Weirdly, Emma wasn’t nervous.
Excited? Sure.
Awkward as hell? Always.
But not nervous.
Emma tried to tell herself that was a good thing, and she almost managed to believe herself too. Then, she looked at Nick again and absentmindedly licked her bottom lip. Suddenly, she was extremely aware of the all blood flowing through her body, especially the part that was pulsing past her hips and up between her legs like a not so subtle reminder that she had hormones and hands and boobs and a vagina, and they were all demanding attention, all at once.
Emma’s lack of nervousness, combined with the foam at the bottom of her beer bottle and all the buzzing in her body, pushed her head forward until her lips slipped onto Nick’s lips and her tongue pushed into his mouth, and finally all of the thinking stopped and the bubbles and biology just took over and that next, first kiss, the newly crowned most important one, was the perfect combination of sloppy and sweet. It was casual but also special all at once . . .
. . . and the next ten, twenty, one hundred–something kisses that followed soon after were similarly enjoyable. And the best part wasn’t just that Nick knew exactly what to do with his tongue, which he did, or that he knew exactly how hard to press his lips against hers, which he also did, but that Nick’s kisses seemed to have the ability to listen to her kisses. They knew when to speed up or slow down, pushing harder or softer, always perfectly in rhythm with Emma. And then Nick pulled back, catching Emma’s eyes, as if to ask, one more time, Are we really doing this?
Emma smiled back at him. Yes, we really are.
The next two, five, ten-ish minutes felt like they happened all at once.
Emma and Nick moved off of the floor and up onto the couch.
Nick’s kisses moved to Emma’s neck and then onto her chest.
Emma’s bra came off.
Nick’s pants slid down.
Her hands moved to his waist and then between his legs.
She got up to turn off the lights, but, then again, Emma might’ve done that before any of the kissing even started . . .
Even as it was all happening, she couldn’t quite remember the order.
It all felt like a series of jump cuts, moving from one moment to the next. From fumbling to closeness to nakedness. It was all cold and hot and the whole thing made her want to giggle and cry at the same time, not because she was happy or sad, but because she was entirely, completely, 100 percent in the moment. She was so in her body and out of her head—a rare feeling for a champion overthinker like Emma—that she did everything she could to embrace it. And she could tell that Nick was appreciating all of it just as much as she was, in the same way she was, and the truth was that it was actually way more special than casual, which felt like a good thing. And then Nick pulled away for a minute to put on a condom. He opened the packet with his teeth, rolled it on rather quickly, and then squeezed some lube on top of it. As Emma watched him from the couch, feeling naked and exposed, she greatly appreciated the fact that he’d done this before.
Then he climbed back on top of her with a big, boyish grin on his face. Emma made sure to take a mental picture of him and the muddy green glint in his eyes, and his accidental half-Mohawk, and the palpable glow that seemed to wrap around his entire face, his entire being. . .
And then, finally, without much fanfare he slid inside her.
“Pushed” was actually probably a more accurate word.
It didn’t hurt.
Not really.
Or, not exactly.
But it wasn’t all that comfortable, either.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly. She nodded. She was. Nick pulled out a little and then slid back inside, slowly at first and then faster, finding a rhythm . . .
It was all sort of sudden and mostly clumsy.
As it was happening, Emma kept having the urge to remind herself that it was, in fact, happening.
This, she kept thinking.
This is sex, and this is real, and it’s all really happening.
Emma was losing her virginity right now, at this very moment.
And then the moment ended, just as quickly and awkwardly and sincerely as it had begun.
And that was it.
148 days until graduation . . .
LAYLA did not expect it to happen quite so fast.
Obviously, the whole point of the sex pact was to actually have sex, but Emma’s sexie more or less came out of nowhere.
“What’s a sexie?” Zoe asked as they waited in line at The Bigg Chill.
“An after sex selfie, a sexie,” Layla explained.
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Alex asked.
Yes it was. Layla was very proud of her new name.
After Nick left Emma’s house last night, not too long after they’d had sex, Emma snapped a picture of herself and all her postcoital afterglow and sent it to The Chat. She added a text message saying that she nailed it.
The (not-yet-named) sexie as well as Emma’s text message came as a complete surprise to Alex and Layla and Zoe, who didn’t even know Emma was hanging out with Nick, let alone sleeping with him. Once the girls realized that Emma wasn’t joking, and that she had, in fact, just had sex with Nick—and therefore lost her virginity to Nick—they sent an avalanche of texts, full of expletives and exclamation marks and emojis. Layla was pretty sure they’d sent more texts per minute than ever before in the history of The Chat.
“I haven’t even managed to kiss a boy since we started the pact, and Emma’s already done with it.” Zoe laughed.
“She’s not done,” Layla corrected with a big smile.
“True,” Emma admitted. “Still waiting on the fireworks . . .”
“Shhh,” Zoe said as they reached the front of the line, where Bigg Chill Aaron was waiting to take their order.
“What are we shhh-ing about?” he whispered.
Surprising no one, his question made Zoe blush—and that was even before Layla honestly answered, “Fireworks.”
Of course Bigg Chill Aaron didn’t really know what that meant, but it still made his lips curl up into a sideways smile. There was always something memorable about his smile, Layla thought. His bottom teeth were slightly crooked, not in a bad way, but just enough to be interesting, and he had a little scar right below his bottom lip. The girls had known him only since September, when he started his freshman year at UCLA, but they’d seen him every single Sunday since, and now he was by far their favorite Bigg Chill employee. They always made small talk as they placed their orders, but the truth was they didn’t know all that much about him other than the fact that he grew up in Philadelphia and was always incredibly generous with his frozen yogurt and topping portions.
Today everyone collectively decided to order large sized cups instead of their usual small servings, because Emma lost her virginity last night, and it was just that kind of day.
“Tell. Me. Everything,” Layla insisted once the girls had settled at their usual table.
“I texted you most of it . . .”
“Yeah, but I still have so many questions,” Layla said. “Like, did you like it?”
“The sex?”
“Yes, duh, the sex.”
“Yeah. It was good. I told you it was good. Why do you keep asking like you don’t believe me ?”
“Maybe it’s the tone of your voice. It keeps creeping up at the end of your sentences.”
“I don’t know what to say about the ‘creeping,’ but as far the sex goes—”
“Ohmigod-I-still-can’t-believe-you-had-sex,” Zoe blurted out all at once, causing the whole table to erupt into a round of giggles. “I’m sorry,” Zoe said as soon as she could manage words again. “I’m just . . . it’s like . . . wow.”
“Yes, it’s definitely wow . . . ,” Layla confirmed playfully for Zoe, “but we’re still trying to get the full mental picture of whether it was good or not.”
“I swear it was good,” Emma said, still laughing, “b
ut I guess, maybe if you really want the full mental picture maybe we have to define what ‘good’ actually means. And possibly also ‘it,’ too.”
“Okay, so it would be sex,” Layla offered.
“Yep. It happened. Nick put his penis inside my vagina.”
“Ohmigod . . .” Zoe squealed, managing to put a napkin in front of her mouth so as not to spit rainbow sprinkles across the table. Her squirmy, sex pact–related reflexes already seemed to be improving.
“And good means you liked it,” Layla said in a way that made it sound more like a question than a statement.
“I did like it,” Emma insisted, “but, it wasn’t . . .” She paused, as if she were trying to listen to her own thoughts. “I think the truth is that it didn’t last very long. Like, it was happening, and I knew it was happening, but then it just sorta ended.”
“Right. No fireworks,” Layla said definitively.
“Guys, it’s okay. You can just say the word ‘or’ . . . ‘org’ . . .” Zoe melted into a puddle of giggles before she could get the entire word out of her mouth.
“Zoe, can you say the word ‘orgasm’?” Alex teased.
* * *
ZOE apparently could not.
She also felt red, and rashy, and ridiculous, but even she had to admit that this was fun.
The conversation made her feel mature, even though she was still anxious and sweating in strange locations, like behind her knees.
“Was Nick on top of you?” Layla asked.
“As opposed to . . . ?”
“I don’t know. Like. Some other position . . . ?”
“Oh. Ha. No,” Emma said quickly. “We barely got through one position . . . I mean, we got through it, but then he finished and that was basically it.”
“Hmmm,” Layla said, looking a little bit like an inflated balloon.
“Also, it got a little messy, so I had to deal with that afterward,” Emma explained. “We probably should’ve just put a towel down on the couch or something. I had to put one of the cushion slipcovers in the washing machine. It got wet . . .”
“Oh, from the . . . ?” Zoe started to ask before realizing she had no clue how to even begin to finish her question.
“Didn’t you use a condom?” Layla asked.
“We did, but there’s, like, fluid,” Emma tried to explain. “You get wet and so that’s . . . it gets all over. And there was a little blood, too,” she added. “Not, like, a lot, but . . .”
“So it did hurt?” Layla asked.
“Not really. ‘Hurt’ isn’t the right word . . . It’s hard to explain. Sorry, I keep saying that, but maybe it’s just something you have to do to totally understand.”
Zoe wished she understood a little bit better, but, like Emma said, the only way to do that seemed to be to do it—and that wasn’t happening. Not yet, anyway.
Wow.
Did Zoe really just think about herself and then also about sex and then also about all of it actually happening, but just not “yet”?
She did. She smiled, feeling good about herself and her place in the pact.
* * *
EMMA began to notice there was something distant about Alex.
As the other girls chatted and laughed and squirmed a bit too, Alex seemed more focused on how many chocolate covered gummy bears she could pile on her spoon at once.
Emma decided not to say anything.
“So then what happened afterward?” Layla asked, still curious.
“First I cleaned up, and then we thought about watching a movie, but we never really picked one, so Nick just went home. I called my sister Heather, ’cause she’s the oldest, and I knew she’d be all excited, which she was . . . but then she got a little sentimental, too, and then she told me that I needed to pee immediately and then shower, so I did both of those things . . .” And then Emma explained that she had been left alone with all of her thoughts and feelings, but they were all jumbled and cluttered with hormones and questions and she wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to recall all of it in the future. She felt a thousand feelings all at once that she just couldn’t define, which is what led her to snap the first sexie. At least that way she could capture the moment. “Also, I wanted to share the moment with all of you,” she added.
“I can’t wait to see the next three sexies,” Layla said.
“The next two, technically,” Zoe clarified. “Alex would’ve had to have already taken hers. At camp.”
“You didn’t, did you?” Layla asked, only half joking.
“No,” Alex said quickly. “No cell phones . . .”
“Right, duh. Well, that’s too bad. But you can take one next time.”
“Sure . . . ,” Alex said.
* * *
Emma smiled at Alex. Now that they’d both had sex, Emma thought she understood Alex a little better than she had before. But even though Alex forced a smile back at Emma, Emma got the sense that something wasn’t right. Emma wasn’t going to ask Alex to explain herself, especially not right here and right now, but Emma was certain there was something more that Alex wanted—or even needed—to say.
* * *
ALEX was “technically, actually, completely” still a virgin.
She said it to Layla as plainly as she possibly could, but Layla seemed to be having trouble wrapping her head around the new information.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Layla said, rubbing her forehead. “You’re saying you did not actually have sex with Cameron at sleepaway camp two summers ago?”
“Correct. I did not,” Alex confirmed.
She rolled over onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows so she could get a better look at Layla. The two girls were lying side by side on Layla’s trampoline, and Alex felt like she needed to see Layla’s face in order to finish the conversation.
She wanted to make sure that Layla understood.
“Okay . . .” Layla continued. “But here’s the bump for me . . .”
“Bump away,” Alex said, bracing herself.
“If you didn’t do it at sleepaway camp, then why did you come home and tell us that you did?”
“I didn’t. I mean technically I didn’t tell you that.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘technically’?”
“Because . . . well . . .” Alex couldn’t seem to find the right words to explain. Maybe the problem was that she wasn’t even sure she had the right answer.
“Hey, if it makes you feel better . . . ,” Layla started.
“Nothing is making me feel better,” Alex said sharply.
“Don’t get pissy. You’re the one who’s been lying to all of us.”
Ugghhhh.
The last thing Alex wanted to do was lie, but the truth felt complicated.
Most simply, she had been trying to protect Cameron.
And maybe she was trying to protect herself, too.
At the very least she wanted to save them from the embarrassment of failure, but now, looking at Layla and seeing the hurt in her eyes, it just felt like Alex’s best intentions had backfired.
“Can we maybe pretend I didn’t say anything?” Alex asked.
“Nope.”
Alex could see that Layla and her half smile were doing the best they could not to get mad. Alex smiled back at Layla, but she still didn’t know quite what to say . . . so she just kept on smiling. And then she remembered that this whole mess actually started with that little Mona Lisa smile in the first place. It’s what made the girls in her cabin jump to conclusions. They all knew that she had snuck out in the middle of the night to meet Cameron at make-out ledge. And—because there is no such thing as a secret at sleepaway camp—they knew she was planning to have sex with him. But, as Alex’s mom liked to say, “Man plans and God laughs.” It was her way of explaining that expectations can often lead to disappointments. Alex had heard her mom use the expression hundreds of times before, but she hadn’t really understood what it meant until that night with Cameron on make-out ledge.
&
nbsp; They’d planned to have sex.
But then they didn’t.
And then, the next morning, Alex had just simply smiled.
Understandably, the girls in her cabin had all just assumed that the smile meant she’d sealed the deal.
It didn’t.
Alex knew she should’ve spoken up right then. She should’ve just said, No, we did not have sex. Not technically. Not actually. Not completely. Not at all.
But she didn’t.
Because Alex knew that the girls would’ve inevitably asked, Why? And then she would’ve had to tell them that even though she wanted to do it and Cameron wanted to do it, and even though they tried—and tried and tried—to make it work, they simply couldn’t.
Now, all these months—and many other make-out sessions—later, Alex understood that there simply hadn’t been enough foreplay. Now she knew that attempting to go from zero to “doing it” in almost no time for the very first time on a chilly summer night was a recipe for disaster, but in the moment, the whole thing just made Alex feel like a failure. And there was nothing—nothing—Alex hated more than failing, especially when it was her fault.
And that’s exactly what the whole thing felt like: her fault.
Like she wasn’t attractive enough or desirable enough or good enough.
Cameron tried so hard to reassure her that wasn’t the case—she was perfect, he told her, over and over again, everything about her was perfect—but Alex didn’t believe him.
She could still feel the tears from that night welling up in her eyes—and her Converse tennis shoes sinking into the grass—and the goose bumps on her arms—and the lump in her throat. And then, when their best laid “get laid” plan fell apart, it really did feel like the kind of thing that God or mean girls, or just about anyone, might want to laugh at.
It was awful.
“What happened, Al?” Layla asked softly, pulling Alex out of her head and back onto the trampoline.
“You want the full mental picture?” Alex managed to tease.
Of course Layla always wanted the full mental picture.
And so Alex told her.
Everything.
She told her about that cold night and Cameron’s warm breath. About the sharp rocks. And the soft grass. And her sinking sneakers. And the way Cameron’s embarrassed eyes had glowed in the dark. “But then, after all of that . . . he just couldn’t get it in.”
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