Good Girls

by Laura Ruby

  I didn’t wait for Luke to make a move, I didn’t even wait to climb up onto the bed. I stood in front of him, grabbed his face in my hands, and kissed him, slipping my tongue between his teeth, resisting the urge to swallow his face right there. He growled and pulled me onto the mattress. As we kissed, I felt this ache building, an ache that started between my legs but radiated outward like it was traveling along my veins, tightening and expanding and tightening again. He yanked the covers over us and yanked at my clothes—sweater, T-shirt, bra, jeans. He slid his hand inside my underwear and I wasn’t sure which one of us gasped. I felt his lips moving against my ear. “Is it okay if I…?”

  “Yeah,” I said against his throat. And then the underwear was gone, too, tossed off the side of the bed. He stripped down so fast it was as if his clothes were made of Velcro. Rubbing against his bare skin was so yummy that I had to keep myself from humming.

  I came up for air. “Are you sure your parents won’t be home for a while?”

  “They’ll be gone for hours,” he said.

  “And what about your friends?”

  “What friends?”

  “The ones you invited over?”

  “Oh, them. I think they’ve been delayed indefinitely.”

  “Good,” I said. Now that I was here, now that we were doing it or about to, I wanted to see him, I wanted to see everything. I thought about asking him to stand up and pose, I thought about throwing the covers back so that I could get a better look, but then I thought about how the sunlight might give him a better look, and I wasn’t up for that. So I reached down and let my fingers see everything for me, imprint it all in my head. The half-moons of his hips. The muscles of his thighs. The crisp, springy hair, so different from the shiny waves on the top of his head. I brushed past his hard-on and cupped the delicate sac underneath as gently as I could, the way you would a baby bird, amazed that a person could have something this fragile on the outside of his body, unhidden, unprotected. It was like having a gall-bladder or a lung pasted on your skin. I rolled those small glands in my fingers until he moaned and put his hand on top of mine.

  “Audrey…”

  I interrupted him. “I brought something with me.”

  He got quiet. Then: “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have something, too. Where’s yours?”

  “In my pocket.”

  He turned and reached over the side of the bed, scratching around for my jeans. The curve of his back was the most incredible thing I’d ever seen. I had the strangest urge to bite him, which kind of freaked me out.

  He turned to me with the blue square in his hand. “Is this your first time?”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “You might bleed.”

  I didn’t ask how he knew this. “I’m fine,” I said. He didn’t seem that big. How much could I possibly bleed?

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  And people said girls talked a lot; he was ruining the mood with all the Mr. Sensitive blah-blah-blah. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to think. I’d done enough of that to last through my next four lives. I’d been responsible. I’d gone and bought the condom. What else was there?

  “You can stop with the chitchat now.”

  I got a small smile for that one. “Yes, ma’am.”

  With his teeth, he ripped open the package, and his hands disappeared under the blankets. Then he rolled on top of me, an elbow on either side of my face. He kissed me as he pressed against me, poking me with his spongy self, now rubber-coated. I thought about the spam I always got in my e-mail box—“BE A LOVE HAMMER ALL NIGHT LONG!” I wasn’t sure if he and his love hammer would ever find their way inside, so I put my hand down to help him. I felt a surge and a sharp, stinging pain.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  “Yeah,” I told him, though I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know what I expected—well, okay, I expected something a lot less weird, a lot better. Even though I’d heard a girl’s first time pretty much sucks, who wants to believe it? This felt too bizarre, stranger when he started moving. It was like an alien had jammed itself up into my body, an alien with rough skin that stretched and scratched me. If this was sex, I thought, it wasn’t very good at all.

  But I put my arms around him and hugged him, because I didn’t know what else to do. He kept kissing me, bending my leg and curling one arm under my knee, and sliding his other arm around my shoulders. I didn’t understand what he was doing, but I let him do it. Maybe he saw it in a movie and thought it would be fun, or maybe this was how everyone did it—what did I know? I tried to focus on the kissing part, though he was sort of spacing out on that end. His movements changed from pushing to a kind of rocking. As he rocked me, I felt the stretchiness and scratchiness fade away to a sort of friction. Oh, I thought. This isn’t bad. Not great, not seeing stars and rainbows and fireworks, but okay.

  And then I saw Luke’s face. His eyes were screwed shut and his mouth hung open. I watched him, though I could hardly stand to see someone like that, all naked like that. It seemed rude to stare, but I couldn’t help it. And the little muffled gasps were worse: listening to them was like hearing someone crying through a locked bathroom door. I hugged tighter because he seemed to need it.

  He moaned again, and the rocking went back to pushing. His face twisting as if I were strangling him, he shuddered before collapsing on top of me. I thought the shuddering would stop, but it didn’t—he shivered like he was freezing. “Are you all right?” I asked him.

  “Yeah,” he said, and kept shivering.

  I thought it would be okay if I stroked his hair, so that’s what I did. I massaged his neck and patted his back as he shook. I don’t know how long I did that. It was a while. He was so heavy, so heavy he could fall through the bed, but I knew he wouldn’t because I was holding him up.

  What they don’t show you in movies: the aftermath. People trying to remove their parts from other people’s parts without losing their grip on a squashygushy condom; locating the box of tissues they believe is way under the bed without actually getting out of the bed; dressing underneath the blankets—one of you, anyway—then having to remove the clothes and put them on again because they were backwards or inside out; family pets jumping all over the comforter because they think you’re playing a really cool game of doggy-catch-my-toes; people not quite looking each other in the eye because that could get too, you know, personal.

  When we finally got up, I saw the sheets and slapped a hand over my mouth. I thought, Is that from ME, or was a lamb sacrificed here? I didn’t know what to say; even on the red sheets you could tell. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think it would happen like that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll wash them,” he said.

  “Cold water,” I told him. “You have to use cold water or the blood won’t come out.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Now,” I told him. I started hauling the sheets off the bed.

  “I can do it later,” he said.

  “It’ll leave a stain,” I said, so embarrassed that I felt like I was losing height as I spoke. “If your mom ever makes your bed for you…” I trail off.

  He considered this. “Good point.”

  We gathered up the sheets and the mattress pad and dragged them downstairs to the laundry room in the basement. Luke watched as I used detergent to scrub out most of the blood and then dumped about a half a bottle more soap in with the sheets. I flipped the machine on, sighing in relief as I closed the lid. No stains. At least not ones that would show up very well.

  We went back upstairs. In addition to the humiliation over the carnage I’d left, I felt all raw and open—the word “open” meant all sorts of things it never had before—and I wanted a bath. Also, I wanted to be by myself and chill. I never believed that virginity was some sort of precious gift or whatever, and I never believed it was something I’d “save” till marriage, but I did feel as if I’d given so
mething away. I hoped that it was something that you could give over and over again, hoped that eventually you got something in return, but I didn’t know what that could be and didn’t know when I’d know.

  I told Luke that I had to go, that I had a test to study for—which was true, which was always true. He didn’t argue. He and Daisy walked me to the door. “Thanks for coming over,” he said.

  I nodded. “Thanks for asking.”

  He shuffled his feet. “So I guess I’ll see you,” he said.

  I almost laughed, it was so lame. After all that wanting? All that blood? How did it become so lame? “I guess.”

  But then he reached out and brushed the hair from my cheek. “Don’t study too hard,” he said.

  “I will.”

  He kept his hand where it was, his thumb touching my lips. I heard the words before he said them: “I know you will.”

  Born Again

  After church, while waiting for Joelle, Cindy, and Pam, I tell Ash about arguing with Luke in the hallway after school, about how mad he was, how stupid and horrible I was. Angel is officially closed for inventory today, but we sit whispering on the floor in the prom dress section of the store, far away from the back office, where my dad is ripping through a pile of paperwork.

  “Jesus,” says Ash, “Luke actually, like, liked you all along?”

  “I think so,” I tell her. “Maybe.”

  “Whoa,” she says. “And you were such a bitch to him. Worse, you were like this crazy stalker psycho- bitch.”

  “I thought he was with other people. I thought he slept with Pam. And for a while I wondered if he had something to do with the picture,” I say.

  Ash shakes her head. “You’re so weird.” She counts off on her fingers. “First you’re doing this casual thing, then you’re with him every weekend, then you do it with him, then you’re not casual anymore, then you think he’s slept with someone else because Chilly—hello? ew?—said he did, then you blow him and break up with him in the same night, then someone takes a picture of you, and then you decide to be friends with the girl you think Luke slept with. Does any of this make sense to you?”

  I wince. “Feel free to shut up at any time.”

  “I’m just trying to understand.”

  “I didn’t want to be one of those girls who doesn’t get mad at the guy when he cheats, who only gets mad at the girls he cheats with, okay? Besides, I thought he was playing everyone. It wasn’t about Pam. It was about him.”

  “And now it’s about you. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing,” I say, miserable. “What can I do? I screwed everything up. So not only am I a slut, I’m a slut who isn’t having any kind of sex. What is up with that?”

  Ash winds Angel’s single available boa around her neck. “All I can say is that I’m glad I’m me and not you.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You never did tell me about it, you know,” she says, spitting a feather out of her mouth.

  “Tell you about what?”

  “Doing it,” she says. “How was it?”

  “Well…,” I begin. When I get to the part about the bloody sheets, Ash pulls a Joelle and falls to the floor.

  “Ack! Gross!” she says. “I can’t believe you had to do his laundry.”

  “I couldn’t leave it like that,” I say. “Could you?”

  “We read Forever. You should have used a towel.”

  “Forever didn’t say anything about losing four quarts of blood.”

  Ash pats my hand. “Next time you won’t need the towel.”

  “Next time?” I say. “There isn’t going to be a next time.”

  “No next time for what?” Joelle says, running over and flopping down to the floor next to me. She’s got the goofiest smile on her face, a smile she’s had since she started dating O/Joe.

  Ash wags the boa at her. “Audrey doesn’t think she’ll ever have sex again.”

  Pam and Cindy push through the racks of purple and pink dresses. “Join the club,” says Pam.

  “What do you mean? Why won’t you have sex again?” Joelle shrieks.

  “Shhh!” I say. “My dad’s in the back.”

  “Go ahead,” says Ash. “Tell them the story.”

  They all sit on the floor so that I can go over the whole thing. Pam nods sympathetically, but Cindy covers her mouth with both hands and Joelle looks a little pale.

  “I read somewhere that you won’t bleed if you did lots of gymnastics or rode horses when you were little. I did both of those,” says Joelle. “You don’t think I’ll bleed like that, do you?” I figure she must have big plans for O/Joe to be asking that question.

  “Everybody bleeds,” says Pam, sounding a bit like an extra from an action movie. “No big deal. Doesn’t even hurt that much.”

  “Were you upset?” says Joelle. “Were you so so so embarrassed?”

  “Yes, Joelle. I was. And please keep saying it exactly like that, because it makes me feel so so so much better.”

  Cindy pipes up. “In some cultures the fathers take the bloody sheets and parade around the town with them after their daughters’ wedding nights to prove their daughters were virgins.”

  “Did you read that in one of your books?” Ash says sarcastically.

  “I saw it on the History Channel, for your information!”

  “Great,” I say. “And I didn’t even save the sheets. I’m going to bring shame on my family.”

  “I guess we’ll have to stone you,” Ash says.

  “I don’t want to stone anyone before we pick out our prom gowns,” Joelle says.

  “Our gowns?” says Ash. “I’m not going to the prom. I’m here to help you.”

  “But I thought that guy, what’s-his-name, asked you to go,” Joelle says.

  “Who? Nardo? I’m not going with Nardo,” Ash says.

  “Why not?” I ask her. “What’s wrong with Nardo?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “I don’t want to go with him, that’s all.” Her face has her don’t-ask-me-any-questionsor-I’ll-light-a-cigarette-and-burn-you-a-new-eye-socket expression, so I leave it alone.

  “What about you, Pam?” Joelle says. “Aren’t you going?”

  “No way,” says Pam. “I’ve given up on stupid high school stuff, and proms have to be the stupidest high school stuff there is.”

  “Nobody asked me,” says Cindy. “I want to go, but…” She trails off, plucking wistfully at a fluffy pink number that would make anyone look like a giant cup-cake.

  “I’m not going, either,” I say.

  “No!” says Joelle. “I cannot be the only one of us going to the prom! That’s not right!”

  “But that’s the way it is,” says Pam. “So why don’t we just pick out your dress and get the hell out of here. All this pink and purple crap is making me nervous.”

  “I don’t want to go if you guys aren’t there,” Joelle wails. “I mean, I’ll go anyway, but…”

  “I might go if I could wear one of those,” Pam says, waving her hand toward the wedding gowns. “That would be funny.”

  I laugh. “It would be, wouldn’t it?” I think about what Pastor Narcolepsy said, about people trying to let go of their past mistakes. But I don’t think he understood what the real mistakes were. Even though he talked about a guy calling himself a born-again virgin, we all knew that it was the girls he was talking to. I know I was supposed to fight Luke off. That’s what girls do, isn’t it? You can only do this much and go this far, and then only if he promises to love you forever. Or you can do anything and everything, but only because the guys want it and it’s what you have to do to keep them around; it’s not really your fault—you know guys, they’re just big walking erections, ha ha. No one ever talks about what girls want, because we’re not supposed to want anything, not really. No one talks about how hard you have to fight yourself sometimes. No one tells you about how the want gets in your blood, eating everything in its path, how every time you hear a certain name, or see a cert
ain face, the cells divide and multiply and you are just. so. hungry.

  How do brides wear white when we’re all sinners? I have a friend who likes to call himself a born-again virgin….

  I’ll give them born-again virgins.

  “Hey,” I say, “I have an idea.”

  Because Joelle’s the only one who has a date, it takes us a while to convince her to go along.

  “Come on, Joelle,” I say. “It will be so great, all five of us together. So much better than going with a guy. No arguments, no bad breakups on the dance floor, no mistakes. Just us, the Born-Again Virgins, wiping out the past.”

  “What are you talking about? What past?” Joelle says.

  “It’s ironic,” I say. “We’re not really wiping out the past. We can’t. Nobody can. We’re just making a statement.”

  “But I’m not a born-again virgin! I’m an actual virgin!” Joelle says. “Where’s the irony there?”

  “I’m a virgin, too,” says Cindy, “but it sounds fun to me.”

  Joelle puts her hands on her hips. “You don’t have O/Joe waiting for you at home!” She digs around in her purse and pulls out her phone. “See? He’s already called me twice and text-messaged me once today—I heart you. See that? He hearts me! How can I not go to the prom with O/Joe? He’s already rented his tux! Plus, the prom’s practically on my birthday! He was going to be my present!”

  “You can go to his prom with him,” I tell her. “He’s got one more year, remember? This year, you have to be with us. Please, Joelle? Please?”

  “If we do this,” says Pam, “no one will be able to take their eyes off us. We’ll be it, you know what I mean?”

  Joelle glances at the wedding dresses. “That’s probably true.”

  “No one’s ever done this before,” I say. “We’ll be the first. They’ll be talking about it for years.”