The general store is crowded with campers filling up the space with too-loud voices and sunburned bodies. I find a chair in the corner and wait for them to go, flipping through texts and social media. Wyatt, tanned and laughing, waterskiing at Whitewater State Park, swimming at the Municipool, drinking shots at Trent Dugan’s. He looks sun-kissed and happy, like someone in a movie. I think, He’ll be right at home in California.
Here’s a diatribe from Mara about the hymen company. Here’s Alannis with a hot lifeguard. Here’s Saz, who never puts her whole self in a picture. Instead she photographs different parts of her—hair, ear, chin, shoulder, elbow—depending on her mood. Her photos are almost always solo, just all the little pieces of Saz. But here’s a recent post of two foreheads, one dark, one fair, tilted together against a backdrop of sky as if they’re sharing secrets. The caption is one of my favorite quotes: And everything, absolutely everything, was there. Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine.
My heart moves into my throat and settles in as if this is its new home. I was the one who forced her to read Dandelion Wine. I was the one who wrote that quote in her last birthday card and told her it made me think of us when we first met, back when we were outsiders who hadn’t found our place.
I look up and the campers are gone. It’s just Terri and me.
I call Saz.
The phone rings and rings and rings. Just when it’s about to go to voice mail, she answers.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
A long time ago, after our first fight, we agreed we would always talk to each other, no matter how angry we were. No silent treatment, no ghosting.
She says, “I can’t really talk right now. Yvonne is here.” And then I hear Yvonne’s voice in the background.
I say, “That’s okay. I can’t talk either. A crowd of people just walked in and I can barely hear you.” I say it louder than I need to. Terri looks up from her book and frowns at me.
“I’ll talk to you later, then. Or maybe you should call Wyatt and talk to him.”
She hangs up on me. No I love you more than, no goodbye.
I sit staring at the phone. I’m still staring at it when a text comes through from—speak of the devil—Wyatt. Hey, beautiful, my family is going whitewater rafting in NC and I hope I can see you before then.
I think about writing him back. I start to, but I’m not sure what to say.
I’m pretty sure I won’t be home before your trip because I’m entombed on Godforsaken Island.
I wish I could kiss you. Although right now all I can think about is kissing Jeremiah Crew.
Sometimes at night I close my eyes and imagine you’re in my bed. When I’m not imagining Jeremiah Crew instead.
I delete every text because what’s the point? I’m trapped here for the summer and Wyatt Jones will probably be on his way to California by the time I’m back.
But there’s something else—there’s last night and Jeremiah Crew. There are all the things I told him and he told me. I’ve never done that with anyone other than Saz—essentially walked up to them and said, Here is me. All the messy, unattractive things that I keep locked up inside. Every last ugly, broken, complicated piece. And he didn’t bat an eye. He just opened his mouth and showed me some of his own messy pieces. And instead of running away, he kissed me.
* * *
—
In its 288 pages, The Joy of Sex contains a single page on virginity, which tells us that girls are less likely than boys to enjoy their first time and only a third of us will actually have a good experience. Which means that most of us are going to be extremely disappointed. But don’t worry, the book says—your literal first time doesn’t have to be the important one. Think of it more as a practice session, a technicality.
As much as I disagree with Dr. Alex Comfort on most things, I like the way he’s not putting a lot of expectation on a girl’s first time. When it happens, it can just be about checking off a milestone. Like getting your license or voting. It doesn’t have to be about anything more than that.
I walk back to Addy’s, pop on my headphones, and try to imagine it. For starters, there will definitely not be a