Notes from a Former Virgin

by Emma Chastain

  Wednesday, March 14

  I went to Grady’s after school. We sat around with Bear and his babysitter, drawing pictures with scented markers and assembling emergency-vehicle puzzles. When Mrs. Trevor came home, she said, “Chloe, I’m so glad to see you! You can stay for dinner, right?” I said yes, and I didn’t text Mom to tell her I’d be late. When I finally made it to the condo, she didn’t ask where I’d been. “There are leftover quesadillas in the fridge,” she said cheerfully. “Should I heat some up for you?”

  “I ate,” I said without looking at her. That’s the good thing about this stage: I can skip dinner and be rude to her with impunity. She’s too repentant to get mad.

  Thursday, March 15

  Tris and I went to Hannah’s to watch movies. No boyfriends allowed. We gave ourselves temporary tattoos (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, from Bear’s babysitter) and ate Peeps and chocolate eggs.

  “Is your mom gonna get mad that we’re going through all the Easter candy?” I said.

  “She gets extra for the whole month,” Hannah said. “She’ll hide different stuff for me to find on Easter morning.”

  “She still hides candy for you??” Tris said.

  “I think it’s nice,” I said way too angrily. Tris and Hannah stared at me. “Sorry,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” Tris said.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  I could talk to them about it. They would understand. Hannah’s parents basically called her a prostitute for having a boyfriend freshman year, and Tris’s dad is half a bigot. But it didn’t even occur to me to be honest. I couldn’t betray my mother like that.

  “Is it the Reese situation?” Hannah said.

  “Yes,” I said, because it’s that, too. “I’m so miserable.”

  They rubbed my arms and told me how awful she is and how terribly her life will turn out. “She’s peaking now, right this second,” Tris said. “It’s all downhill from here.”

  “Cruelty is only rewarded in high school,” Hannah said.

  “At best she’ll be a flight attendant wearing way too much foundation,” Tris said. “But I’m thinking more like nail technician with three ex-husbands.”

  I knew they were telling me the kinds of things their moms tell them. They’ll be great parents someday.

  Friday, March 16

  People still stare at me in the halls, especially when I’m with Grady, but it’s not quite as bad as it used to be. Maybe Reese has done her worst.

  Saturday, March 17

  I kind of wanted to lie around in my old bedroom wasting time on my phone while scratching Snickers behind the ears, but Dad and Miss Murphy had planned a day full of treats. First they took me out to brunch. Then all three of us got pedicures. Dad even read US Weekly while his feet soaked. He refused to get his toenails polished, however. For dinner, he grilled on the deck, even though he had to wear his winter parka to do it. We watched a movie together afterward. I was too self-conscious to enjoy the Junior Mints they’d picked up for me. How is that possible, when a few weeks ago I was lying on their/our couch wearing a T-shirt and no bra, licking my finger and pressing it into the Sour Patch Kids dust at the bottom of the package while watching Real Housewives and also scrolling through Instagram? Now I feel like a guest.

  Dad said, “How’s everything with your mother?” and I said, “Pretty good.” That was that.

  I asked Miss Murphy how she’s feeling, and she said, “I’m having bad heartburn.” And that was that.

  Sunday, March 18

  I was almost glad to see Mom after Dad dropped me off tonight. At dinner, I laughed at one of her jokes. So it’s over. I caved. Now she can relax, knowing everything will go back to normal. I’m so weak. I hate myself.

  Monday, March 19

  Reese must have launched phase two today, because the whispers and glances and mean giggles were back in full force. Jacqueline came up to me in the hall looking excited and hustled me over to a corner.

  “You should know everyone’s talking about you,” she whispered. “Reese said . . .” She trailed off.

  “What?”

  “She said she felt bad mentioning this before, but she’s concerned for your health. She said she saw warts on your . . . you know.”

  “My . . .” Neither of us could say it. We nodded at each other to confirm that we were talking about my vagina.

  “She said it’s definitely HPV and you’ll have to get the warts frozen off with dry ice. Is that true?”

  I stared at her. “Of course it’s not.”

  I walked around for the rest of the day loathing everyone. I don’t know who’s spreading lies about me and who’s not, so I assume every single person I see is my enemy.

  Tuesday, March 20

  Mom was slamming things into the dishwasher this morning. I could tell she was mad, so I said, “Sorry. I was going to do that after I brushed my teeth.”

  She said, “You certainly get through a lot of drinking glasses!” Her voice was fake cheerful. It’s too early in the cycle for her to freak out on me, but she’s letting herself be mean already. Nothing has changed. What did I think, that yoga has magical healing powers?

  At school, Harper came up to me after lunch. She looked excited and nervous. Reese and her friends were watching in the background, giggling to each other, so I knew it was going to be bad. “This is for you,” Harper said. She handed me a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. I should have slapped it onto the floor, but instead I took it.

  “Thanks,” I said. Thanks. I thanked her. That’s the part that embarrasses me the most, thinking about it now.

  “It’s for your you-know-what,” she said. Her voice quivered with, I guess, glee. “All that dry ice must hurt.”

  “Oh my God,” Reese squealed, hiding her face in one of her friends’ shoulders.

  I said nothing. The Tylenol was still in my hand. Only a few people had overheard, but that was enough. The whole school would know in an hour. Maybe some kids would think, Poor Chloe, or, They’re so mean, but no one would publicly side with me. My low status is contagious. No one would risk her own standing to speak up for me.

  As they walked away, laughing together, a huge fury filled my stomach and poured out into my arms, legs, hands. Maybe Mom feels like that when she loses it. If so, I understand why she doesn’t change. Rage feels really, really good.

  Wednesday, March 21

  I texted Noelle at 6 a.m.

  Chloe: Is your mom home?

  Noelle: No away for work

  Chloe: Wanna skip school?

  Noelle: Yeah sure

  Come on over

  I rode off on my bike at the usual time, so Mom wouldn’t suspect anything, then went right to Noelle’s house.

  “What’s wrong?” she said when she opened the door.

  “Nothing. I didn’t feel like showing up today.”

  “But you look awful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not like that. Your face. Whatever, your expression. Did Snickers die?”

  “NO,” I said, knocking on her doorframe.

  “What, then? Here, come in.”

  She led me through the house to the kitchen and got a bottle of vodka out of the freezer.

  “Vodka?” I said.

  “Bloody Marys.”

  “You know how to make them?”

  She held up her phone, which is in a white case decorated with the words “YEAH OK” in bold black letters. “The internet tells you how to do everything, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  I knew when I texted her that Noelle was going to be mildly bitchy, like she always is. That’s why I wanted to see her.

  She pulled a few items out of the fridge. “So spill it,” she said. “Why are we ditching?”

  “Give me a break, Noelle,” I said.

  She was opening the Worcestershire sauce and wouldn’t look at me.

  I said, “You’re a bad friend, you know that?”

  She laughed. She’s impossible to offend.
It’s an enraging but also relaxing quality.

  “Oh yeah?” she said.

  “I’ve noticed you’re never around when Reese has one of her little servants attack me. What a coincidence!”

  She pushed my drink across the counter to me. I took a sip. It tasted spicy and salty. I could feel it racing through my bloodstream, lighting me up red along the way. No wonder grown-ups are so obsessed with brunch.

  “Good, right?” she said. I didn’t answer. I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. She sighed. “Would you rather I stand there watching you get humiliated? Would that make you happy?”

  “No!” I said. “I’d rather you stood up for me!”

  She rolled her eyes. “Like that would make any difference.”

  “You could at least text me,” I said, “and let me know she’s planning something.”

  She stirred her drink with her finger. “Yeah. I could do that.”

  It didn’t make me feel better that she’d conceded that much. It made me angrier. “That’s not enough, Noelle.”

  “It was your suggestion!”

  I looked into my glass. I could see flecks of horseradish and pepper in the tomato juice. “She did this to you last year,” I said. “Don’t you remember how it felt?”

  “I remember it sucked, but honestly, the details have faded. I’m over it. You’ll get over this.”

  “Jesus, Noelle.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Chloe? I’m not cheering her on, or whatever. I’m still friends with you, even though Reese hates that I am. That’s as much as I can offer.”

  “But have you said anything at all? ‘Chloe’s my friend, so please cut it out’?”

  “You know that would only make things worse.”

  I took a big sip. “You’re a good person. How you can stand being around her?”

  She twirled the Tabasco bottle around by its little neck. “I never claimed to be a good person.”

  I gave her a shocked look. This is why I love her and why she scares me. Who admits, even to herself, that she doesn’t care about being good?

  “I told you that from, like, the first conversation we ever had,” she said. “I know you remember.”

  It was the second conversation we ever had, but I took her point.

  “I like the drama. I like being popular. Any popular kid who says she doesn’t is lying. I want my life to be exciting. That’s it.”

  She finished her drink, pulled my empty glass over, and started mixing two fresh Bloody Marys. She wasn’t going to apologize, and she certainly wasn’t going to step in and save me from Reese. All she could be was her terrible, interesting self.

  “Do you still have your hair-cutting scissors?” I said.

  “Shears, not scissors. Yeah, upstairs.”

  I headed up. I wasn’t sure she would follow me, and I didn’t care either way, but she did.

  The shears were under Noelle’s bathroom sink, in a clear plastic box that also held dyes and bottles of product with names like “toner” and “developer.” I pulled them out of their case, gathered my hair in my left hand, yanked it above my head, and cut into it.

  “Not like that!” Noelle shrieked. She was holding our drinks, but she put them down on the counter and tried to take the scissors from me. I wouldn’t let her.

  “Stop! Don’t cut across!” she said. “You have to dip into the hair straight down, from above.” She mimed to show me. I didn’t say anything, but I copied her.

  “Wow,” she said when I’d finished. Most of my ponytail was lying on the floor, and I looked like . . . Well, I looked like I’d cut my own hair. “Will you let me fix it, or are you too out of control right now?”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  She guided my head under the sink, got my hair wet, then flipped me upright and combed it out. She put a towel over my shoulders and stood behind me, snipping.

  “Are you having a breakdown?” she said.

  I looked at her in the mirror. I didn’t feel like I was. I didn’t even feel drunk. I felt calm.

  “I want to dye it too,” I said.

  “What color?”

  “What color says, ‘Think whatever you want about me. I could give a rat’s ass’?”

  “Black?” she said.

  “Too obvious.” All the emo kids and all the goth kids and all the kids going through a tough time wear black clothes, nails, hair, everything. Black says, I’m rebelling by fitting in with all these other people who also think they’re rebelling. Black is conformist.

  “What’s your favorite color?” Noelle asked.

  I opened my mouth.

  “And don’t lie and say, like, orange,” she said.

  I had been about to lie, although I was going to say red. The real answer was embarrassing.

  “Pale pink,” I said. When I was little, my favorite Barbie had a pale-pink ball gown dotted with tiny flecks of gold. I must have studied that dress for hours, holding it up to my bedroom window to watch the sun light it, twirling Barbie by her feet to make it spin.

  “Not bad, but kind of basic,” Noelle said. “Millennial pink is already over. And every celebrity has had pink hair at one point.”

  “Perfect,” I said. Nothing could be more truly rebellious than not caring if you look basic. If you actually want to be cool, rave about your love of pumpkin spice lattes, wear UGGs, and learn all the words to pop songs. I tried to explain this to Noelle, and she said, “So you want to be ironically basic?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You could never pull it off, but I’ll give you the pink anyway. It’ll look conventionally cool, which is probably the best you can hope for. No offense.”

  It took hours. Noelle opened the window, but the chemicals still gave me a headache. I didn’t care. The bleach turned my hair dry on the spot. I didn’t care. Noelle mixed up Manic Panic with conditioner, then painted it on my head with a big brush and worked it through my hair with her gloved fingers. I watched my reflection in the mirror like it was someone else’s.

  “We have to sit around for an hour to give it time to soak in,” she said. “Want to come outside with me while I smoke a butt?”

  “Sure,” I said, but I didn’t move.

  “You’re not freaking out about the color, are you?” she said.

  “No.”

  “It’ll fade in a few weeks,” she said. “If you want to keep it up, we’ll have to redo it. Try to take cold showers if you can, and don’t wash your hair too much.”

  “OK.” I was looking out the bathroom window at the bare black branches jiggling in the wind.

  “Hey.” She poked my foot with her foot. “Are you with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Let’s go downstairs.”

  She stood there waiting for me. She’d skipped school because she knew I needed her. She’d spent a good part of the day cutting and dyeing my hair. She was delaying her cigarette and waiting patiently while I moped and gave her one-word answers. I was an outcast to most of my class, but she hadn’t abandoned me, even though it was her best friend who’d cast me out, and she was endangering her social standing every time she saw me. I said, “You’re not a bad friend. I’m sorry I said that.”

  Thursday, March 22

  I went to school spoiling for a fight. My new hair looked like a wig, and it made me feel protected, like I was in disguise.

  It started early. Reese’s friend Lianna said “Nice makeover” in a laughing voice as she passed me before homeroom.

  “THANKS!” I shouted, in a tone of crazed enthusiasm. She looked back at me with a surprised, almost scared look on her face. I gave her a huge fake smile, like the Joker. She hurried away.

  Tegan Kinney, some sophomore I don’t even know, posted a picture of the back of my head, captioned “Witness protection program lol.” She hadn’t tagged me, so by the unwritten laws that everyone follows, I was supposed to pretend I didn’t know the photo existed, which is absurd, since you can’t post a picture of anyone or an
ything without the entire school knowing about it and discussing it within minutes. I commented three times. “Lol,” “Lol,” “Lolololololol.” She deleted the picture between second and third periods. I was with Noelle when I happened to see Tegan in the hall, walking along with two of her friends. “Hang on,” I said to Noelle, and went right up to Tegan. “Hey,” I said. “Did you want a better picture? I’ll pose for you.”

  “That’s OK,” she said. She looked terrified.

  “Take a picture,” I said.

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “Take a picture,” I said.

  “Do it,” Noelle told Tegan. “You don’t want to insult her, do you?”

  “We’ll take a selfie,” I said, holding my hand out for Tegan’s phone.

  She gave it to me like she was forking over a loaded weapon. I leaned in until our shoulders were touching, gave the camera the finger with one hand, and pressed the white circle with the other.

  “Enjoy,” I said.

  Noelle gave me an admiring look as we walked away. “You’re in rare form,” she said.

  I glowed inside. “Rare form,” yes. I felt like a big bloody boxer.

  I couldn’t concentrate at lunch. Tris and Hannah were asking me delicate, careful questions. They were concerned about me. Grady was too, although his concern was almost canceled out by his excitement about my new hair. He was looking at me like I was made of cotton candy and he was a kid at the fair. It was all a distraction. I wanted complete silence so I could focus on . . . something. I wasn’t sure what. The warm fury in my stomach.

  Ten minutes before lunch ended, Reese stood up from her table. Her squad followed. As she walked toward the exit, closer to me, I stared at her. Say something, I ordered her silently. Come on. Say something.

  She didn’t, but Harper did. She muttered, “Hooker hair,” and her friends burst out laughing. Reese smacked her lightly and said, “Stop. You’re so bad.”