“You can tell me anything, Ali,” he says, his eyelids squinting open.
“I don’t want to say it,” I wail. “And I want you to shut your eyes!”
“You want to write it?” he says, and rummages for paper in the junk drawer, coming up with a pink Post-it Note and a pencil.
So I look at the paper. I squeeze my hands together.
This is what I write:
SEX
I push the paper close to him.
“Can I open my eyes?”
But when he opens his eyes, I’m going to be a different girl. I want to warn him. I’m not your daughter anymore. I used to be. Until last night.
“Ali—I’m opening my eyes.” And he does. He sees the note. Sighs. Rubs his fingers over his face. No matter how hard you rub, Dad, this isn’t going to go away. I feel bad for him actually. I want to hug him, apologize. Explain more.
He trails his finger over the paper and then flips it over. That word SEX is gone.
“Do you love this boy?”
I can’t talk now because I just told my father my biggest secret ever. And he’s a man. I can’t imagine what he thinks. My stomach knots up.
I shake my head. No.
“Does he love you?”
I laugh, tears spilling down my face. My body erupts into a crying fit, and I cover my eyes with my hands. I’m so ashamed. It was such a mistake. Such a stupid, stupid mistake. And now I’m going to pay for it forever.
My father comes around the table and kneels on the floor, wrapping his solid arm over my back as I grunt and snort.
“Is that why you mangled your bangs like that?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. Because it’s as good of a reason as any.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I scream. My face fires up, my whole body full of angry heat. But I can’t say any more. I’m not ready to. Because this is what it would sound like if I spoke: I didn’t want to have sex with him.
He cups my face in his hands like I’m a little girl again and I’m choking on something awful.
“Look at me, Ali,” he says. I stare at his furrow. “Are you telling me everything?”
“He’s never going to call me. He used me,” I say, stuttering. “That’s what I’m telling you. And now all the girls who drool over him are going to start bashing me on social media. I’m going to be the school slut, and you’re probably going to have to homeschool me.”
The TV is on in the other room. A breakfast cereal commercial. All the vitamins you need to live a healthy life.
Sammi texts again: Now?
No. Later.
I pray that my father doesn’t think I’m disgusting.
My father is processing this. This is what he tells me: “Of all the talks we had about sex. Of letting the first time be with someone you love and who loves you back. About drinking. I’m so open about all of it. And this is how it goes down?” he says. But he’s not asking me. This is a rhetorical rant to the teenage gods.
He needs to shut off the TV. He needs to process more. He’s not mad at me, he promises. I didn’t do anything wrong—though I beg to differ, because according to the laws in this country, I was drinking, like, a shitload. And though I have no problem admitting that yes, I will most likely drink again at some point soon before I reach the legal age of twenty-one (though never again around a boy I’m obsessed with), it was most certainly illegal.
He keeps telling me that it’s okay. But I’ve broken my father’s heart.
* * *
* * *
My father calms down. Apologizes for making me feel bad. But I know what it is. It’s not like he expected me to lose my virginity when I’m married or anything ridiculous like that. But he expected me to lose it to someone I at least had a relationship with. He expected something better for me than this. He holds me tighter and I snuggle into his armpit. He’s all soft under there.
* * *
* * *
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.