Notes from a Former Virgin

by Emma Chastain

  “It looks nice in here,” I said, once we were inside. She’d hung up some canvas prints. One said BE A WARRIOR / NOT A WORRIER, but that was the only annoying one. The others were abstract prints. In the living room, she’d added a small dining room table, which was set for dinner with magenta place mats and striped napkins. There were dark purple and red flowers in a vase and a pillar candle on a green dish. Something seemed strange, but I couldn’t figure out what. Maybe it was just the fact that I was in my mom’s weird new apartment, surrounded by her weird new stuff. I watched her making drinks: seltzer with a splash of cranberry juice and a lime garnish. She looked excited and nervous. I didn’t forgive her for anything, but it was hard not to respond to all this trying.

  Then she said, “The food arrived a minute ago. Let me get it on plates before it cools off,” and I knew what was strange: I was smelling Thai takeout.

  I got a lump in my throat. I like Thai. I love Thai! But not on Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving I want turkey and cranberry sauce and potatoes with four sticks of butter mashed into them, and I don’t care if that’s babyish or spoiled. I don’t think it is! I don’t think it’s too much to expect Thanksgiving dinner if your mother invites you over for Thanksgiving dinner! God, MY MOTHER. How I loathed her as she pulled to-go containers out of a brown paper bag with a happy smile on her stupid face. “Fried spring rolls, green papaya salad, panang curry, pad thai with shrimp, and kee mao with chicken. All your favorites!”

  She glanced over at me, and the smile faded from her face. “What’s wrong,” she said. She wasn’t asking a question. My heart beat faster. Her chilly voice, her face like a mask: she was angry. It was only a matter of time before she lost it. I’d already almost forgotten this part, the worst part, but also the most exciting: the space between the moment you realize it’s coming and the moment it comes. Every time, you think maybe you can tiptoe over the eggshells skillfully enough that none of them will break, but every time, you’re wrong.

  “You said you wanted to order something,” she said. “Remember? You explicitly asked me not to cook, in fact.”

  This is another thing she does. She quotes you back to yourself, and you think, No, that’s wrong; she’s twisting my words. But it’s not like you have a transcript of what you said, and you think, DID I say that? You start wondering if you really are to blame.

  She was holding a black container with a translucent top, squeezing it a little. Was she going to throw it against the wall?

  “I should go,” I said. I thought saying that would flip her switch and she’d come toward me with her eyes darting back and forth, spitting insults in her low, I’m-not-yelling-so-this-is-not-abusive voice, but instead the anger left her face.

  “No!” she said. “Please don’t leave.”

  Somehow I’d made it over the eggshells. She wasn’t going to rage at me. I’d saved myself by threatening to leave. I really had meant to go, but seeing the desperation on her face, I thought maybe it would be cruel to take off. I was wondering what to do—bike home to an empty house, or stay and try to choke down some spring rolls?—when suddenly I had to rush to the bathroom. When I tried to pee, almost nothing came out, and it hurt. It burned.

  I stayed on the toilet for a minute. Everything around me was pink: the tiles, the vanity, the walls. How had I wound up here, in a pig-colored half bath, hiding from my mother, peeing fire? I stared down at my own bare knees, which at least were a familiar sight. If only I hadn’t left my phone in the living room. I was dying to text Noelle, or Grady, or Tris, or Hannah. “I hate my mother,” I would write, and they’d respond with something sympathetic or funny.

  I decided not to say anything about the burning, have dinner, and get home as quickly as I could. “Sorry about before,” I said when I got back to the living room. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.” But we’d only had a few bites when I had to run to the bathroom again, and this time I peed blood. I was too scared not to tell Mom.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “Are you having sex?” She was sitting at the table, holding her fork, looking up at me with a sympathetic expression. I didn’t respond right away; I was too shocked. How had she guessed?

  “You know what, I rescind the question,” she said. “I don’t want to invade your privacy. You’re a mature person. I’ll just say this: sexually active women sometimes get UTIs. Urinary tract infections. They’re very uncomfortable, but if they’re treated promptly, they’re not at all dangerous. Do you have an ob-gyn?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Who’s your doctor?”

  “Dr. Shibutani.”

  “So your father still has you seeing your childhood pediatrician!” she said brightly.

  “I haven’t asked him to switch,” I said. “Hang on.” I ran back to the bathroom. It was hard not to grunt or shriek. I didn’t want to pee, so I was clenching against it, but I felt an irrepressible urge to, and when finally I forced myself, curled over like a shrimp, clutching the toilet seat with both hands, a few measly drops of blood came out. I wanted to stay in the bathroom forever, and I also wanted to never pee again.

  When I came out, Mom was on the phone. “If it weren’t urgent, I wouldn’t be calling.” She held up one finger to me. “I appreciate that. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  She hung up and said, “We may have to wait a while. In the meantime, you need to drink water—” Her phone rang. “Dr. Zimmerman! I’m so sorry to bother you on the holiday. I’ll make it brief; I have a UTI. Yes, absolutely positive. The frequent urination, the burning . . . Would you? Oh, that’s fabulous. On Court Road? Exactly. Thanks a million. You too. I will! Take care.”

  She set her phone down with a flourish. “All set! I’ll head over to pick up the prescription now. She said she’ll call it in right away.”

  “But are you sure I have a UTI? What if it’s something else?”

  She waved her hand. “I’m sure. And if I’m wrong, which I’m not, the worst that’ll happen is you’ll have a teeny course of Cipro. Not great for your flora, but I’ll buy some probiotics while I’m at the pharmacy.”

  As she leaned over to pull on her boots, she said, “If you don’t object, I’d like to take you to a proper doctor next week. And I’m not assuming anything, but you might want to talk to her about birth control options.” She flipped upright, making her hair fly over her head in an arc, and smiled at me. She looked flushed, probably with triumph at her own amazing parenting.

  She shut the door and I heard her walk down the outside stairs. Then footsteps ascended and she reappeared. “Essential tip!” she said. “Pee right after you have sex. I’m not talking about 20 minutes. I’m talking about right away. Peeing beforehand doesn’t hurt either.”

  After she’d left for real, I had to run to the bathroom again. I brought my phone this time, but I didn’t know what to text anyone. “My mother scared me but then saved me”? “Sex can make you pee blood”? In the end I sent around some turkeys and hearts and left it at that.

  Saturday, November 25

  I know it’s probably not responsible of my mother to lie to her doctor to get a prescription for me for an infection she’s not even sure I have, but I’m so glad she did, because I’m cured! I never even knew I should feel grateful for not peeing bloody fire, but now I know, and I’ll never forget.

  Sunday, November 26

  Noelle texted me that her dad hasn’t proposed to his girlfriend.

  Noelle: And I don’t think he will at Christmas either

  His “great news” is he got a promotion

  And his GF hasn’t been over here much

  Chloe: That’s good right?

  Noelle: Yeah it’s good

  What’s going on with you?

  It seemed like a lot to get into, so I said “same old, same old” and left it at that.

  Monday, November 27

  GRADY’S BACK! GRADY’S BACK! GRADY’S BAAAAAACK! Seeing his grinning face in the hall—ah! We didn’t make out or anything—we just hugged ea
ch other—but still, people yelled, “Get a room!” and “PDA alert!” Reese happened to be passing by, and she said, “Awwwwww!” like we were a basket full of puppies. I’m sure she hates seeing us together—who would enjoy watching her ex-boyfriend with his new girlfriend?—but she’d never show it. Instead she’s condescending in such a sweet way, you’d sound nuts if you commented on it.

  But who cares about Reese? Everything’s coming up roses: I can pee like a normal human, Grady’s back, and I got my period in chemistry class!

  My diary is like vagina vagina pregnancy scare bleeding peeing bloody bloody vagina blood. And WHAT OF IT? I’m 16, I have a body, and I’m having sex. I refuse to feel embarrassed.

  Tuesday, November 28

  I did homework for hours and hours without looking at my phone once. I love doing homework this year. It’s a relief, thinking about World War II and binomials instead of my parents, my reproductive system, even Grady. I open my textbook or start making flash cards, and after a few minutes my brain feels less like a bucket of screws someone’s violently shaking and more like the calm-down jar Mr. Grayson keeps on the bench outside his office: a handful of purple glitter moving gently through liquid. My grades have never been better.

  Wednesday, November 29

  My mother made me an ob-gyn appointment for tomorrow. I thought I wanted to go, and I guess I still do, but I’m so nervous. Will the doctor ask me about my sex life? Will she want to know, like, how many times a week I do it? Will she need to stick her fingers or some scary device inside my cooch? Will she act like I should be ashamed of myself? Will she tell my mother I’m going on birth control? Will she warn me how hard it is to be a teen mom?

  Thursday, November 30

  Oh my stars and garters, I’m getting an IUD! As soon as Dr. Stauffer walked in, I relaxed. She had a tan, a short haircut, and a brisk vibe. She couldn’t have been less interested in my sex life. I mean, she did ask if I’m sexually active, how many partners I have, whether we use condoms, etc., but she said it like she was asking if I eat cereal for breakfast, what kind I prefer, and whether I put skim, 2%, or full-fat milk on it. Friendly but not fascinated. The internal exam was fine. It took about 30 seconds and didn’t hurt. She said condoms can fail and she would suggest a second form of birth control—was that something I’d consider? I nodded and said, “Like the pill?”

  She said, “The pill is an option, but you have to take it faithfully at the same time every day. If that might be a challenge for you, I’d suggest an IUD. It’s a small T-shaped device that’s inserted into your uterus. Depending on the kind we go with, it will protect you from pregnancy for between three and ten years.”

  Three and ten YEARS? What was the catch? Would it hurt? She said some women experience pretty bad cramping and some spotting, but for others it feels like nothing more than a quick pinch.

  I chose the copper one, because she asked if it would worry me to stop getting my period entirely, and I said yes. I had to leave a urine sample and get blood drawn so they could run some tests, and I’ll go back on Monday to get the IUD inserted if everything looks good.

  I walked out of there throwing off sparks of sunshine. I even agreed to go to a vegan restaurant with Mom after the appointment. I ate a whole plate of seitan and my joy turned it into steak. GOD BLESS MODERN MEDICINE!

  Friday, December 1

  Chloe: I’m getting an IUD!

  Grady: Please hold, Googling

  Wow awesome!

  Wait but how?

  Chloe: My mom took me

  Grady: !!!!!!!!!!

  Chloe: I know

  We have to keep using condoms

  Dr. Stauffer said so

  Grady: I would never go against Dr. Stauffer’s advice

  Also the internet says the same thing

  Chloe: No more stressing until I’m 26

  It’s like a miracle

  Grady: That’s so good

  You’re lucky your mom was cool about it

  Chloe: So lucky

  Saturday, December 2

  This morning I went online, filled out a volunteer application form, and emailed it to Planned Parenthood. I won the lottery of life: My dad has health insurance, and it covers me. My mom isn’t judgmental about sex. She offered to take me to an understanding doctor and drove me to the appointment in her leased Jetta, which she and my dad are rich enough to pay for. It’s not fair that I have all these things and most girls don’t. Most grown women don’t! And insurance and Jettas are the least of it: I’m white, I’m straight, I’m vaguely Protestant—my parents don’t care that actually I’m an atheist. The only way I could be more privileged is if I were a dude. I realize doing a few hours of volunteer work here and there won’t exactly pay off my debt. But it’s better than sitting on my butt doing nothing but tweeting in support of protesters and resisters and all the other good guys. I have to do something real, even if it’s a tiny something.

  Sunday, December 3

  Mom asked if I wanted to drive to the city and walk past the holiday windows, and I had to say yes, given recent developments. It was about 60 degrees out, so it was hard to get in the spirit, but we didn’t have a terrible time. It was good to be in a crowd of people and to have something to look at—it took the pressure off. In front of a window showing mannequins dressed entirely in red and green costume jewelry, Mom said, “ ‘Crass’ is too mild a word to describe this orgy of commercialism,” which was such a classic Veronica thing to say I wished my dad were there to hear it. Whenever she annoyed me, I silently chanted, The IUD, the IUD, the IUD, and that gave me patience.

  Monday, December 4

  The eagle has landed in my uterus! The days of pregnancy scares are over! I’m writing this diary entry in the throes of horrible cramps, but who cares! I HAVE AN IUD!

  Tuesday, December 5

  Grady and I had sex after school and then split almost a whole huge carton of lemonade and ate Double Stuf Oreos in bed. Then we fell asleep for an hour by accident and had to rush through saying goodbye so we wouldn’t get caught. I changed clothes, washed my face, and brushed my hair after Grady left, but still, my lips were all swollen. If Miss Murphy and Dad weren’t so busy sparkling at each other over their wine at dinner every night, they might notice that I’m shagging my boyfriend. So, actually, I guess it’s good for me that they’re so in love.

  Wednesday, December 6

  I got an email from Planned Parenthood—I’m going to phonebank! Apparently that means calling people, telling them about whatever that week’s biggest political threats are, and asking them to call their representatives. I can do it from home, and I’m going to aim for four hours a week. I’m scared. I’ll have a script, and I’ll be reaching out to Planned Parenthood supporters, so it’s not like anyone will yell at me (unless I get connected with someone who’s anti-PP, which the guide I got said might happen very occasionally). The problem is, I’m not used to talking on the phone. If I could text these people, that would be one thing. But transmitting my voice to them and hearing their voices in my ear, saying things to me that I then have to respond to?! Terrifying.

  Thursday, December 7

  I DID IT. Two hours of it! I sat in my room with Snickers and a big tumbler of water, and I phonebanked. It probably took five years off my life, because my heart was pounding uncontrollably the entire time. Almost no one picked up. I made 38 calls and talked to a grand total of three humans. Two people answered and then rushed me off the phone, and one woman was extremely nice and said she would call her senator. That’s something, but it’s not too much.

  Friday, December 8

  I stayed in tonight to finish my four hours. This time zero people said they’d call. I accomplished nothing. Did I pick the wrong cause? Could I do more for a group that’s trying to raise carbon taxes, or protest police brutality, or protect the freedom of the press, or outlaw assault weapons? There’s so much that’s wrong with the world. I want use my measly four hours a week to do the most good I can.


  Saturday, December 9

  Noelle stopped by my house, which she rarely does. As soon as we were alone in my bedroom, she said, “Don’t tell anyone, but Reese and Zach broke up last night.”

  “WHAT? Are you sure?” I didn’t mention it, because I didn’t want to sound like a stalker, but they’d posted a selfie only a few days ago—a black-and-white shot of them in profile with their foreheads pressed together, captioned “Show me your scars and I won’t walk away #beyonce #wisdom.”

  She shrugged.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “They never see each other. He’s always with the band, and she has student council.”

  I snorted. The old conflicting schedules excuse! “Noelle. Come on. That’s not the real reason.”

  She looked mysterious.

  “Who got dumped?”

  She said nothing.

  “Is she supposed to be the good guy? So far you’re not making me think she’s the good guy.”

  Noelle narrowed her eyes at me. What did narrowed eyes mean in this context?

  “Message received,” I said. “The official story is they mutually decided to break up. And, what, is this like the soft launch? Are you supposed to tell a few people and swear them to secrecy, knowing they’ll tell everyone?”

  “I gotta go,” she said. “Later, tater.”

  She gave me a hug and ran down the stairs. I love Noelle, but I’ll never understand why she’s happy to be Reese’s minion.