Purge

by Sarah Darer Littman

  Listen, I’m writing this in a psychiatric hospital, so I’m not saying this hope was entirely rational. In fact, I’m not saying it was rational at all, and what happened certainly proved that point. But it was what I’d hoped for, what I’d fantasized about when he was my lab partner in science class, what I’d had hot dreams about at night on a pretty regular basis.

  So is it any wonder that when he walked into the cast party the night of my triumphant performance as Anne Frank, I felt my heartbeat go into overdrive? And because I was still high from the applause — from receiving my first standing ovation from an audience — I felt confident enough to flirt with him. There was something about having played Anne and played her well that made me feel worthy and special … even beautiful.

  Everything seemed magical that night. Matt putting his arm around me as people kept coming up and telling me how awesome I’d been. Matt kissing my hair and whispering in my ear about how he wanted to get me alone. Him taking me by the hand and leading me upstairs into an empty bedroom, closing the door and kissing me, nibbling my lips and pressing his body against me. Matt reaching under my shirt and unhooking my bra and … well, I’m not going to go on and on like one of those trashy romance novels, but I felt like I had died and gone to heaven, making out with him in that bedroom. He wanted to go further, of course, but even though I’d worshiped him for years, I wasn’t about to do that the first time he kissed me, even though I was tempted. Oh, my G-d, how I was tempted!

  “Maybe next time,” I said. Because I wanted there to be a next time, of course.

  “Yeah, maybe we can catch a movie next weekend or something,” he whispered, making one last attempt to get his hand into my jeans.

  I grabbed his hand. “Next time.”

  At school the next week I was practically floating on air. Sure, I had to deal with the annoyance of the Mattettes hanging all over my man, but still — when he kissed me in the middle of the courtyard in front of any number of girls who were way prettier and thinner than me, it didn’t seem to matter.

  Mom wanted me to stay home for dinner with Jenny and Brad the following Saturday night, but there was no way I was going to give up a date with Matt to sit at home and listen to them all argue about last-minute wedding decisions.

  “By the way, what table am I sitting at next week?” I asked, looking over Jenny’s shoulder at the seating chart, which looked like the Rosetta Stone, there were so many names crossed out and scribbled in. “It had better be the same one as Matt Lewis.”

  “Well, it isn’t,” snapped Jenny, who I thought must be suffering from a serious case of prewedding jitters — or just being a bitch. “You’re sitting at the head table with the rest of the wedding party.”

  “What?!” I protested. “C’mon, I don’t want to be at the head table with all the geriatrics. I want to sit with Matt!”

  “Eh-hem. At thirty-two, I’m still several decades away from AARP membership, thank you very much,” Brad said, but at least he was smiling, which is more than I could say for Jenny.

  “Janie, I cannot believe how selfish you are! Do you realize how many hours I’ve spent on this seating chart, so that none of the people who sided with Mom in the divorce have to sit near people who sided with Dad? Or so none of your mother’s friends are seated with my mother’s friends? Now you want me to change it all just so you can sit next to some guy?”

  I wanted to tell her that Matt wasn’t just “some guy” — he was my boyfriend, not to mention the hottest man on the planet. But I wasn’t quite ready to go public with that information after just one week.

  “Mom — can’t you do anything about this?”

  Mom gave me a Look.

  “Janie, Jenny’s right. You’re being selfish. This has been stressful enough for her” (I could almost hear her thinking, “and me”) “and you need to be thinking about how to help her, not giving her more to worry about.”

  Et tu, Mom?

  “Well, I’ll just get my selfish butt out of here — I’m going to the movies. Bye!”

  I slammed the door on the way out for good measure.

  Matt was going to pick me up at home, but I walked to the end of the driveway to meet him, because I couldn’t stand another minute with the Wedding Zombies. Plus, I was kind of nervous about my parents knowing that Matt and I were dating. Why? you might ask …. Because wasn’t he every father’s wet dream when it came to boyfriend material? Smart, good-looking, from a good family (“we know the parents and they’re fine people”), and clearly headed for a stellar — and lucrative — career in finance.

  But that was it — I was worried that it would make my parents too happy. Okay, I can hear you saying … but isn’t making your parents — particularly your dad — as happy as Perfect Jenny does, what you obsess about constantly? Well, yeah. But the thing is, if I told them about Matt and then something went wrong — as it did, so spectacularly — then I would be the one to blame. Because a fine boy like Matt couldn’t possibly have fucked it up. No, if something went wrong, it would almost certainly be because I, Janie, the black sheep of the Ryman family, had done something to make it so. And, sure enough, that’s how it played out.

  Back to that night — Matt picked me up and I thought we were going to the movies, but instead he said, “Hey, my folks are having dinner at the country club. Why don’t we head back to my place for a swim?”

  “But I don’t have a bathing suit,” I protested.

  He just grinned at me.

  I was completely freaking out the whole way there. I couldn’t skinny dip (or in my case “fat dip”) with Matt Lewis. He’d see all my blubber and be disgusted and he’d never want to see me again.

  To say that I was feeling sick with nerves when we got to his house is a major understatement. I wanted to purge, desperately.

  Matt took my hand and kissed me when I got out of the car. I wanted to relax, to enjoy the sensation of being in his arms and his fantastic kisses, but I was too busy imagining the look of revulsion on his face when he saw my body.

  He led me to the pool house — which was really more of a pool mansion, with marble bathroom, kitchen, big-screen TV, and huge, comfortable sofa.

  “I could quite happily live in your pool house,” I said.

  He laughed. “You’re not the first one who’s said that.”

  Argh. He thought I was predictable. Boring.

  “Do you want a beer?” he asked.

  “Um … okay.”

  I figured it would loosen me up. Make me feel less self-conscious. Although it would also make me bloat. So that was my choice: Loosen up and bloat or freak out and …

  I drank the beer. When Matt took off his shirt and started to unbutton mine, I asked him for another. I asked for a third when he took his hands off my breasts and unzipped his pants.

  By the time he had my jeans off and said, “Let’s take a dip in the pool first,” my head was spinning. It’s not like I’d never drank before, don’t get me wrong, but I’d never had three beers in quick succession like that. And boy, it worked on the loosening-up front. When I dove into the pool (I kept on my bra and bikini underwear because I just couldn’t do the Full Monty thing, and Matt kept on his boxers, thank goodness), I wasn’t even conscious of my belly being bloated by carbs — I felt like this underwater sea nymph, floating through the depths, admiring his tight, washboard abs and the way the wet boxers clung to Matt’s butt and thighs. Clearly, beer bloat doesn’t affect golden gods like Matt Lewis. We splashed and frolicked and made out and then he said, “Let’s go get another beer,” and he led me back into the pool house and handed me a huge fluffy towel to dry off, which was great because I could cover up my beer belly with it.

  I was still feeling kind of dizzy and my stomach was churning with beer? Nerves? All of the above?

  “I need to use the restroom,” I said.

  My legs were pretty wobbly as I made my way to the bathroom, which was completely marbled with gold-plated taps and stuff. I couldn’t bel
ieve that people would actually spend that much money to make a pool house bathroom that plush. I turned on the water in the sink so Matt wouldn’t hear me heaving and stuck my fingers down my throat. I figured if I puked up some of the beer, maybe I wouldn’t feel so drunk and I’d have a flatter stomach having barfed up all those carbs.

  I found some toothpaste in the medicine cabinet over the sink and brushed my teeth with my finger. There were several bottles of expensive-looking perfume sitting on the counter and I choose one and spritzed it around my head to take away any lingering vomit smell.

  Matt handed me another beer as soon as I sat down, and pulled the towel away.

  “You smell like my mother,” he said as he leaned in to kiss me.

  Great. Not quite the effect I was going for, but I guessed smelling like his mother was marginally better than smelling like puke, even if it might be a little … I don’t know, Oedipal.

  Matt unhooked my bra and I tensed up, because as much as I liked him, I was afraid. Afraid to let him see all of me because he might not like what he saw, afraid that if he did like what he saw that he’d want to go further. Afraid that he’d find out that I was a virgin.

  I’m sure I wasn’t the only virgin at Pine Ridge High, but I was equally sure that with all the girls Matt had to choose from, he wouldn’t be that interested in dating one.

  “Have some more beer,” he said. “You seem a little tense.”

  And here I was supposed to be such a good actress. I’d have to pretend I’m playing the part of a sexy, experienced kinda gal, I thought. So I chugged the rest of my beer, and then wrapped my arms around Matt’s neck and kissed him.

  We were at it hot and heavy when I felt his hand reach down to pull off my wet underpants.

  “Matt, I …”

  “Oh, baby, you’re so hot,” he said.

  What could I say to that?

  But when he pulled down his wet boxers and I saw him, all erect, I was scared and confused. I’d worshiped the guy for years — but when I’d pictured losing my virginity, it definitely was a more romantic scenario than being drunk on a pool house sofa, even if it was a very ritzy pool house.

  “Matt, I need to …”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered, baby.”

  From somewhere, I don’t know where, he magicked up a condom and put it on.

  “But, Matt, I …”

  “Don’t back out on me now, Janie,” he said, kissing me as he rolled on top of me and started poking between my thighs. “C’mon, baby.”

  I didn’t want to. I mean, I might have wanted my first time to be with Matt Lewis, but I wanted it to be something more than this. But I did it anyway. And it hurt like anything.

  Afterward, when I went into the bathroom to clean up the blood from my thighs, I cried. I thought I would feel so close and wonderful when I had sex with someone, but I didn’t. I felt sad and empty and really lonely.

  “I can’t believe you were a virgin,” Matt said. “I wish you’d told me so I could have put a towel down. There’s blood on the sofa. My mother is going to be really pissed, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to explain it to her.”

  I’d just given my virginity to the guy and all he could think about was how he was going explain the stain on the sofa to his mother. This was so NOT how I imagined it would be.

  I got dressed after that, because I felt so exposed and vulnerable. I balled my wet underpants and bra up and shoved them in my purse. “I’d better get home,” I said. “My mom was pretty pissed I went out in the first place, what with the wedding coming up next week.”

  “Yeah. The wedding. My parents said we have to go to that. You in the wedding party?”

  “Of course. And I’ve got to wear this awful yellow dress. I swear, when I get married, I’m going to let my bridesmaids wear whatever the hell they like. I’m not going to turn into some awful Bridezilla like Jenny.”

  He slapped my butt.

  “Well, let’s get you home. Don’t want to get Mrs. R even more mad.”

  And that was how I lost my virginity to Matt Lewis. Pretty anticlimactic, if you’ll excuse the pun.

  * * *

  I didn’t see him the following week because school was over and I was forced to do all this wedding shit. The next time I saw him was at the wedding ….

  * * *

  So I’ve already written about how Kelsey came to visit the morning after the wedding and about how I was a total asshole to her. After Kelsey left, I lay in bed wondering if life could get any worse. My stomach churned, the little men with jackhammers continued to chip away at the inside of my skull, and a continuous loop of the painful, humiliating, and catastrophic events of the night before played in my brain. I hadn’t just fucked up Perfect Jenny’s wedding, the big day that every girl dreams about. I hadn’t just embarrassed my entire family. I hadn’t just done something most people would have considered impossible, namely created even more friction between Mom, Dad, and Clarissa. That trifecta of wrongdoing was just the tip of the iceberg. In less than twenty-four hours, I’d screwed up Jenny’s wedding, ensured that I’d be grounded for the rest of my natural life, and condemned myself to a life of unremitting humiliation. It was hard to imagine that the day before I’d woken up with so much hope and anticipation, picturing myself dancing the night away in Matt’s arms. Ha!

  I decided to try and take a shower, to see if I could wash away the self-revulsion, as if being under a stream of steaming hot water could somehow rid me of the feeling that I was dirty and loathsome.

  Groaning, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. It made my head spin as well as thump, and I thought the combination would make me throw up again. Quickly, I lowered my head down between my legs and tried to take a few deep breaths. It felt like my brain was a kettledrum being played by someone holding a serious grudge. Not that I didn’t deserve it.

  When the room finally stopped spinning, I shuffled to the bathroom. I locked the door and turned the shower on to the hottest setting while I got undressed.

  One thing I’ve hated about my bathroom is that there are so many mirrors. I used to think it was cool when I was a kid, because I could see so many different angles of myself. But now it just gives me more ways to hate my body. I’ve learned to start the shower on the hottest setting the minute I get into the bathroom so that the mirrors will be all steamed up by the time I have to take my clothes off.

  But before my features were hidden by the merciful steam, I caught a glimpse of my bloodshot eyes and swollen eyelids and I hated the Janie I saw looking back at me — I hated her with a passion. Judging by the expression on her face, it was pretty clear she hated me, too.

  When I was finally unable to see myself other than as a faint outline, I peeled off my pajamas and stepped into the shower. The water was so hot it almost burned my skin but I didn’t care. I needed to feel pain. I deserved to feel pain … because maybe if I felt enough physical pain, I would stop feeling so much pain inside.

  After a few minutes I felt dizzy and I leaned my forehead against the shower’s cool, tiled wall, staring down at the water as it washed off my hideous, fat body and circled the drain below.

  I don’t know how long I stood like that, because I shut my eyes and tried very hard not to think. First I tried not to think of the fist I felt in my stomach when I first caught a glimpse of Matt Lewis flirting with my cousin Haley, who was wearing some slinky, strapless number, while I was stuck sitting at the head table in my hideous lemon dress. Then I tried not to think but couldn’t help remembering how disbelief crept over my whole body like a thousand fire ants, disbelief that my guy, the guy to whom I’d given my virginity a mere seven days before, was now smiling that same intimate “you’re the most beautiful girl in my world” smile at cousin Haley. I tried to forget how I reached for Brad’s cousin’s champagne glass and downed it in one gulp as I watched Haley flirt back. How I hated my cousin with a sudden, fierce rage because she was flirting with my guy, even though deep down
I knew she had no way of knowing that he was mine, or at least that I thought he was. I tried not to remember how I shoveled two entire pieces of wedding cake into my mouth in short succession when I saw Matt take Haley’s hand and lead her onto the parquet floor and then washed them down with another glass of champagne as the two of them started dancing, slowly, sensuously, completely in synch, as if they were made to be together. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry out, “Matt, how can you be looking at her the same way you looked at me?” But instead I sat there at that stupid head table, feeling like molten lava shrouded in ice, unable to show how I felt because everyone was looking and some asshole with a video camera was asking me if I had a message for the newlyweds. I sat there hating Jenny for making me wear that awful yellow dress and not letting me sit with Matt, hating Haley for being prettier and skinnier and for looking so good in that goddamn slinky outfit, hating the way I looked and the way I felt. I hated the world, hated my life, hated myself. I tried to forget how I reached for yet another glass of champagne as Matt put his arms around Haley and pulled her body into his. I tried not to remember how his body felt next to mine in the pool house the week before. And most of all I tried to forget how his blond head dipped to kiss her bare shoulder, his hands, the same hands that had touched me so intimately only a week before, slid down her back to rest on her thin, shapely ass. It wasn’t just my heart that shattered, but my entire, miserable, fucked-up world.

  I tried not to remember knocking back a few more glasses of champagne as I sat surrounded by the fragments of everything I believed was true and right. The service at the Waterside really was impeccable, just like Clarissa said it would be. They kept filling Brad’s cousin’s glass every time I emptied it. After I’d downed the fifth glass of champagne, the cousin came back so I couldn’t drink anymore, which was probably a good thing because right then Danny came up and asked me to dance. When I tried to get up, my head started spinning and I tripped on the edge of the dance floor, completely unsteady on high heels in combination with too much bubbly.