Confessions of an Angry Girl

by Louise Rozett

  “You’re mad.”

  “Bring her here.”

  “I can’t. She always spends the holidays with her family. They’re really close and it’s important to them. Her name is—”

  I stop trying not to hang up on Peter. I pull the phone away from my ear so I don’t have to hear the end of that sentence and watch as my finger presses the end button. I slide the phone back into the base and stare at it, half expecting it to ring again. It doesn’t.

  I’m still watching it when there’s a knock at my door.

  “Rose?” my mom says.

  I get off my bed and open the door. My mother is standing there with her glasses on, which signals that she’s about to see a “client,” as she calls the incredibly messed-up teenagers she helps in her home office downstairs.

  Her gaze flickers past me, but the mess of my room doesn’t seem to register. She looks back at me. Her brown hair is pulled up in a clip, and everything about her seems gray—her eyes, her skin, her attitude. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that she’s exhausted. If I were a better daughter, I’d ask her if she’s okay.

  “Did you just get off the phone with Peter?” she says, a sympathetic look on her face.

  She already knows. He told her first.

  Tears fill my eyes before I can bite the inside of my cheek or pinch myself to make them stop. I look at the floor. I hate this new crying crap—I’ve never been such a crier in my entire life. She puts a hand on my shoulder and looks carefully at my face. I want to pull away from her so badly it hurts.

  “Honey, are you having one of your attacks?”

  As soon as she asks me that, I realize that I’m breathing in tiny, sharp breaths. I shake my head and make a conscious effort to slow down my breathing. I don’t need to give my mother any more ammunition in her quest to shrinkify me.

  “I don’t have attacks, Mom,” I say, trying not to wheeze out the words as I slap away the stupid tears on my face. Crying is so unbelievably lame.

  “You and I are going to do something fun for Thanksgiving, okay?” she says, still looking at me skeptically. “Start thinking about what you want it to be. Maybe we can go to the city to see The Lion King—you want to see that, right?”

  I don’t have it in me to remind her that we all saw The Lion King together for my birthday in April. I just shrug instead.

  “I know it’s hard, Rose, but Peter’s in college now and things are different—he’s different. It’s just part of leaving home. It’s natural.”

  There is nothing natural about this—not his forgetting to tell me about his “girlfriend,” not his choosing her over us and not his telling Mom about Thanksgiving before me. I hate that Mom knew first. It makes me want to never trust Peter with anything ever again.

  “So why doesn’t he want to see us?” I demand, wiping the snot off my upper lip with the back of my hand, practically daring her to tell me to use a tissue. She doesn’t. Instead, she looks at her watch.

  “It’s not that he doesn’t want to see us. It’s more complicated than that. Look, we’ll talk about it later, okay, honey?” she says.

  She waits for an answer, but when it becomes painfully clear to her that I don’t intend to speak, she turns and heads down the stairs. I listen as her client knocks on the side door of the house, and my mother greets the person in her therapy voice.

  It’s just as well. I don’t want to talk about Peter now. I won’t want to talk about him later, either.

  I crawl onto my bed, look at my laptop for a second before deciding that I don’t want to face the sergeant right now, and then jam my hand down between the bed and the wall to find that marker. It didn’t go very far—it landed in a fold of my beige comforter, which was all too happy to soak up every bit of ink that the marker wanted to give it. I grab the thing and sit up.

  I’m no Jamie Forta—I have no artistic talent. I usually draw the daisy over and over again when I’m doodling. I suppose I could do that to my wall, making wallflower wallpaper, so to speak, but I don’t like the symbolism, and I’m not exactly feeling flowery at the moment. Instead, I just sit there, marker in hand, staring at the blank wall so I don’t have to look at my laptop, waiting for inspiration to strike and tell me what I’m supposed to do now.

  consummate (verb): to finish, to complete, to make perfect

  (see also: no comment)

  8

  “SOME OF YOU will have sex this year, whether you are ready or not.”

  Ms. Maso is standing in front of the blackboard. Virginity is written in her neat handwriting. Well, actually, it says, Virginity? Everyone is still.

  “If I’d known that statement was going to engender such profound silence, I would have made it a long time ago,” she says. A few girls giggle. The guys just continue to stare at her, unable to believe that their fantasies have finally come true: the beautiful, mocha-skinned, brown-eyed, petite but fierce Ms. Maso is going to tell them all about sex.

  What they don’t know is that she will not be telling them about what they would call the “good” parts. She will be telling them about all the awful things that can happen as a result of having sex. They have short memories, these boys; we already got the Birds and the Bees lecture in middle school, with just a slight mention of death, disease, unwanted pregnancies and babies that ruin teenage lives. Those of us who didn’t go to the local Catholic school got a pared-down version of the lecture way back in late elementary school.

  But I know what’s coming today because of Peter, of course. Peter, like all of these boys, was crazy about Ms. Maso and took her word as gospel. Whoever asked Ms. Maso to teach health class was a genius—boys will listen to her say anything. And they’ll retain most of it, too. Probably because they’ve never had a beautiful woman be so straight with them before about sex. Or anything else, for that matter.

  Sex Ed. It’s a lot for a Monday morning. Especially a Monday morning when you haven’t spoken to your best friend in days and your brother dropped a bomb over the weekend.

  Bad choice of words.

  Tracy didn’t call me all weekend, and she didn’t sneak past Mr. Cella to visit me in study hall. And now here we are, sitting next to each other in health class. And wouldn’t you know it? Today’s topic is sex. I have no idea if Tracy is still a virgin or not. She looks like she is—she doesn’t look overjoyed or freaked or depressed or anything. She mostly looks hungover. She’s probably lucky to be alive after what those stupid girls did to her.

  “This is our sex education week. I’m guessing that you all know the mechanics of reproduction, since you’re high school freshmen. Just in case you don’t, I’m going to pass out this pamphlet. Any of you who want to stop by my office after school with questions or email me to request an appointment should do that. I mean it. If there’s something here that you don’t know or don’t understand, you come see me. Immediately. Are you listening?”

  “Yes, Ms. Maso,” we say in unison. She is the only teacher who can get us to do this. We just ignore the other teachers when they ask us if we can actually hear them talking. She walks up and down the aisles between our desks, putting the pamphlets directly in our hands. Ms. Maso wears awesome clothes, and she looks like she’s about eighteen, even though she’s probably, like, thirty. Today she’s wearing her J Brand jeans with brown high-heeled boots, and a gold-and-brown sweater set that sparkles. She’s cool.

  “But what some of you may not know already, and what I’m going to be talking about in gory detail
this week, are the repercussions of having sex before you’re mature enough to handle it. Anyone know what I mean?”

  Nobody says anything. We all study our surroundings very carefully. Stephanie appears to be memorizing the graffiti on her desk. Mike is reading the posters above Ms. Maso’s head, which provide all sorts of useful information about the food pyramid and how to identify people with eating disorders. Robert is staring at me, which is a dumb move. It’s too conspicuous.

  “How about you, Robert?”

  He snaps to attention and turns bright red, sneaking a glance back at me before he manages to say, “Pregnancy?”

  Ms. Maso nods and slowly looks my way as she says, “Yup, that’s one.” Some days I really wish Robert would transfer. Or steal something again and go to juvie till he’s eighteen. I can’t believe I agreed to go to homecoming with him.

  “What else?” she asks. “Matt?”

  It is all I can do not to look at Tracy.

  “STDs,” he says, sounding extremely bored, as if STDs were not anything he needed to concern himself with. I want to punch him. I always want to punch him.

  “Exactly. Can anyone tell me what an STD is?” I know what’s coming next. “Rose?”

  I always know when a teacher is going to call on me. And I have to admit that usually I’m pretty thrilled when it happens. Despite the fact that kids who know the answers get made fun of for, well, knowing the answers, we still like to show off.

  But I really don’t feel like answering this question.

  I take a deep breath. “An STD is a sexually transmitted disease.”

  “Like?” she asks.

  After a long silence, Doug, one of Matt’s swim team co-jerks, calls out “Chlamydia” from the back of the room. I probably shouldn’t be thinking of him as a jerk since he just got me out of having to say chlamydia in front of everyone.

  “You would know,” says Matt. The boys erupt in laughter.

  Ms. Maso stares at Matt until everyone settles down, which happens pretty quickly. Nobody messes with Ms. Maso.

  She walks toward Matt, her boot heels clacking on the floor in the silence. When she arrives at his desk, she leans down and gets in his face. If I were a cheerleader, I’d jump on my desk right now and wave my stupid pom-poms for her.

  “Here’s what I think you don’t realize about chlamydia, or gonorrhea, or HPV—they are all really easy to get, and to give.” She looks hard at Matt for another second till he looks away and then continues down the aisle. “HIV is harder to get, but not that much harder, and it can kill you. Syphilis is on the rise in this country again, and if it’s not treated properly, it can destroy your internal organs and ruin your mind.”

  She pauses to let this sink in. Pausing at the perfect moment is one of Ms. Maso’s specialties. We are all now imagining what it would be like to have an STD. And that’s exactly what she wants us to imagine.

  “So unless you’re interested in getting these diseases—and mark my words, statistics say that some of you will get them, either because you’re irresponsible or uninformed, having not paid attention in my class—I suggest you listen up and listen good. If anybody makes another crack like the one Matt just made, I’ll throw you out of this class, and you’ll have to take it again next semester when everyone else is taking art, or acting, or whatever elective they please.” She arrives back at the front of the class, and folds her arms. “Understood? Matt?”

  “Yes, Ms. Maso. Sorry.”

  She pauses again, to excellent effect. Matt starts to squirm a little, which makes me happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.

  “Okay. Rule number one for sexually active people. Can anyone take a guess?”

  There’s a pause, and then Tracy slowly raises her hand.

  “Tracy?”

  “Use a condom?”

  I can’t believe my ears. I’m torn between wanting to kiss her and wanting to cry.

  “Excellent. Thank you, Tracy. I’m going to put that up on the blackboard, but I’m going to call that rule number two. Anyone know why?”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I think I’m still in shock from hearing my best friend, who was so desperate to go on the pill last month, talking about condoms in health class in front of her incredibly irresponsible boyfriend. I want to hug her. But I know that would look a little weird, especially given the context of the conversation.

  “Um…is there another rule that’s more important?” asks Mike.

  Ms. Maso nods, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t. Mike is a sophomore—he must have failed health class last year. I’m really confused about how anyone could fail the easiest class in their high school career, but as Tracy always tells me, things that are easy for me are not always easy for everyone else. Or something like that. I used to hear that as a compliment, but today it just seems like another version of her telling me that I’m a snob.

  “What’s more important than using a condom, Mike?”

  He thinks for a few seconds and comes up with nothing.

  “I didn’t think anything was more important than that, Ms. Maso,” he says earnestly. Some girls giggle, and I look back at Stephanie, whose face is now as red as her hair. At least I’m not the only one with an overdeveloped blushing mechanism.

  Ms. Maso studies each and every student as if she is very disappointed in us. “Every year I hope someone is going to get this, but no one ever does. It says a lot about teenagers’ sexual priorities, unfortunately.”

  She turns her back to us and writes, in the number one slot on the board, Respect yourself and respect your partner.

  “What does this have to do with sex?” she asks.

  “Everything,” I mutter.

  “What, Rose?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t say anything,” I answer, not entirely sure how Ms. Maso heard something that I thought was inside my head, and not exactly knowing what I meant in the first place.

  “You did. I heard you. You answered correctly. Tell everyone what you said.”

  I love Ms. Maso—I really do. I sort of want to be her when I grow up. But I hate it when she does this. I know she’s just doing it because she thinks it’s good for my self-esteem or my confidence or my something or other, and yes, that’s part of her job, but really, I’d rather just sink into a hole in the floor and be done with it. And what do I know, anyway? I’ve never had sex before. I don’t even know if I’ll ever want to. So where do I get off answering these questions or having opinions about what rules people are supposed to follow?

  “I said, ‘everything.’”

  “What did you mean?”

  Crap. Why am I always getting myself into these situations? What did I mean?

  “Um, well, I think I meant that, uh, in order to have sex responsibly, and in a way that’s meaningful, you have to have respect for yourself and respect for, um, the other person.”

  “Kiss ass,” Matt whispers from a few rows behind me. Of course, this time, Ms. Maso doesn’t hear him. That’s not the way my life works. But Tracy does, and she turns and glares at him. Then she looks back at me. She smiles, but it’s one of those smiles that doesn’t take up her whole face, and I can see that something bad happened between Friday night and now. I can also see that she forgives me for all the things I said. I can’t tell if she agrees with them, but I’ll just take forgiveness for now.

  “Exactly, Rose, that’s exactly right. One more question. What does it mean to respect someone in the context that
we’re talking about?”

  She’s looking at me, but before I can formulate a reply, Tracy’s hand goes up.

  “Tracy?”

  “It means listening to what that person wants and doesn’t want, and taking it seriously. And not pressuring them.”

  Ms. Maso graces Tracy with one of her flawless smiles. “Right. Very nice explanation. Thank you. Now, I know there’s a lot of pressure out there to have sex, and a lot of you will do it way before you’re ready because of that. And I’m not going to stand up here and tell you that you should wait until you meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with because I personally feel that that is just unrealistic advice for people your age in this world that we live in today. But the next best thing, if you are going to have sex, is to make sure that there is mutual respect. Because if there isn’t, I can promise you this—one or both of you will deeply regret it.”

  The class is silent as Ms. Maso turns back to the board. I don’t think anyone was expecting her to say what she said. I’m sure no one was surprised to hear her mention chlamydia, but no one expected her to play the respect card in health class.

  “I want you all to take a moment right now, and think about the person you want to have sex with.”

  “The person? As in, only one?” Doug says. The guys snicker. Most of the girls look panic-stricken.

  “Yes, Doug, try to limit your reverie to one person,” she says, barely managing to avoid rolling her eyes. “Choose someone you like, not just for his or her physical appearance, but for who they are, how they think, what they do. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to name names. Just think about the person. And, of course, if you don’t want to have sex with anyone, that’s just fine. Think about someone you have romantic feelings for.”