Firsts

by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn

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  For Steve—my last, my only, my everything

  1

  Tonight, I’m doing Evan Brown’s girlfriend a favor. An awkward, sweaty, fumbling favor. Melanie, or whatever her name is, owes me big time.

  Except she’ll never know it.

  “Wait there,” I tell Evan before slipping into my walk-in closet.

  I sneak a glance back at him, at his crouched-over stance on the edge of my bed, his skinny shoulders hunched forward and his hands on his knees. He looks like he’s getting ready to play a video game. I stifle a laugh. This is one level he won’t beat on the first try.

  When I’m carefully ensconced in my walk-in, I wiggle into a pair of pink satin boy shorts and a matching camisole. I know by the fear on his face and the smell of nervous sweat emanating from his armpits that Evan can’t handle the black lacy negligee, and especially not the red slip, the one with the slit that goes all the way up.

  I open the drawer containing my garter belts and collection of fishnet stockings, then close it again. Evan wouldn’t know what to do with a garter belt or fishnet stockings, and it’s not my intention to embarrass him any more than he already is.

  I apply pink lipstick and leave my hair loose around my shoulders. It’s wavy, still damp from the shower. Normally I’d flat iron it into stick-straight submission, but this time, maybe I’ll drop the getup. I rub the lipstick off, but the judgment in my eyes remains.

  Evan will get what I’m most definitely not—the good girl.

  “God, Mercy,” he says when I emerge. His voice cracks and he blushes redder than his hair, which makes the pimples dotted across his cheeks stand out. Puberty wasn’t kind to Evan Brown.

  “Don’t say that,” I command, climbing onto his lap. His legs are trembling.

  “Don’t say what?” His voice is trembling, too.

  “Mercy. That’s not my name.”

  “But that’s what Angela calls you.”

  “Angela’s my friend. You’re not. You’re somebody I’m doing a favor for. You don’t have to call me anything. But if you want to, my real name will do.”

  “Mercedes,” he says, squeaking out the extra syllables. “My mom always wanted one of those.” He slaps his forehead. “Shit, I didn’t mean to bring up my mom. I’m not thinking about her or anything.” He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “I just didn’t think I’d be so nervous.”

  I used to like my name. Mercedes. That is, until I figured out I was named after a car. The shiny red car that my dad loved more than anything—the one he waved from as he drove away. I remember liking that car, too. My dad used to let me sit in the front seat and pretend to steer. “You’re going to have a lead foot,” he would say over my childish vroom, vrooms. “Somebody’ll need to teach you how to slow down.” But he didn’t stick around long enough for that person to be him.

  Out of Evan’s mouth, my name doesn’t sound fancy or fast. It just sounds complicated, like he’s trying to speak a foreign language. I guess for Evan, I am a foreign language.

  I smile and run my fingers through his hair. Or at least I try to, but he put so much damned gel in it that my hand gets stuck.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, wiping my sticky fingers on the back of his shirt. “Everyone gets nervous.” I kiss his neck, where I can feel his pulse beating against his skin. I move my hands to the base of his T-shirt and pull it over his head.

  “I brought these,” he says, jamming his hand in his jeans pocket and pulling out a roll of condoms. There must be about ten of them. He attempts a smile, but it looks more like a grimace.

  “It’s always good to be prepared,” I say. “But save those for Melanie. I’m prepared, too.”

  I lean over and open my nightstand drawer, where the boxes are piled neatly like little soldiers. Ultra Thin, Ribbed for Her Pleasure, Second Skin, Magnums. I pull out an Ultra Thin. No matter what they think, most guys are Ultra Thins. Just enough for protection, no extra frills. This fact was drilled into me early. My mom started teaching me about birth control when other moms were still on tampons.

  Besides, Evan doesn’t look like a Magnum kind of guy.

  “How far have you got with Melanie?” I say.

  “Melody,” he says. “Melody—that’s her name. Not Melanie. Melody, like a song.” He looks down to where my cleavage is propped in front of his face. “She let me feel her up. And one time when her parents were out of town, we almost did it. We did other stuff.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “You’ve got to be more specific. Other stuff, like you’ve seen each other naked? Like you went down on her?”

  He nods and blushes an even darker shade of red. “But she didn’t want to go all the way. She wants it to be the best night of her life. So I have this whole thing planned, a dinner and stuff.”

  “Very romantic,” I say, smiling broadly. This is the reason I do what I do. “Sounds like you like her. And she likes you.”

  I love when guys take the time to make a plan. And even though Evan mumbled “a dinner and stuff” without making eye contact, I know he means much more. He took the time to know Melody, what she likes, and what will make her happy.

  “That’s the problem,” he says. “She says she loves me. She says because she loves me, she just knows I’m going to rock her world.”

  I nod. I understand this part. Melody sounds like every other girl, the kind who expects fireworks the first time. I know better. Fireworks don’t just happen. They need to be carefully arranged and then ignited slowly.

  Which is exactly what I’m doing for Evan.

  “But you don’t think you’re going to rock her world,” I say slowly. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “Well, yeah,” he says. “She’s way hotter than me. And my friend, Gus—he’s still with his girlfriend because of you.”

  I know exactly who Evan is talking about, except I remember him more by his nickname, the one I secretly gave him. The Crier. Gus was number six, the one who acted all tough and practically tried to instruct me—until he broke down and sobbed into my pillow afterward.

  I brace my hands against Evan’s shoulders. “Well, you’re a lot farther along than some people. You’ve already seen each other naked. You got that out of the way. For some people, that’s the most awkward part.” I slip the straps of my camisole down my shoulders. “Like now. What would you do if I was Melody?”

  “I’d tell you you were beautiful,” he says. “I’d ask if I could touch them.”

  “Right and wrong,” I say. “You’re always right to tell a girl she’s beautiful. But never ask if you can do something. Be bold, because confidence is one thing you can absolutely fake until you actually feel it.”

  Evan continues to stare at my breasts. He’s breathing heavy, and I can feel his erection through his jeans. Maybe Evan will need a Magnum after all.

  “So go ahead,” I say. “This is the place to make mistakes.”

  And he does—he makes
plenty of mistakes. He palms my breasts like they’re baseballs, slobbers on my neck, sticks his tongue halfway down my throat. They’re rookie errors, the kind most people don’t get right the first time. But that’s what I’m here for. I tell him to close his lips, follow the curves of my body with his hands, use his fingers to trace an outline for his tongue to follow. I teach him how to open the condom packet, how to pinch the tip before rolling it on to make sure all the air gets out. I dim the lights for the final act, help him guide himself into me, don’t chastise him for the first fifteen seconds of fumbling in the dark but give him credit for his improved technique in the last fifteen.

  But when he asks for a round two, I shake my head firmly. I have never allowed a round two. “Save it for Melody,” I say.

  He stretches out under the covers and turns his head on the pillow. His breath is still coming in ragged gasps. “Should I stay over?” he says. “We could do it again in the morning. I bet I’ll last longer.”

  I cover my breasts with my hands and stand up, searching for something to better cover myself with but only finding a sheer robe. I curse my lack of actual pajamas. This is the part I don’t like. In the dark, when I’m the one in control, even with everything on full display, I feel less naked than now. Then the lights come up and they want to talk. To ask questions. Questions I can’t answer for myself, let alone for them.

  “You’re not staying over,” I say, fastening the robe around my waist. “You’ll get there. Girls care less about that than you think. Especially in the beginning. You can work up to it together.”

  He grins. He looks different, more handsome somehow. In the softer light, his pimples aren’t as evident and his jawline seems more pronounced. One day, I think Evan Brown could even be a heartbreaker.

  But that day isn’t today.

  I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. “It’s a school night, Evan. Time for you to go. Your mother will wonder where you are.” Or I assume she would. Most mothers do. Not mine, of course.

  His grin turns into a frown. “Do I, you know, owe you something? I don’t know how this works…” His voice trails off.

  “You don’t owe me anything. Just be good to her, okay? Remember everything we talked about.”

  I know he will. He even took notes. Open her car door for her. Bring her flowers, not something generic like roses but her actual favorite flowers. Have dinner reservations in advance, not necessarily somewhere fancy but somewhere meaningful, like where you had your first kiss or where you realized you loved her. Kiss her, not just on her lips but in unexpected places. On the nape of her neck. On her forehead. On her wrist. Push her hair behind her ears gently. Take a picture. She’ll want to remember the night.

  I swallow against a lump that has risen up suddenly in my throat. It’s not that Evan is different—he’s a nice guy, a kid who loves his girlfriend and wants to please her. Maybe I’m the one who’s different. Maybe this speech is starting to feel too familiar. I told myself five favors for five deserving virgins. Five was the line I drew in the sand, and I trampled over it like it wasn’t even there. Evan is the tenth, and ten is a line I can’t just trample past.

  But I’m certainly not going to get into this with Evan, so I put on a fake smile. I gesture around the room at the chaise lounge and walk-in closet and floor-to-ceiling shoe rack. “Besides, I really don’t need your money. Spend it on Melody.”

  He pulls his boxers and pants back on. His movements are more measured, not the bumbling, terrified movements of the Evan Brown who entered my bedroom an hour ago. Even his voice seems deeper, like he came here a boy and is leaving as a man. I suppose that’s not far from the truth. I allow myself a little smile, a real one this time. It’s easy to reaffirm what I do. What happened to Evan in my bedroom will change him, make him into a more considerate lover, even a better boyfriend. Moments like these are what made that line in the sand so easy to obliterate.

  Moments like these, I could see an eleventh, even though I promised myself that’s not going to happen. I’m starting the second half of senior year with all of my good karma already under my belt.

  “I don’t know where you came from, but you saved my life, Mercy. I mean, Mercedes. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  “You would’ve ripped five condoms by accident, and you might’ve drowned the girl in saliva. But now, you’re going to nail it. Literally.”

  He tugs his shirt over his head. “When Gus told me how you helped him, I didn’t believe it. But he was right—you’re an angel.” He pauses. “But can I ask you—”

  I cut him off midsentence. “No, you can’t. Don’t spoil it.”

  “But you didn’t even let me finish,” he protests.

  “Oh, I let you finish,” I say. “The one thing you can do for me is not ask me any questions.”

  He nods. “Fair enough.”

  “Goodnight, Evan,” I say.

  “Goodnight, Mercy. Uh, Mercedes.” He gets to my bedroom door and pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

  “This won’t be awkward at school tomorrow, will it?” he says, looking back at me.

  “Of course not,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “It’s not going to be awkward at all, because what happened in this room becomes just a figment of your imagination the second you walk out that door.”

  He gives me a tight-lipped smile and pulls the door shut after him. I can see his shoes underneath, can tell he’s lingering there, wondering if he said too much or not enough, not entirely convinced that his secret is safe with me.

  But he has nothing to worry about. His secret, like those of nine of his fellow seniors, is safe with me. At Milton High, I’m my own statistic. People fail to see the great equalizer, the one thing the band geeks, the drama nerds, the jocks, and the preppies all have in common.

  Me—Mercedes Ayres.

  The girl who took their virginity.

  2

  My mom’s car is still in the driveway when I head out the door in the morning, which means I have to maneuver my Jeep around it to avoid hacking a side mirror off. Despite the time it takes, I’m relieved. The obnoxiously yellow Corvette convertible in the driveway means my mom made a smart decision last night and didn’t drive her car to happy hour at the martini bar. Kim’s DUI last summer cost her a three-month license suspension and would have entailed a couple days in jail if not for her excellent lawyer. Kim would never admit it, but I know she’s secretly proud of her DUI. Now she shares an extracurricular activity with D-list celebrities everywhere.

  Needless to say, Kim fits in perfectly with the housewives of Rancho Palos Verdes, gossiping relentlessly and spending the money from her divorce settlement on expensive champagne and the kind of plastic surgery that everybody gets but nobody admits to. She blends in, but I can’t wait to get out, and this particular morning marks the start of my last six months here. I know exactly where I’m going and how I’m getting there. Massachusetts Institute of Technology. MIT. The mecca, the holy grail of chemical engineering. It will be a fresh start, as far from Southern California as I can get, in a state where people wear black instead of pastels and the seasons actually change. My grades will get me in, and once I’m there, I’ll work hard to stay there. No guys. No distractions. Nobody there will know who I am or what I have done or how many people I’ve slept with.

  When I have safely cleared the driveway, I gun my Jeep down our suburban road, hoping to make up some time with my lead foot. Angela hates when anyone is late for prayer group, and I don’t like making my best friend upset.

  The great thing about getting to school this early is a guaranteed prime parking spot, which I slide the Jeep into. After a breathless run down the hall, I dump my extraneous textbooks in my locker. That’s when I see it in my locker mirror—a small hickey at the base of my collarbone, no doubt Evan Brown’s handiwork, most definitely unintentional. I swear under my breath and duck into the bathroom to cover it with a blob of concealer, knowing that
despite my best intentions, I’m going to be late anyway. But covering this up is worth a scolding from Angela.

  I rush into the library right when Angela is about to start reading. She smiles at me over her Bible and gives me a little shake of her head, almost like she expected me to be tardy. I take a seat beside Angela’s boyfriend, Charlie, the only other person who attends prayer group on a regular basis. Charlie’s eyes flicker over my face, and I swear they come to rest on the hickey, although I must be paranoid.

  I met Angela at prayer group in grade nine, which I only started going to because Kim was pushing me to find a boyfriend and naturally, I told her I wanted to join a convent instead. Angela is why I kept the charade up. And this year, the bonus has been that it makes an excellent cover for my pay-it-forward scheme. Even if there were a rumor or two, who would suspect the girl who’s almost a nun?

  But I would never tell this to Angela. Angela thinks sex is a sacred gift that you only give to your husband on your wedding night. She has been dating Charlie for nearly two years, and the farthest they have gone is “petting on top of the clothes,” and that was only the night he gave her a promise ring.

  In today’s prayer group, Angela has a revelation. Literally. As in, Revelation 1 of the Bible. “‘I am the Alpha and the Omega,’ says the Lord God, ‘Who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.’” She asks what this means to us. Angela is big on making prayer group interactive.

  Charlie spouts out something about the suffering of Christ, which I tune out. Who is, and who was, and who is to come. Angela would freak at my answer, because for me, that’s a loaded sentence. Who is: today, Zach is. Who was: I would have to refer to the notebook I keep in my nightstand under the boxes of condoms. The notebook has a white pearly cover—it was a gift from Angela for my last birthday. Angela would be horrified that the pages are filled with details of my sex life, although I think of it not as a record of my conquests but as a remembrance of my good deeds.