“So?” After waiting for the waiter to fill five pint glasses with lime green slush, Vivian turned to Jess. “What up? What happened to you last night? Is it just me or do I smell something in the air?”
Jess craned her head out of our booth, making sure that the place hadn’t attracted any new customers. The coast was clear. “Swear to secrecy?” she said. “On your life?”
“Oh, get on with it!” Pia had yet to recover from the tequila diss.
“I’m serious,” Jess insisted. “I’m not saying a word until each and every one of you swears.”
Left palms were raised as Jess sucked in a deep breath: “OK, here goes,” she said, studying her lap. “Well, last night, I . . . after we left you guys, I told Preston I loved him and, well . . . I’m a new woman.” That was as far as she got before plunking her forehead onto the table and letting out a piggy squeal.
“You did it?” yelled Vivian. “IT?”
Jessica raised her face off the table and nodded. After taking a chug of her drink, she returned to the table. “I’m sort of freaking out,” she said into the tablecloth.
Vivian proceeded to grill Jess about the big night, demanding all the hows and whys and wheres and what-it-felt-likes. Jess remembered the bulk of it: It took place on the couch in the hotel room, to a mix CD that Preston had burned especially for the occasion, and it felt swirly and gooey and delicious and didn’t hurt at all—or maybe a tiny bit. “He was so sweet to me.” She sighed.
After Jess and Preston completed the deed, Jess told us she passed out in his arms and slept beautifully—practically a first. She woke up in the morning to find him serving her a cup of seven-dollar hot chocolate and a fresh loaf of ciabatta from room service, both of which she was too jittery to touch. “All that intensity,” she concluded, “and I still made it to school on time!” She stretched her arms out above her head. “I don’t even know what to say. Everything feels so different.”
No one said anything for a minute or two; we were all just soaking it in. The whole conversation was making me feel especially fidgety: not only had I never had sex, but I’d never even contemplated it. It seemed as far removed in the future as mortgages or gray hairs.
Jess sighed, then started to speak again. “And the most amazing thing about the whole night is it could happen again anytime now. I’m telling you, life is completely different. You guys don’t realize it, but you’re so innocent.”
“God. Francesco is so controlling, I swear,” Pia said, changing the subject before Jess could keep saying patronizing things. Francesco was the twenty-four-year-old wunderkind assistant spokesman at her father’s office, Pia’s secret boyfriend. I’d never met him, but Vivian once showed me his picture in the 100 Hottest Bachelors spread in Hamptons magazine. “He’s been completely insane all week,” Pia went on, “which is pathetic considering that at the time he didn’t even know that I hooked up with Guillermo last weekend.”
“Guillermo?” Viv asked.
“Duh, my dad’s sub chauffeur. So last night I told Fran about Guillermo because, well, why not? We’re supposed to have an open relationship—”
“Pia.” Jess’s voice quavered. “I actually hadn’t finished about Preston and me. Because this, morning, right before school—”
No one was paying attention to Jess, though: The pendulum had shifted to Pia, just as she had intended it, I’m sure.
“But Fran totally lost his shit, pulled a total Ike Turner when I told him. He started sweating and talking about ‘taking a course of action.’ I mean, whatever! He knows our theories!”
“Your theories?” I offered tentatively.
“It’s nothing scientific,” Vivian turned to me and explained. “It’s just something my sister told me a long time ago, and ever since we’ve all adopted it as a total golden rule. We think we should try to hook up with as many people as possible, you know? At our age, it’s totally crucial to build experience.”
“And expertise,” Pia added.
“Speak for yourself,” Jess said. “Preston’s the only experience I need. I mean it, guys, I think I want to marry him.”
We all rolled our eyes: Jess’s naïveté was extremely endearing, especially in the context of her jaded friends. I could tell from the expression on her face that she meant it, she really did want to spend her life with Preston.
“Enough about Preston, dear. We’re delighted you lost the big V, but spare us the twelve-part miniseries, all right? Pay no attention to her, Mimi—Jess is perpetually suffering from Deadbeat Dad syndrome. Everyone knows that girls whose daddies dump them spend their whole lives searching for a replacement; that’s so Psych 101. But anyway, as Viv was saying, Mimi, there’s no such thing as only one guy—”
“What are you talking about, Pia? My dad has absolutely nothing to do with this! You’re just jealous because you have no idea what it’s like to find someone you really love, and it’s no wonder, the way you treat your closest friends! I can’t even begin to imagine how you act to your boyfriends!” Jess shuddered, and her face flushed with color until it was almost purple.
“Oh, Jess, don’t be so melodramatic,” Viv retorted, suddenly acerbic. “We all know what it’s like to fall in love. We just try not to make a habit of it every semester, with, like, every athlete in school.”
“Come to think of it,” Pia plowed right over this interruption, still addressing me, “the theory works better when you don’t like the guy. That way, you have less to lose, and you’re not too distracted to focus on technique. If you don’t start practicing now, you might turn out like Jess here—changing the vacuum bags and doing it military-style with the same boring investment banker three times a week until you die. But back to what I was saying before. The only reason I told Fran was because Guillermo was incredible, above and beyond anything I’d ever experienced with a man before . . .”
“Pia, why do you always have to ruin everything?” Jess whimpered, tears splashing onto the table.
Ouch. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on right then. But Viv and Lily seemed as accustomed to Pia’s brash interruptions as to Jess’s emotional outbursts. If I had never met them before, I might assume that the two girls were veering toward major meltdown, but these explosive tensions didn’t seem to ruffle Lily or Viv much. Lily was being quieter than usual, that was all. As for me, I just felt uncomfortable: less with Pia and Jess’s sparring than with the general topic of conversation. Sex was an arena I knew admittedly little about.
“Hold on, wait,” Vivian jumped in, shielding Jess a little from our stroppy Italian princess. “Pia, you’re not saying—you don’t actually mean that you did it, too? With Guillermo and not even Fran first?”
“Vivian!” Pia was shocked. “What kind of skank do you think I am?—no offense, Jess. I’m a strict Catholic, God—I’d never have sex before marriage! No, all we did was—” She broke off, making an embarrassingly graphic trombone gesture with her hand. “Big deal.” Everyone tittered except Lily—even Jess, who was way too nice to hold a grudge for more than thirty seconds.
“You OK, Lils?” I jabbed her under the table, realizing that the only word she’d pronounced since we’d gotten to Torre’s was “queso.”
Dip and crunch, dip and crunch—that about summed up Lily’s response to Jess’s news and Pia’s blowup. The lewder the conversation, the bigger Lily’s appetite for free tortilla chips. If things remained this down and dirty, she’d probably have to order a refill or two.
“What? Oh, sure.” Lily laughed gruffly, plunging another corn chip into the speckled orange goo.
Meanwhile I was trying to be casual, talking only when necessary while doing my best not to imagine how the gang would react to my secret—the fact that, excluding a spin-the-bottle game one summer at Rachel’s brother’s high school graduation party, I’d never kissed a soul. Perhaps Lily was so quiet for the opposite reason: It wasn’t her style to boast about stolen kisses, of which I was certain she’d had many.
After two d
rinks we paired off to slink back to Baldwin inconspicuously. Lily and I were the last to go, even though I was totally dead and unprepared for my computer animation tutorial.
“You were pretty quiet in there,” Lily said as we turned onto Pineapple Street.
“Oh, was I?” I was looking straight ahead, trying to marshal all remaining shreds of cool. “I guess I’m just tired.”
“You sure that’s all?”
“Yeah, well, I guess when it comes to sex and all that, I don’t have all that much to contribute. Not that I. . .” It dawned on me that there were no atoms of cool in me whatsoever. Not even a speck of cool dust in my entire organism. I decided to try another tactic. “What about you? I’ll bet you’ve dated all sorts of famous peoples’ kids, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, right.” Lily playfully kicked one of her sneakers in the air. “I try to limit myself to three celebrity dates a week, actually.”
“You can tell me whatever you want. It’s not like I’m going to spread any rumors, if that’s what you’re scared of,” I assured her.
She looked surprised, almost as if she was about to laugh. “No, it’s just . . .” She looked up the block, measuring how far ahead of us her friends were before continuing. I couldn’t believe it; I was sure she was going to make some celebrity love confession.
“Spill the beans, will you?” I nudged her along.
“My mom tries to get me to date, I guess,” Lily admitted at length, “but it’s not like I have any say in the matter, or like any of the guys have any desire to know anything about me beyond my mother’s pie crust secrets. But even that’s a stretch—I mean, how many guys do you know who are interested in baking peach pie?”
“What are you talking about?” I didn’t get it. Was she just being self-deprecating for my sake? But Lily wasn’t the type to put on airs. She truly felt lousy about her love life.
“Maybe I just need to set my sights on older men,” Lily went on, sighing softly. “If I could find some nice widower who goes in for household tips, maybe I’d finally have a shot at getting to third base before the age of fifty. Make that second.”
So she was as inexperienced as I was. I was floored. Sure, Lily’s no supermodel, but why would any guy with half a brain turn her away? She was cuter than just-cute, with giant brown eyes and a moon-shaped face sprinkled with the nicest freckles ever. And surely it didn’t hurt to be the daughter of one of the most famous people in America. Talk about a house you’d want to hang out at after school. “You’re just beating yourself up,” I said.
“I wish!” Lily squinted, then slowed down to make sure we weren’t catching up to the rest of the group. Half a block ahead of us, Pia had taken off her fedora and plopped it on Viv’s head. Jess, who was on the photo staff of the yearbook, was taking pictures of it all. Apparently she wanted to chronicle every detail of the most important morning of her life thus far.
None of the resentments between Jessica and Pia seemed to linger, and none of the girls had the slightest idea of the virginity fest being held directly behind them.
“Mimi, I know I don’t know you all that well, but maybe that’s why I feel like I can tell you this. Can I trust you not to say anything?”
“Sure,” I said. I realized I didn’t sound convincing enough. “I swear on my dead body.”
“Your dead body? What kind of swear is that?”
Why did saying the right thing always feel an inch—make that a mile—out of my reach? I tried again: “I swear over my mother’s body.”
“But I thought you didn’t even like your mother that much.”
“That’s just in the past year, but fine, I see your point. My father’s body, then. And his gravestone. And my cat Simon.”
“All right, all right.” Lily seemed appeased. “I know this is going to be kind of a surprise, but I haven’t even . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve never even kissed a boy.” I couldn’t believe it. “Can you believe that?”
Was it possible that one of the most envied girls in all of Baldwin—all of New York!—was a kissing virgin at the age of fifteen? I would never in a million years have guessed it, but I was happy to take her word. If even Lily Morton had never smooched anybody, maybe I wasn’t such a freak after all. I wanted to put it in the Bugle and broadcast it to the world—it was that newsworthy.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You should see your face. You’re horrified, aren’t you?”
“Not at all! I’m not. I’m just . . . surprised, is all.”
Lily stopped and looked at me expectantly. Of course here was my turn to fess up and tell her she was in good company—or company at least. But I couldn’t dare utter the words. It was one thing for a girl whose coolness was as official as a government bond never to have been kissed. If anything, it was almost charming. But Mimi Schulman, the weird new girl who’s almost six feet tall and whose father goes accessories shopping for her? That was another story. I felt pretty confident that Lily would never hold my dorky past against me, but the other girls would definitely toss me to the curb like a cigarette butt.
“My mom says I’m a late bloomer,” she was saying, “but I’m not buying that anymore. I’m almost sixteen. In some cultures that’s old enough to be a mother of four.”
“Uh-huh,” I clucked. “That’s your problem. We should send you down to Guatemala, where you can live in the Mayan ruins and get cracking on that teen pregnancy plan.”
Lily laughed and gave me a goofy smile that told me everything was going to be OK, which was funny, because I’m pretty sure I was the one who was supposed to be telling her that.
“You’re the only person in the world who knows that,” she said. “I guess we have the margaritas to blame.”
“Hey, watch out, girlfriend. That’s my motto.”
“What is?”
“Blame it on the margarita. I’ve been saying that since I was ten. It’s a Texas thing.” I grinned.
“Seriously—and I’m not just saying this because of my verbal diarrhea—but with the exception of Pia, I don’t think anybody actually likes to drink margaritas first thing in the morning. Why do we all go along with her?”
“Because she’d have some Milanese henchman after us if we didn’t?” I offered.
“You’re right. Pronto.”
Then something strange happened: Lily stooped over to tie her left Adidas. Tying your shoe ranks up with the most normal activities in the world, but the thing is, I was pretty sure it didn’t need any tying in the first place. Was she trying to stay behind everybody else, so we could keep at our tête-à-tête? Perhaps. When she was done fussing with her left shoe, she moved over to the one on her right foot, and started playing with the laces. Which convinced me. She was definitely trying to stay apart from the pack. She was trying to be alone with me. How about that?
“So.” Her cheeks were flushed from coming up from the shoe-tying project. “What are you up to today?”
“I have this ritual,” I said. “There’s this place I usually go to—it’s called school.”
“Ah! I have a similar habit.” Lily laughed. “But what about afterward? I mean, do you have another ritual you need to take care of?”
“I might need to go to the bathroom, but after that my life is pretty open,” I said.
“Well, I have this habit, and I’d be honored to have you tag along.” Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief.
“What’s that?” I said.
“It’s called going home. Would you care to come check out my digs? Don’t worry, I’m not going to kiss you there,” she said. “You can trust me at least that far.”
“We have history to back that one up.” I stepped back as she play-punched my arm.
Just as I accepted this honor, Pia doubled back and raced toward us, then stuck her hat over Lily’s pony tail.
“I hate this hat!” Pia said. “It looks like ass on every single one of my friends and me, too. Can you believe they charge two hundred and fifty bucks for this fuck
ing hat?” Pia removed her overpriced accessory from Lily and returned it to her own head. Skipping and laughing, the three of us caught up with Viv and Jess.
“We need to get you a personal shopper,” said Viv. “You’re losing your magic touch.”
“How dare you!” said Pia, lunging at Viv and making strangulation gestures. Pia tripped and her hat rolled into the street, and we all stood there for a while, laughing.
That day, I learned that it’s always safer to order virgin margaritas, not margarita margaritas, on a fake ID, especially before noon on a weekday. I also learned that people will surprise you—even people with famous mothers.
Study Buddies
BY THE TIME I GOT HOME THAT NIGHT, I was beyond out of it. Torre’s, it turned out, was only Step 1 on my road to self-destruction. I know I’m beginning to sound like a total lush, but I’d like to point out that I’m in the middle of an official Adolescent Transition Period, which has not been eased by the breakup of my parents’ marriage. I also have an extremely low tolerance, and when I imbibe even the teeniest amount of alcohol, my face turns bright red and the world starts to spin and I become indistinguishable from your basic corner hobo.
After school that day, Lily and I had taken the 6 train uptown to her house, supposedly to study for our English vocab quiz. Our teacher, Julia, had handed us a list of difficult words and told us to be prepared to “act them out” the following day. Julia, like most humanities teachers at Baldwin, was a disappointed actress and treated English class like an improv workshop whenever possible. The only word on the list she gave us that was even slightly act-out-able was akimbo, which means standing with your hands planted on your hips and your elbows thrust outward. But the other words—transient, gulag, nascent—were hardly made for miming. At this rate, our next class project was probably going to be a three-act play inspired by sentence diagrams. I made a mental note to write to Rachel about this. No doubt she was entrenched in some despotic Texan multiple-choice hell and she’d find my predicament supremely funny.
The Rise and Fall of a 10th Grade Social Climber Page 13