“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 those soulful green eyes without them.
There have been times when I’ve considered Raj. Considered kissing him. Considered him as a possible boyfriend. Weighed it over in my mind. How my body sometimes lights up around him. And then sometimes nothing. We tried it once. It was at a party. He was leaning against a wall. Just easy.
“I think we should kiss,” I said, real business-like. Big smile. He reached forward and took my hair in his hands, and I stepped forward into him. We kissed, and my heart stopped. I bit my lip. Covered my mouth. My hands shook. I looked up at him, his hair drooping in his face, those eyes.
“Nothing,” I said, stepping back. “Like kissing a wall.”
“Same,” he said. Those eyes, not off me once.
And we never talked about it again. I promised Sammi it was nothing. Just a drunken experiment.
Raj knows how I feel about Sean Nessel, anyway.
Felt. Fuck. Felt.
* * *
* * *
My dad smells like pot and patchouli. He must be so stressed out about this whole thing with me and Sean Nessel that he had to light a late-afternoon joint. He can’t even wait until I go to bed, which is when he usually gets high. This isn’t something we discuss. This is just something I am aware of. What would he say? “I smoke weed.” So I’ve figured out his I’m going to bed early is code for I’m getting high. Give your old man some space.
Raj tells me he’s been running in the neighborhood and he just thought he’d stop by.
My father pulls me into the hallway, and Raj waits outside. He hands me a white paper bag. “Aunt Marce dropped this off,” he says, his eyes so serious.
I open the bag and look inside. It’s a small mint-green box that says PLAN B. I look up at him, horrified. “Dad, oh my God.”
“Don’t oh my God me, Ali. You need to take this tonight.”
Plan B is the pill you take when you don’t want to be pregnant. Pregnant. The word makes me sick. I think of Sean Nessel. What he looked like. His face. His hair. I pinch the inside of my wrist until I can feel pain shooting down my hand.
My father sighs deeply. I can see how upset he is. And stoned. He keeps licking his lips.
“She said not to take it on an empty stomach,” he says. “Maybe have it with milk and cookies before bed. I don’t know.” And he shuffles off.
There’s a note on the box inside.
Ali, don’t worry about this being any more than a light period. You might get a little spotting. Some cramps. Take some Advil. You’ll be fine, I promise.
I love you,
Aunt Marce
I shove the bag in the bathroom, my eyes tearing up.
* * *
* * *
Raj and I wipe off the leafy lounge chairs out back. They’re moldy from the fall—no one’s cleaned them off in a while. I’m wearing black sweats and a black Pixies T-shirt, so I don’t care about getting all smudged. Besides, I feel so dirty still anyway. Sitting in sludge is somehow fitting.