Saturday afternoon, Anna comes over to help me get ready—Dad looks a little baffled when she shows up at the door, all highlights and lip gloss, the polar opposite of Ruby and Jonas. It takes four outfits before she gives a jean skirt and tank top the okay—the only thing about my outfit that stays the same are Ruby’s naughty panties, which, I’ll give her credit, are more comfortable than I had expected.
“You need some jewelry, though. What do you have?” Anna asks. Before I can answer, she’s delving into the open box of jewelry on my bathroom counter. She emerges with a pair of purple earrings that I’ve never worn because they’re exceedingly loud and tend to shed glitter onto my shoulders.
“That works,” I say, stepping forward to look at myself in the mirror.
“Can I borrow these?” Anna is holding a set of plastic rings that Jonas once bought for me at a cheap costume-jewelry store for Christmas. It was right when I began wearing jewelry more often, so I wore them to prevent him from thinking he’d wasted his money—not because I like them. Anna, however, has a pleading look on her face, like I might not let her out of my house with my precious plastic rings.
“Sure,” I say. Anna jumps up and down briefly, grinning. I try to ignore the twang of regret I get when I see Jonas’s rings on her fingers.
“Let’s go, then! Are you ready for this?” she says, sounding way too much like that sports-game song for my comfort.
“I guess,” I say.
Anna drives a much nicer car than Lucinda—something shiny and silver that her parents got her for her birthday. She even has pink windshield-washer fluid. She turns the music up loud and whips the car around corners like a race-car driver. This is the sort of situation that school administrators warn you about, I think.
Ben Simmons lives on the outskirts of town, in a house that sits on a lot of land. That’s probably good, because it means his neighbors can’t hear the pumping of the bass or shrieks of flirtatious teenage girls that pollute the air when we arrive. The doors are open, letting light flood the front yard. Inside I see half the school dancing or drinking happily. Anna looks at me eagerly, like I should comment on the great work of art before me. I nod and try to look enthusiastic; Anna responds by parallel parking in the worst way, leaving half of her silvery car in the middle of the street. She doesn’t fix it—instead, she leaps from the driver’s side and beckons me forward, like a girl calling a reluctant puppy.
Anna grabs my hand as soon as I’m within her grasp and practically pulls me to the house. Right before we get to the front door, she drops it, inhales, fixes her hair, and grins excitedly at me.
“Ready?”
“Sure.” I guess.
We walk in through the door, and it’s sensory overload. Music is pounding, the scent of perfume and sweat and summer and alcohol is heavy in the air, and there are people—so many people—packing into every corner of the house. Their conversations mix together into a steady hum broken apart only by the shouts of guys arguing and giggles of girls hopped up on wine coolers. I scan the room until my eyes land on the party’s host.
Ben Simmons is tall and lanky and—weirdly enough—looks a little bit like the gloriously Caucasian Jesus from the church preschool room. He has long hair that he ties back in a low ponytail, bright blue eyes, and chiseled features that you can tell are going to help him hold on to his looks well past his teen years. And he has skin so flawless that if he doesn’t use seventeen kinds of skin-care products, then there’s no justice in the world. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I’m about to try to sleep with Jesus from a Proactiv commercial.
“Go talk to him,” Anna says.
Suddenly I can’t move. I’m not really smitten with Ben Simmons, but that doesn’t mean I’m good to march up to him and say, “Mind having a one-night stand with me, Mr. Jesus?” At least with Daniel I felt semi-in-control.
“Take this,” Anna says. She grabs two Jell-O shots off a tray sitting on top of the television and hands them to me. I gulp down both, grimacing as the bite of vodka makes it past the cherry Jell-O flavor. It doesn’t make me feel any more confident, despite Anna’s encouraging look.
“Here,” Anna says. She swallows a Jell-O shot of her own. “I’ll help.”
She grabs my hand and leads me over to Ben, touching his arm lightly. “Hey, Ben, you remember Shelby—”
“Shelby!” he says. “Wow, haven’t talked to you in ages!”
“Hey, I’m gonna go get beers—anyone want any?” Anna asks cheerily. Ben and several guys around him nod and Anna hurries away like a barmaid.
I sit on the edge of a coffee table because there’s nowhere else vacant.
“I didn’t know you came to parties,” Ben says.
“Just not my thing, usually,” I say, though I wonder what his definition of party is. Apparently it means “party he’s at” because I’ve been to a few smaller get-togethers. Much, much smaller. And much, much less alcohol was involved.
“Cool,” Ben says. “So, what kind of stuff are you into these days?”
“Uh, I dance a lot,” I say, thinking of my time at Madame Garba’s. I don’t think one class qualifies as “a lot” but what am I supposed to say? I eat at Flying Biscuit a lot? I’m plotting to lose my virginity? I kind of stole a car?
Ben tilts his head to the side. “Really? You want to dance, then? We have a charming dance floor over by my mom’s collection of vintage clown statues.”
Shit. Should’ve seen that coming.
I think I’m way too white to dance to this music. And it’s definitely not a waltz.
Say no. Cite some crazy foot injury or something. Pulled a muscle. Had too much to drink. Fear of clown statues. Artificial toes. Anything. Say no, my brain repeats.
“Sure!” my mouth says.
I really need to get my brain and mouth on the same page.
What’s done is done—Ben tilts his head for me to follow him to the clown-statue dance floor. I try to watch the other girls dancing, both with one another and with mesmerized-looking guys, hoping I can grab a few tips before I’m forced to start. It seems simple—lots of grinding, basically. I’ve seen enough music videos to get the idea.
Ben puts his hands on my hips like it’s nothing, and I fight to ignore the nerves that are leaping up in my chest. We begin to move to the music, and I try hard not to count the beat out loud. Someone passes with another tray of Jell-O shots—I grab one. Come on, Shelby. You have to do this—you’ve got to persuade him to sleep with you somehow.
I’m not as bad as I anticipated. I watch myself as best as possible in the reflection of the TV. I’m not good, by any means—I try to do this move that the cheerleaders seem to have perfected, where they shake their hips and sort of shimmy at once. I abandon that one—it looks more like I’m having a seizure than it does sexy. But that move aside, it’s not so bad. Ben doesn’t walk away, in the very least, and as the night wears on and I get more brazen, I draw closer to him.
“Want to get out of here?” Ben suddenly leans in and asks me.
Yes. Finally. I don’t have it in me to dance another hour. I nod.
Ben takes my hand and leads me upstairs. I catch Anna’s eyes briefly, and she grins at me. It’s quieter up here; the noise downstairs is muffled and deadened. Ben doesn’t turn on the lights, and the sound of our combined breathing becomes louder as we make our way down the hall. When we reach the last door, he grabs a key ring out of his pocket—there’s a dead bolt on his bedroom door.
“Pretty intense lock,” I say, somewhat drunkenly. I’m at that stage where I don’t quite think before I speak, it seems. I’m glad I cut myself off when I did.
“Yeah, I put it on a few years ago, both to keep my parents out and to keep the revelers downstairs from having sex on my bed,” he laughs softly. I notice the master bedroom door is wide open.
“So, here we go,” Ben says, swinging open the door. His room is small, with a queen-size bed resting unmade in the corner. The walls are covered in theater-performance posters, and the entire room smells a little bit like the drama department’s dressing rooms—of cologne and dirty laundry, but not in an entirely unpleasant way.
Ben walks in first. I follow, shutting the door behind me, then clutching my purse to my chest like I’m cold instead of nervous. He sits on the edge of the bed, but I stay standing, pretending to be enthralled by his poster collection.
“So these are, um, all the plays you’ve been in?” I ask.
“Yep,” Ben says, extending a long arm to pull me toward the bed by my jean skirt belt loops. I stagger forward obediently.
“That’s a lot of plays,” I add. He lifts the corner of my shirt and kisses the side of my stomach. The place tingles, a sensation that spreads around my body in a matter of seconds.
“It is,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my skin. He tugs me downward gently, but I tumble onto the bed as if he’d yanked me there.
“I, um…” I begin a sentence, but I have no idea where I’m going with it.
“Come on,” he says gently, easily, like he’s said it a thousand times before—a confidence that, oddly enough, doesn’t dissuade me.
“Okay,” I answer breathlessly, dizzy from alcohol and the close scent of his skin. With Daniel, I was the one driving, I was the one leading things. But with Ben, he’s in control, a gentle sort of power that I like.
He kisses the side of my stomach again and begins to move up. Remember the Promises, remember the Promises. Ben’s hand slides down my side and comes to rest on my hip. He moves it up again, this time reaching under my shirt.
Come on, Shelby. Do this, I tell myself in a voice that sounds a lot like Ruby’s. I grab the edge of my shirt and yank it over my head. Ben’s eyes widen and a schoolboy-type grin spreads across his face.
“Shelby…” he says almost accusingly. “God, if I’d only known—” And then he eagerly grabs for the buttons on my skirt.
God, if he’d only known. Seems appropriate that a guy who looks like Jesus would reference God while trying to undress a girl. Or maybe horribly inappropriate. I need to remember to tell Jonas about the Jesus comparison; it’ll crack him up.
“Here,” I say, and swing down to where I dropped my purse on the floor. I dig through it quickly, before emerging with a “strawberry sensations” condom. I kiss Ben and press it into his hand.
“A condom?” Ben asks. I nod and move to kiss him again. He backs up. “Aren’t you on birth control or something?”
“Um… no.”
“Oh. Most girls are these days. Well, when was your last period?”
Let me log it away that there is nothing—nothing—more unsexy than talking about your bleeding vagina. Seriously—nothing more unsexy. The warm, dizzy sensation is swept away and replaced by the realization that his room is a bit chilly.
“A few weeks ago?” I say hesitantly; my face heats up in embarrassment.
“Then we don’t have to use a condom anyway,” Ben says, a grin replacing the concerned look on his face. He pulls me closer, but the heat of his body isn’t warming; it’s invasive. Ben tosses the condom over me onto the floor.
“Wait, uh—” I don’t get to answer, as his lips are on mine again. They’re persuasive, convincing, and I don’t protest when he slides a hand down the front of my underwear. But then he presses toward me, and I feel the erection under his pants. I snap out of the lull.
“You have to wear a condom,” I say, thinking of the LOVIN rules and my own desire to not have to explain to Dad how I got pregnant.
“I don’t like condoms,” Ben says, his voice a little irritated. “Trust me, it’s better without them.”
“No,” I answer, this time firmly. I focus on the words must wear condoms on Jonas’s list, like they’ll give me power. “Seriously, I’m not on birth control and I just don’t want to risk it.” Fear of pregnancy seems kinder than saying “Who knows what I could catch from you.”
“Okay, okay, how about this—I’ll pull out beforehand.”
Um. Ew.
“Come on,” I plead, trying to sound sexy or desirable or anything but frustrated. “Just wear it, and we can have sex. It’ll be great.”
“I hate condoms.”
We stare at each other, and suddenly the passion filters away. I don’t feel warm and dizzy; I feel annoyed and irritated. Ben contracts away from me so we’re barely touching. I stand up so quickly that my vision blacks out for a second, then grab my shirt. I ignore the burning of tears in the corners of my eyes.
“Where are you going?” Ben asks as I begin trying to negotiate my skirt back up my legs.
“I’m leaving,” I huff, leaving off the bit “before I cry, you jackass.”
“Come on, Shelby,” he says. “We can just kiss or do other things. We don’t have to have sex.”
“All I wanted to begin with was to have sex,” I snap back. Ben looks taken aback, both delighted and confused by a girl saying that to him. I don’t give him any clarity, though, and I grab my purse as I work an arm through the strap of my tank top. Something is welling up inside me, something angry and hurt and bitter. Before Ben can say anything else, I fling open the door to his bedroom and make my way down the hall.
There’s a bathroom at the far end. I swing into it and lock the door. A coconut-scented jar candle is burning, and it provides all the light I need. I sit on the edge of the bathtub and stare at the blue and violet seashells that adorn the shower curtain.
Guy number two, failed. At least this one wanted to have sex with me, I try to tell myself, but a deep feeling of failure is rising through my chest and into my throat. A choked sob emerges but doesn’t become full-fledged tears. I’m still willing to have sex, but still unable. I suck.
Dumbass Jesus look-alike. Just as disappointing as the one painted in the church classroom. No wonder I like the historical Jesus Jonas described to me better—dark hair, dark eyes, bearded, more Persian than Caucasian. I wonder if he ever tried to have sex. Was he human enough for that? You’re not supposed to think about that, I guess, the same way you aren’t supposed to think about your parents having sex.
How is it possible that God understands what’s best for me, what I should or shouldn’t do, if he isn’t human? If he hasn’t loved someone, hasn’t lost someone, hasn’t wanted someone? Why did I reach out for him when the world crumbled, out for the hand of some being who doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a mother?
Because I was told he’d have the answers. I was told he was what I needed, when what I really needed was Mom. What I really needed was a person, a real person, not an invisible being, who could show me that everything would be okay again, that I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life crying. A person like Mom.
A person like Dad, I think. I’ve always thought Mom was the only one keeping the ground from crumbling, but maybe Dad was part of the glue holding it together, too. Maybe he needed someone to grab onto as badly as I did.
A sharp rap at the door scatters my thoughts.
“Shelby? It’s Anna! Are you okay? Open the door!”
I inhale the scent of coconut, trying to clear the misery from my head. I rise and open the door. Anna prances in, slams the door behind her, and locks it. She lowers the toilet lid and sits down, crossing her legs and leaning forward, first with enthusiasm, then concern when she sees my face.
“What happened? Are you okay? You look upset,” Anna says, and her eyes are so genuine that it almost takes me by surprise.
“Nothing happened,” I say with a shrug. “I’m not upset. I mean, I am, but… never mind. Nothing happened.”
“Because if he did anything, you tell me, Shelby. I can start a rumor about him having crabs or something. I’m great at rumors,” she says, looking proud.
I laugh but shake my head. “It’s okay. Really. I wanted to have sex with him, but he wouldn’t wear a condom, so I said no.”
Anna nods. “Naturally. Ugh, I hate it when guys are like that. I don’t get what the big deal is about condoms.”
“Me neither,” I say. “Especially when I was practically throwing myself at him. I mean, it’s just a condom!”
“I got lucky,” Anna says. “First time I had sex, it wasn’t an issue at all. I mean, he actually had condoms. I didn’t need to bring them. They were even the ‘for her pleasure’ type.”
I raise an eyebrow—it’s not exactly surprising news to hear Anna isn’t a virgin, but it’s still a tidbit I didn’t know. “Who was it with?” I ask.
Anna frowns at me, uncrosses her legs, and sits back. “I… oh.”
“What?”
“I just thought… I dunno, I thought you knew.”
“No,” I answer, sighing and trying to hide my irritation that Anna thinks everyone else keeps hookup charts with the intensity she does.
Anna bites her lip, squirms, then speaks. “Sorry, Shelby. I really thought he’d have told you. I mean, God, he tells you everything.”
Wait. Something in my stomach tightens. My head feels hot and my throat thick.
“Who was it, Anna?” I ask.
Anna shrugs and picks at the toilet seat cover for so long that I want to scream. Just say it, Anna. Say it.
“Jonas.”