* * *
Later, in my bed, Sammi’s texts firing away, wanting details, wanting information, and every text I get from her, there’s a part of me that expects it to be Sean Nessel. Isn’t that crazy? That every time my phone buzzes, I think it’s going to be him saying, “I’m sorry.” Or “I was really drunk.” Or something. Anything.
I know this isn’t good. I know that I shouldn’t be having these thoughts.
Because he held me down. He put his hand over my mouth. I shouldn’t want this person to be in my thoughts. Rainbows, sunsets, roses. I stretch my arms at the sky. Why do I still see forever in his stupid eyes? I have to see gray. I have to see black.
Sammi texts me again because this is Sammi: impatient and persistent.
What the fuck? You’re freaking me out. Just come over.
“I’m going to Sammi’s house,” I yell to my father, and before he can say anything, I’m out the door, on my bike. Riding into the wind.
* * *
Sammi’s mother is making lasagna when I get there because it’s Sunday, and this is what mothers do when they live in your house and are not having a nervous breakdown in the desert. Speaking of mothers, I still have to call mine back.
We sit on Sammi’s bed staring at each other. Neither of us saying anything. Her eyes bugging out. Too wide and scared.
“What did you do to your hair?”
I cover my forehead with my hands, flinching. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
But Sammi pushes and pushes, her eyes flaring. She wants to know about my bangs. Wants to know what happened last night. She’s relentless.
I crawl under her sheet. Hold it over my head.
“Holding a sheet over your head isn’t going to stop me from harassing you.”
“I can’t say it, otherwise,” I say from under the sheet.
I crunch the sheet in my hand. But it’s not enough. I want to suffocate under here. I shove the pillow to my face and scream.
“Ali? What the hell?” Sammi practically climbs on top of me. “What’s going on?”
“I sort of had sex with him.” I’m still under the sheet.
We had this whole plan about how we were going to talk to each other about when we lost our virginity. That we’d call or text even if we were, like, lying romantically in front of a fire with the guy, the imaginary boyfriend. That was the plan, and now I feel so bad that I fucked it up. Because I was so eager to go upstairs with Sean Nessel. I was so eager to give him everything.
“Wait, what? I knew you went upstairs with him, but sex? Actual sex? Is that why you ran out?”
Cherie busts into Sammi’s bedroom. I can see her shadow in the door.
“Why are you screaming like that?”
“It’s Ali. She’s under the covers.”
“Ali? We can see you under there,” Cherie says. “What the hell happened to you last night?”
I whip the sheet off my head, wrap it around my shoulders.
“She had sex.”
Cherie sits on the bed. “Nessel?”
I nod my head.
“Don’t question her, Cherie.”
“Sean Nessel is freakishly good looking, but the guy has a shit reputation,” Cherie says. “Everyone knows it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have warned you.”
“I already knew about him. Nothing would have changed my mind. I followed him up there like an idiot.”
I wish I was just the girl who had sex with Sean Nessel. Rather than the girl who was . . . I can’t say it. I can’t say it because if I say it, it’ll be real.
“Look, Ali. You’re a girl who chose to have sex, or whatever. Who gives a fuck who you fuck? Anyway, when you get to college, forget it. Everyone has sex with everyone.”
I shudder, thinking of Sean’s hands all over me. The blood on his jacket.
“I’ve practically slept with half the guys in my dorm,” Cherie says.
“Wait, what?”
“I’m just kidding. But seriously. If I wanted to, whose business is that? Anyway, if you’re fine with it, then that’s between the two of you,” she says. “Are you fine with it?”
Am I fine with it?
Cherie was Miss Cheerleader–Key Club–Peer Leadership–School Spirit Girl all through high school. Something changed last year when she was a senior. She was done with cheer. Done with the C-wing bathroom, which is basically Invite Only. She joined the Feminist Club, started preaching to us about Tarana Burke, Liz Phair, and Kathleen Hanna. Now she’s a women’s studies major. Cherie really went after the Core Four when she was a senior. Rumor is that Cherie told Blythe group names are a sign of insecurity.
When Sammi and I asked her about it, she went silent, which was weird at the time because Cherie told us everything. “I don’t want to talk about those girls,” she’d say, until finally she told us this: “There’s a lot that those girls have done to get accepted in this school. Stuff that no one should have to do.”
I like to make fun of Cherie—as in “Oh, Jesus, no bong hits until we recite some feminist manifesto or learn the lyrics to Bikini Kill’s ‘Rebel Girl,’” but I know she’s right.
My vagina and my body are mine.
Am I fine with it?
I’m not at all fine with it.
I chose to do this with Sean Nessel.
Well, not really.
Well, not at all.
* * *
At dinner with Sammi’s family. Mom. Dad. Sammi. Cherie. Pretend like everything is fine. Please pass the red pepper flakes. Yes, thank you, it was delicious. Sorry I didn’t eat all of mine. I guess I wasn’t that hungry. How am I? I’m great. I’m great. I’m fine.
* * *
Back on my street, just as I turn the corner, my bike light shining on the leaves, I see my dad in the doorway talking to Raj.
Raj is standing there all sweaty as I get closer. No glasses on. His face is flushed. And though I love his glasses, you can really see
