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I DIDN’T START OUT MY JUNIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL planning to lose my virginity to Benjamin Easter—a senior—at his parents’ cabin in Island Park underneath a sloppily patched, unseaworthy, upside-down canoe. Up to that point in my life, I’d been somewhat of a prude who’d avoided the outdoors, especially the wilderness, for the sole purpose that I didn’t want to be eaten alive.
I’m from Idaho. The true West. And if there’s a beast indigenous to North America that can kill you, it probably lives here. My whole life, well-meaning people have tried to alleviate my fear of unpredictable, toothy carnivores.
But I was never fooled by the pamphlets handed to me by tan-capped park rangers during the seven-day camping trip that my parents forced upon me every summer. The tourist literature wanted you to believe that you were safe as long as you hung your food in a tree and didn’t try to snap pictures of the buffalo within goring distance. Seriously, when in the presence of a buffalo, isn’t any distance within goring distance?
And they expect intelligent people to believe that a bear can’t smell menstrual blood? A bear’s nose is more sensitive than a dog’s. Every Westerner knows that. In my opinion, if you’re having your period and you’re stupid enough to pitch a tent in Yellowstone Park, you’re either crazy or suicidal. Maybe both.
It’s clear why losing my virginity outdoors, in the wilderness, with Benjamin Easter should be taken as an enormous shock. I could have been eaten by a mountain lion, mauled by a grizzly bear, or (thanks to some people my father refers to as “troublemaking tree huggers”) torn to pieces by a pack of recently relocated gray wolves.
Of course, I wasn’t. To be completely honest, I may be overstating the actual risk that was involved. It happened in December. The bears were all hibernating. And the event didn’t end up taking that long. Plus, like I already said, we were hidden underneath a canoe.
But the fact that I lost it in a waterproof sleeping bag on top of a patch of frozen dirt with Benjamin Easter is something that I’m still coming to terms with.
I can’t believe it. Even though I’ve had several days to process the event. I let a boy see me completely naked, and by this I mean braless and without my underpants. I let a boy I’d known for less than four months bear witness to the fact that my right breast was slightly smaller than my left one. And would I do it again?
We did do it again. After the canoe, in the days that followed, we did it two more times. I remember them well. Honestly, I remember them very well. Each moment is etched into my mind like a petroglyph. After the third and final time, I watched as he rolled his body away from mine. With my ring finger, I tussled his curly brown hair. Then, I fell asleep. When I woke up, Ben was dressed again, kissing me good-bye. I find myself returning to this moment often. Like it’s frozen in time. Sadly, you can’t actually freeze time.
Last night, Ben told me, “You’re acting outrageous.” He said this while inserting a wooden spoon into the elbow-end of my plaster cast. He was trying to rescue the hamster. The hamster had been my idea. I’d just bought it for him. I wanted him to take it to college and always think of me, his broken-armed first love. But the rodent had weaseled its way into my cast. I hadn’t realized that hamsters were equipt with burrowing instincts. I also had no idea how to make a boy stay in love with me. Hence, the pet hamster.
It’s been hours since I’ve talked to Ben. Since the hamster episode. And the argument that followed the hamster episode. That night Ben told me to stop calling him. He was serious. I told him to have a happy New Year. And he hung up on me. The boy I’d lost it with in a sleeping bag in the frozen dirt had left me with nothing but a dial tone.
I swear, the day I woke up and started my junior year of high school, Benjamin Easter wasn’t even on my radar. I didn’t know a thing about leukemia. And because I was raised by deeply conservative people, who wouldn’t let me wear mascara or attend sex education classes at Rocky Mountain High School, I wasn’t even aware that I had a hymen or that having sex would break it.
Actually, in the spirit of full disclosure and total honesty, I should mention that my parents only became born again rather recently, at about the time I hit puberty, following a serious grease fire in the kitchen. Before that, they only ventured to church on major holidays. Hence, my life became much more restricted and we gave up eating deep-fried foods.
The day I started my junior year, I woke up worrying about the size of my feet. Once dressed, looking at myself in my full-length bedroom mirror, they struck me as incredibly long and boatlike. I squished them into a pair of shoes I’d worn in eighth grade, brown suede loafers. They pinched, but gave my feet the illusion of looking regular-size instead of Cadillac-size. Then I noticed a newly risen zit. Of course, under the cover of darkness, it had cowardly erupted in the center of my forehead. I held back my brown bangs and popped it. Then I dabbed the surrounding area with a glob of beige-colored Zit-Be-Gone cream.
I started the first day of my junior year of high school zitless and basically happy. I was sixteen and feeling good. I didn’t have any major issues. Okay, that’s not entirely true. For weeks I’d been growing increasingly concerned about Zena Crow, my overly dramatic best friend. She’d been going through a rocky stretch and had been talking incessantly about building a bomb. Not a big bomb. Just one that was big enough to blow up a poodle.
Kristen Tracy grew up in Idaho and has lived in many other places since, including Kalamazoo, Michigan. (She never committed any crimes while she was there.) She now lives in San Francisco, where she is busy writing and also not committing crimes. Her poems have received three Pushcart Prize nominations and have appeared in numerous literary journals. She coedited A Chorus for Peace: A Global Anthology of Poetry by Women (University of Iowa Press). She has a PhD in English from Western Michigan University.
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Also by Kristen Tracy
Lost It
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuter.com
Copyright © 2008 by Kristen Tracy
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Cara Petrus
Cover designed by Greg Stadnyk
Cover photograph copyright © 2008 by Howard Pyle
The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond.
First Simon Pulse edition February 2008
Library of Congress Control Number 2007934257
ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-5519-1 (print)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4424-5810-9 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4169-5519-4
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Crimes of the Sarahs Page 25