I try to lighten the mood. “Well, this shaving/waxing thing doesn’t make any sense, because boys also seemed to be grossed out by vaginas. It’s like an insult now. You’re such a vagina. Your face looks like a vagina.”
Afton snorts. “Like the penis is so attractive. You know that phase where boys draw penises on everything?”
“That’s a phase?”
“You’re right. It might not be a phase. They always think it’s so funny, drawing that, but if girls went around drawing pictures of vaginas, everybody would be horrified. Vaginas are no laughing matter.”
My vagina definitely doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like a goddess who occasionally demands a blood sacrifice.
“But you should still probably shave,” Afton says. Then she also makes me commit to going underwear shopping first thing in the morning. She finishes up her big-sister advice session by telling me about some kind of how-to sex website that Afton swears is a total game-changer that I flat-out refuse to investigate.
“Some things should just come naturally,” I say as I rummage through my closet, holding up various tops while Afton gives each a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. “Without, you know, like an app.”
Afton makes a face at the next top I show her. “No. Definitely not that one.”
“I like this one,” I protest. It’s a purple tee with various pens and pencils drawn on the front, along with the words, “Draw, Paint, Create.” “It’s like my favorite shirt.”
“It’s not even a little bit sexy.” Afton reaches into the closet around me and pulls out another shirt, this one wine-colored with a V-neck that I didn’t even remember I owned. “This would look amazing on you. It’ll set off the hidden red tones in your hair.”
I close the closet door to access the full-length mirror on the back of it. We both examine our reflections for a minute. Afton is too skinny, Pop regularly says. Which we all know is not really a thing. I can’t help but focus on my own image in the mirror behind my sister. I’m horrifyingly tall—I’ve been five eleven since I was thirteen, looming over the other students in my class. Wide shoulders. No hips to speak of. Legs like tree trunks. Also, I’m not skinny. I’m not overweight, according to my parents, who are both health-care professionals. I am simply, for lack of a better term, “big boned.”
So Afton took after our gorgeous and enigmatic mother, and I took after our father, the caveman. Life is unfair.
I take the wine-colored tee from Afton and hold it up to my chest. “Weird. There are red tones in my hair.” Normally I just think of it as being the color of straw.
“See? You’re not the only one with artistic ability,” Afton says.
“I guess not.”
“Wear it with the jean shorts,” she adds. “And put on some mascara. Waterproof, in case you cry or something.”
“Why would I cry?”
“It hurts the first time.”
Oh. Right. “How bad is it?”
Afton shrugs. “I don’t know how well you tolerate pain. On a scale of one to ten, I’d give it a six. But I’m such a delicate flower, as you know.”
I try to imagine a part of my body tearing. I’m not even sure that’s what really happens down there, or what the point is. The most I know about the hymen is that it’s named after the Greek god of marriage. That’s seriously messed up. I begin to feel nervous again. What is my tolerance for pain?
“It’s normal pain, though, right?” I say. “Everybody has sex.”
“Not everybody,” says Afton faintly.
“Right. Not old people.”
Afton stifles a laugh. “I think old people do occasionally have sex, Ada.”
“Stop. You’re ruining it.”
Afton grabs my hand. She’s being uncharacteristically serious about this all of a sudden. “All I’m saying is, you can wait, if you want.”
I pull my hand away. “What, you don’t think I’m mature enough?” This is something we argue about a lot, whether I’m “old enough” to do certain things that Afton does.
Afton sighs. “You’re not immature. You’re just sixteen, and—”
“But you think you were more mature when you were sixteen.”
“I think my first time was a mistake,” Afton says softly.
I stare at her. “You do?”
“Come on, it was ridiculous,” Afton admits. “It was in a garage. It wasn’t romantic or sweet or special. And my second time, I—” She gets that look like she tastes something terrible. “Sometimes I want to have a long talk with sixteen-year-old me and tell her to make better choices.”