltily. There’s a reason she hasn’t shown me these before, and I’m guessing it’s that she knows these go against all my plans.
“I’ve just been setting them aside. There are some really great schools in state, you know,” she says.
“Yeah. I know. Boston has sort of been the plan, though,” I tell her.
“There are some for Boston schools, too!” She shuffles through the pile and points to some in Boston and the surrounding area. She has obviously researched this. “I just want you to leave your options open. I think about how into nursing and pregnancy and stuff you were as a kid, and I just don’t want you to discount that. You could really make a difference. Look through them. Pick one or two. It’ll take you an hour—just submit an application. What would it hurt?”
I look at her hopeful face. She does have a point. There was a time when I dreamed of nursing. But I don’t think it’s any different from the armies of kids who want to be astronauts or vets or artists. I wanted to be a nurse because I was surrounded with anatomy textbooks and because my mom has always been my hero.
“Yeah. Why not?” I say. “And I think I’ll volunteer this weekend.”
My mom claps her hands together, excited, but it makes Dylan stir. She leans over the basket of laundry to give me a giant hug.
“I’m gonna get started on the paper and stuff,” I tell her.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispers.
Once I’m in my room downstairs, I spend an hour researching condoms. It actually all feels so unnecessary. Like, who doesn’t know that condoms protect against STIs and pregnancy? Nonetheless, I find a couple abstracts of scholarly articles that I wonder if my mom can access. And, mostly so I can tell her I gave it a shot, I look up the websites for some of the schools in Massachusetts.
I start by mapping how close they all are to Berklee, but then I’m totally won over by UMass Amherst’s website. The problem is, when I map it … It’s not that close to Boston. Of all the schools I’m looking at, though, it fits my interests the best. They highlight this nurse who worked for Planned Parenthood, even when the people around her told her that was morally questionable. Her story is kind of awesome. And if the school wants to highlight her story, then maybe they would like to hear about my condom demonstration. Or about this paper I’m about to write.
>
Before I second-guess the decision, I apply. It’s quick and painless. Even if I’m not going to end up there, I know it will make my mom really happy that I’ve entertained the idea, even just for this afternoon. When I ask to borrow her credit card for the application fee, I’m pretty sure I see a couple of proud tears.
“This does not mean I’m going there,” I say. “It’s a whole hour and a half away from Boston, I might add.”
“What’s an hour and a half from your friends?” she asks. “You’ll be—what—twelve hours away from me.”
“It would make it pretty hard to all share an apartment.”
“I guess. I’m still really glad you’re applying,” she says, pressing her lips together, likely trying to fight the grin that she wants to give me. She hands me her card. But then she giggles joyfully.
“Real subtle,” I say to her.
With the application sent in, I put on my headphones and work on the quartet for Theo. Lily Ann wants to pick new music in independent study tomorrow, so it’s the perfect time to give it to him.
I fiddle with dynamics and other markings and nuances. I listen to it one more time through the software, making sure there isn’t anything else I would change. I’m prouder of this piece than anything else I’ve done, including what I just wrote for my audition. I print a score, and then copies of each of the individual parts. And I just flip through the pages.
I’ve only been composing for a couple years. And I’m mostly self-taught. I’ve had private viola lessons with students at the nearby college on and off since middle school. But when Mom and Charlie got married, we got Charlie’s family’s old piano, and suddenly I got my hands on whatever I could to learn more. I watched YouTube tutorials on how to play. I downloaded free software to try composing. I did an online course in music theory. I started paying attention to how the parts of a quartet fit together. I studied the scores for the pieces we played in orchestra instead of just worrying about the viola part.
This past summer with Theo and Evita, the composing finally started to make sense. It’s amazing to have two people on the same wavelength as me. We collaborate seamlessly. Evita can take whatever I write and make it way more interesting and complex and catchy. She can write lyrics, which is something I don’t do. And Theo can play anything. He’s got this killer combination of a musical ear and crazy-good rhythm and the kind of coordination that makes picking up new instruments and percussion parts super easy for him.
The Birds, the Bees, and You and Me Page 4