Shane says, “See you there, babe.” And then, to prove to myself and Mr. Russo and everyone else at Mary Grove High that I am an actual living, feeling person, I do something I never do—I kiss him, right there in the school hallway.
When we break apart, he leans in and I feel his breath in my ear. “I can’t wait.” And I know he thinks—hopes—we’re going to have sex. The same way he’s been hoping for the past two months that I’ll finally decide my days of being a virgin are over and “give it up to him.” (His words, not mine. As if somehow my virginity belongs to him.)
I say this to Saz at lunch, and she laughs this booming, maniacal laugh, head thrown back, dark hair swinging, and raises her water bottle in a mock toast. “Good luck to you, Shane!” Because we both know there’s only one boy in Mary Grove, Ohio, I want my first time to be with, and it isn’t Shane Waller. Even though I tell myself maybe one day he’ll say something so exceptionally funny and I’ll get so lost in the smell of his neck that I’ll change my mind and sleep with him after all. Just because I don’t think Shane’s the one doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be.
I say a version of this out loud. “You never know. He can be really funny.”
Saz says, “He can be kind of funny.” She gathers her hair—heavy and straight and the bane of her existence—up on her head and holds it there. She is always cutting it off and growing it back, cutting it off and growing it back.
“Would it be so bad for Shane to be my first?”
Our friend Alannis Vega-Torres drops into the seat next to me. “Yes.” She digs a soda and protein bar out of her bag and tosses Saz a couple of hair ties. “By the way, it doesn’t count as losing your virginity if your hymen doesn’t break. I bled buckets my first time.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “Hymens don’t actually break. That’s a big, fat, ignorant myth. Not everyone bleeds, and besides, not everyone has a hymen. Don’t be so heteronormative. Virginity is a bullshit social construct created by the patriarchy.” Saz holds up her hand and I high-five her. As much as I completely, one hundred percent believe this, I’m still desperate to have sex. Like, right now.
Our other friend, Mara Choi, throws herself down across from Alannis, cardigan buttoned up wrong, tampons and lip gloss spilling out of her backpack because—except when she’s in the presence of her traditional Korean grandmother—she lives in a constant state of chaos. She disappears under the table, gathering the things that fell. She says from under it, “Fun fact: Did you know you can order hymens on the internet? There’s this place called the Hymen Shop that claims they can restore your virginity in five minutes.” She pops back up, picks up her phone, and immediately starts googling.
“The hell?” Saz rolls her eyes at me like, These two.
I look at her like, I know, as Mara starts reading from the Hymen Shop website. “Says here they use medical-grade red dye that looks just like human blood. Oh, and they are the ‘original and most trusted brand of artificial hymens.’ ”
Saz says, “What a thing to be known for.”
Alannis says, “That’s nothing. I read somewhere that girls in China pay seven hundred dollars to have their hymens surgically rebuilt.”
I stop eating because, sex-obsessed as I am, the idea that you could place a price on virginity is, to put it mildly, insane. I say, “This whole concept is so antiquated. As if all that matters is penis-plus-vagina sex. Something like twenty percent of Americans identify as something other than completely straight, so why are we still so focused on a woman’s first time with a man? And why is a girl’s virginity such a big deal anyway? People don’t get excited about a straight guy having sex. It’s all high fives and ‘Now you’re a man.’ They don’t sit around wringing their hands and searching the internet for replacement parts.”
Saz snorts. I’m on a roll.
“And another thing. Have you ever thought about the way people talk about virginity? As if it’s owned by other people? Someone ‘takes it,’ and suddenly it becomes theirs. Like it’s something we give away, something that doesn’t belong to us. She lost it. She gave it up. Popping her cherry. Taking her virginity. Deflowering—”
“Deflowering?” Mara stares at me over her phone. “Who says deflowering?”
“Virgins.” Alannis raises her perfectly groomed eyebrows at me. Alannis Gyalene Catalina Vega-Torres has been having sex since ninth grade.
“Why do you always single me out?” I wave pointedly at Saz, my partner in virtue. When we were ten, Saz and I promised to celebrate every one of life’s milestones at the same time, including falling in love and having our first real relationship—which would, of course, include sex—so that we would never leave each other behind. It was our way of making sure we always put each other first and never let anyone come between us. Alannis pats my arm like I’m a poor, confused child.
Mara’s face is back in her phone. “It’s only thirty bucks to ‘turn back the clock and bring the va-va-voom back to the bedroom.’ ” And that’s it. We fall apart at this.
Saz sings out, “To va-va-voom in the bedroom!” The four of us clink cans and bottles.
And then we forget all about artificial hymens and virginity and stare as Kristin McNish walks through the cafeteria like a perfectly timed public-service announcement, with her chin jutting out and an unmistakable bump around her middle.
* * *
—
At home, I dig through the laundry pile, but the Nirvana shirt is still nowhere to be found. I find a black minidress lying on my floor and settle for my dad’s Ramones shirt, which I throw on over it. For dinner, Mom and I order from Pizza King because Dad has a work thing and he’s the cook in the family, his specialty being elaborate meals paired with theme music and wine. Saz loves eating at my house because it’s almost always an event, but I love eating at hers. The Bakshis eat at the bar in the kitchen or in front of the TV—takeout, fast food, or Kraft macaroni and cheese, best thing on earth, something I never get at home unless I make it myself. My dad refuses to cook any food that requires you to add orange powder to it.
When I open the door to the delivery boy now, the one Saz calls Mean Jake, even though his name is Matthew and he isn’t mean at all, I’m like, “Well, hey, you,” as seductively as possible.
He goes, “We were out of ginger ale, so I brought you Sprite instead.”
* * *
—
Later that night, I lie in Trent Dugan’s hayloft, underneath Shane Waller, my senses in overdrive, lost in the heat of his skin and the smell of his neck. I’m thinking, Maybe this will be it. Maybe I’ll lose it right here, right now.