Firsts

by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn

  I open my mouth to say something, but Faye interrupts. I don’t know what I would have said anyway. I didn’t think my new chemistry partner would be so much like my old one, full of sexual innuendos and with total disregard for the lesson plan.

  “So, what do you guys do for fun around here?” Faye asks.

  “Depends on what you’re into.”

  “Well, what’re you doing this weekend? I could do it with you.” She bites her bottom lip.

  I shrug, feeling a flush creep up my neck and wishing she would stop looking at me like that. Is she flirting with me, or Zach? I recognize in her all of Kim’s go-to moves. The lip biting, the hair flipping, the eyelash batting. Except Faye does them much better, with curiosity instead of desperation. If she is flirting, she’s doing a better job of it than I ever could. She’s all soft lines and finesse, where I’m sharp edges and instructions. She’s subtle, where I’m just blunt.

  And I don’t like it.

  “I’m studying with my friend,” I say quickly. “She needs tutoring.” I gesture toward Angela, who is shying away from her lab partner’s hand-wringing proclamations.

  “I need some tutoring, too,” she says. “What time should I come over?”

  I adjust my safety goggles and pretend to be studying the formula in my notebook. This is why I like chemistry: everything is straightforward; everything comes from directions. The end result only becomes an end result because of steps one to five and won’t happen if any of the steps are missed or done out of order. Most people follow some sort of formula, too, or make some degree of sense. You can’t be a football captain without putting in the work—going to practice, eating right, getting enough sleep, lifting weights. You can’t be a math whiz without studying the material and putting in the time. I stereotype the guys I sleep with for a reason, because people’s personalities develop from a routine, too.

  Faye seems not to follow a formula. And it’s extremely unnerving.

  “Come over at noon,” I say. “Bring your books. And be ready to work. I don’t mess around.” My voice sounds harsh, but Faye doesn’t seem to notice. I almost want to shake her to drill my point across. I don’t need another friend. Angela was my only one, until Zach insisted on becoming one, too. The more friends you have, the higher your chance of taking a knife in your back.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Faye smile. Her teeth are perfect, either from genetics or years of braces. I self-consciously run my tongue over my teeth. I have always hated the two beside my front ones, which I think look like little fangs. Even Zach commented on them during sex. His exact words were, “You should role-play as a vampire. That would be hot.”

  I wonder what Zach thinks of Faye’s smile. Yet another thing about her that one-ups me.

  Our science project erupts in front of us before bubbling over.

  “I think ours just came,” Faye says.

  9

  I’m almost grateful to Angela for dragging me to Charlie’s soccer game after school the next day, more for the distraction than anything else. But considering Angela is generally against all organized school activities (with the exception of prayer group, which she conceived of in the first place anyway), I’m a bit surprised that she has decided to become Charlie’s cheerleader from the stands after two years of not going to a single game.

  “It’ll be fun,” she says, but her tone of voice implies she’s getting a root canal, not watching her boyfriend kick a ball around.

  We take a seat in the first row of bleachers. I want to sit at the very back, just like I do during classes, but Angela won’t let me. “Charlie wants to make sure he can see me,” she says, tugging at her frayed shirtsleeves and squinting into the sun. “Except I can barely see what one he is. Why are they all wearing the same outfit?”

  I smile and put my arm around her shoulder. “Because they’re on the same team, Ange. They’re uniforms, not outfits. And if you can’t see what one Charlie is, you probably need your glasses.”

  Since I haven’t ever seen a school soccer game, either, I don’t know what soccer players are supposed to look like. But if I had to go by the preconceived notion I have in my head, they would all look exactly like Charlie. Tall and sinewy with lean muscles, with a faint hint of a tan from playing outside. The cheerleaders are stretching on the sidelines but keep whispering in a clump and pointing at him. Angela claims she doesn’t notice the way girls look at her boyfriend, but I don’t see how she’s that blind. She really should start wearing her glasses.

  Even if Angela can’t see a thing, Charlie sees us. He keeps casting glances in our direction, along with winks meant just for Angela. When he scores a goal, he looks up to make sure she sees it, his face a mask of concentration and pride. I feel a pang of envy in spite of myself. Charlie and Angela have the kind of connection that you can almost physically feel. The kind of connection I have only felt with one person, who never felt it with me.

  “This seat taken?”

  I use my hand as a visor and look to where the voice came from, but Faye has already plopped down beside me and dropped her messenger bag almost directly on my foot.

  “You’re Angela, right? I’m Faye,” she says with a wave to Angela. “Mercedes’s new lab partner.”

  Angela smiles shyly. “I know,” she says. “You’re lucky. Mercy is the best lab partner ever.”

  Faye drops her gaze on my face. In the bright light, her eyes are a watery blue.

  “Mercy,” she says. I look down at my feet. I have never heard my name said like that before, almost like a little sigh instead of a name.

  She points to the field. “I always thought soccer was an underrated high school sport. The players always have nice legs. And they have all their teeth!” She taps her fingers against her denim-clad thighs.

  None of us says anything as we watch the action on the field. Faye starts moving her hands and arms subtly when the cheerleaders do their lame sideline dance. She’s mimicking their motions exactly.

  “Looks like you missed tryouts,” I say.

  But Faye just smiles brightly. “I was a cheerleader at my old high school,” she says. “We all think we have an original routine, but really it’s all a perpetuation of the same cliché.”

  I want to ask her why she left her old high school. But the question seems so blunt and would probably seem like an accusation leaving my mouth. There are only two reasons why somebody would do that. One involves a parent getting a job in a new city, and the other involves trouble. The kind of trouble you can’t hide from.

  “Number fifteen is hot,” Faye says. “And he keeps looking at you.”

  I cast a glance at Angela, who is picking her fingernails. Most girls would be jumping at the chance to lay claim to the team superstar, but Angela says nothing.

  “That’s Charlie,” I say. “Angela’s boyfriend. He’s looking at her.”

  Faye nods appreciatively. “Nice work, Angela,” she says. “Your boyfriend has great footwork.”

  When the game is over, Charlie gestures for us to come down to the field. He wraps Angela in a sweaty hug, which she looks more disgusted by than anything.

  “Ouch,” I say, pointing out a bloody patch of skin on Charlie’s calf muscle. “That looks like it hurts.”

  Charlie shrugs. “That Ridgewood guy was an asshole. I’ll make sure he gets what he has coming to him.” The sun glints in his eyes. He’s smiling, but I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

  I pull my cardigan tightly around my shoulders, aware of a chill building at the base of my spine. Faye drapes her arm around my neck like we have been friends for years, not one day.

  “So, which one’s your boyfriend?” she says. “Please, tell me it’s that young Antonio Banderas over there who keeps checking you out.”

  I follow her gaze to the edge of the field, where a guy with black curly hair is indeed staring in our direction. When I meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away, so I do. I don’t like when guys stare like that. It doesn’t happen often,
but when it does, I wonder exactly how much they know.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I tell her.

  “Not even Chemistry Boy?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come on. No lab partner is that upset to move desks. Something must be going on.”

  I grit my teeth. “I said no. He’s just some guy who happened to sit beside me.”

  She doesn’t take the hint. “Come on. So he’s not an ex? A fling? Not even a drunken mistake?”

  I shake my head. “None of the above. Just a chemistry partner, and I did the work anyway.”

  In other words, end of story.

  She bites her lip. “Well, want to grab a bite to eat? I’m starving.” She stretches her arms over her head, revealing an expanse of flat tanned stomach. Her belly button is pierced. I try not to notice, just like I try not to notice the beginning—or end—of a tattoo snaking out of her waistband when she turns around. But I guess I don’t do a very good job of not noticing.

  “I made some bad decisions the summer before ninth grade,” she says with a smirk. “My mom wanted to kill me.”

  I force a smile, but the effort leaves my face strained. I clutch my own stomach instinctively. Faye isn’t the only one who made bad decisions the summer before ninth grade. Except the bad decisions she made are ones Kim would have gotten on board with. I remember my first day of tenth grade, which Kim wanted to commemorate with mother-daughter eyebrow rings. That was the month she dated the drummer in some band and wanted to seem edgier. Thankfully, we never went through with it.

  Somehow I don’t think Kim would agree with my bad decisions, and I’ll never give her a chance to know about them.

  I tell Faye I’m not feeling so well and head to the parking lot. I don’t know why she has decided to be friends with me, out of all the people at Milton. She’d fit right in with the bubbly-perky-C-cup-plus cheerleaders, or the preppies, or even the drama geeks. Anybody but me. Pick someone else, I want to scream. I’m damaged goods.

  All I want to do is go home and be alone. Except when I get to my Jeep, somebody is waiting there for me. The curly-haired guy from the soccer game, the one who was staring at me.

  “You should be driving a faster car,” he says, pushing his foot against the tire of my Jeep. “How about a ride?”

  “You should be taking the bus home,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’m not a carpool service. Especially for people I don’t know.”

  He leans in. I reach into my purse for my keys, unsure whether I’ll use them to open my car door or stab him in the eyeball.

  “I did not mean that kind of ride,” he says, his thick accent punctuated with a nervous giggle. “I am sorry. Forgive my bad joke.”

  “What is it you want?” I say, thinking I might already know. “Because you’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “I want to give you my virginity,” he says. “If you’ll take it.”

  I almost break out laughing. He says it so casually, like he’s offering me some kind of gift. Except I don’t laugh, because for some people sex is a gift. For some people, it’s special. Even sacred. I stopped thinking of it that way long ago. For me, it’s just science, formulaic elements combined together for an end result.

  “What makes you think I’d be interested?” I say. I want to sound calm and collected, but my voice is rising. This guy is on the soccer team. Charlie is on the soccer team. If Charlie ever found out what I did, he would tell Angela. And if Angela found out, the one friendship that has gotten me through high school would be over.

  “I hear about you from my friend. Trevor.”

  I narrow my eyes, resolving to give Round Two a talking-to if we’re ever alone together again. Apparently he has a different concept of discretion than I do.

  He bites his bottom lip, causing it to turn a cherry red shade. Despite my objections, this guy is attractive, and I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips.

  “Tell me in one word why I should help you,” I say.

  “One word. Isabella.” He sounds out each syllable, making the name sound impossibly exotic. Is-a-bell-a. “I love her. But I did not tell her she is my first kiss. And my first girlfriend. When Trevor tells me what you do for him, I have to seek you out.” He lowers his voice. “I love her.”

  I look into his eyes. He does love this Isabella. He would be number twelve. Twelve. I can no longer pretend I haven’t crossed the ten line. But I can’t bring myself to walk away from this guy. Trevor shouldn’t really count. Round Two was a mistake, a mistake made when I was feeling especially vulnerable. I let my own agenda get in the way. I can make up for it with the guy standing in front of me, chewing his lip.

  “Go home and shower, then come and see me.” I give him my address before getting into the Jeep, before I can chicken out. As I drive home, my hands are shaking and my heart is pounding. I’m exhibiting all of the telltale signs of being excited about something. When I first started doing this, I felt wary before each encounter, almost scared. My hands would tremble when I unbuttoned a guy’s fly and my legs would shiver when I climbed onto a lap. But somewhere between five and ten, this started happening. The sense that it’s not just for them anymore. The knowledge that I like it, too. The fear that I want more out of it than all of them combined can give me.

  And if all of them combined can’t give me what I want, I’m scared to find out what will.

  10

  “I showered,” he says when I open the door to him waiting in full-on formal wear: a dress shirt, dress pants, and a tie, almost like this is a date. “And I brought you these.” He pulls a bouquet of red roses from behind his back.

  He smells like too much cologne, but that’s better than pulling down a guy’s underwear right after he was at practice. I know from experience, unfortunately. The Nervous Giggler neglected to tell me that he “didn’t have time” to shower, which led me to gently inform him that I “didn’t have time” to tell him all the reasons why he would stay a virgin forever if he said that again.

  “You’re charming,” I say, taking the flowers. “Charming works on your girlfriend, but not me.” My voice is sarcastic, but I’m a little bit touched. I have never received flowers from a boy before. Actually, I have never received flowers from anybody before. I want to put them in water and inhale their scent, but this would weaken me, so I toss them at the foot of the stairs instead as I lead him to my room.

  His name is Juan Marco Antonio, which makes me a bit wary. His three first names and lack of a real last name make me nervous. Unfortunately, after my experience with William Malcolm, aka the Biter—who had two first names and zero idea that biting is not considered appropriate unless discussed beforehand—I don’t exactly have high hopes. I try not to put any bias on one guy due to a negative encounter with another, but it’s difficult to shake off the baggage sometimes.

  It just so happens that Juan Marco Antonio is my very first exchange student. I learn this by looking him up on Facebook before he comes over, where I also learn that his home city is Madrid and he loves taking photos of himself. He isn’t in any of my classes, but I sense he is the target of much female attention, probably due to his newness and his sexy Spanish accent. So far, his relationship status shows that he is committed to this Isabella, even though I recognize her from my American History class last year and I’m pretty sure her real name is just plain Isabelle.

  “Isabella is like the sun that shines over me. I want to please her. Show me how.” He stares up at me from where he is already lying on my bed.

  This is the other thing that’s unsettling about Juan Marco Antonio. I find it extremely difficult to believe he’s a virgin and that he hasn’t tried to get Isabella into bed already. I wonder why a guy who looks like Juan Marco Antonio would need my help at all. He is beautiful, with molten chocolate eyes fringed by thick black lashes. And even if he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, his accent alone should be enough to get him a girl. But he doesn’t want to get a girl. He wants to keep her.<
br />
  “I want Isabella to come back and meet my family,” he tells me.

  “One step at a time,” I say, slipping into my walk-in closet.

  I think the most unsettling thing about Juan Marco Antonio is that I don’t know how to read him. If I don’t know how to dress up for a guy at first, I almost always know by the time he has strung together a few sentences and made himself at home on my bed. But not Juan Marco Antonio. My trusty black negligee won’t do for him, and I don’t want to go the slutty cheerleader route for fear of offending his precious Isabella. Juan Marco Antonio seems too sophisticated for an oversized men’s shirt, and too foreign to appreciate boy shorts and a matching camisole.

  For Juan Marco Antonio, I might have to break out the leather. It’s my hardest outfit to get into but the one that has the best chance of making Juan Marco Antonio the hardest. Although that’s never really a problem for any virgin.

  But when I come out from the closet, he isn’t looking at me. He’s rummaging around in my nightstand.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” I half shout from across the room. Nobody looks through my stuff. Nobody.

  “I’m just searching for, you know, a rubber,” he says, turning to look at me. “Wow. You are so very beautiful.”

  I put one leg up on the side of the bed and bend over it, giving him a view of where my breasts are bulging out of the leather straps binding them in. I might not be able to read Juan Marco Antonio, but I’m banking on the fact that he will respond to the universal language of cleavage.

  And I’m right. His hands are out of the clutter on my nightstand and on my breasts in a second. Just when I think this might not be so bad after all, he has a very strange request.

  “I want to blindfold you,” he says. “I always wanted to blindfold someone.”

  I raise my eyebrows. It’s nice to know that I can still be surprised.

  “I don’t think so. I’d like you to keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “But it’s my first time,” he says, curling his lips into an exaggerated pout. “I want it to be very memorable for me.”