Firsts (8 page)

“Number fifteen is hot,” Faye says. “And he keeps looking at you.”

I cast a glance at Angela, who is picking her fingernails. Most girls would be jumping at the chance to lay claim to the team superstar, but Angela says nothing.

“That’s Charlie,” I say. “Angela’s boyfriend. He’s looking at her.”

Faye nods appreciatively. “Nice work, Angela,” she says. “Your boyfriend has great footwork.”

When the game is over, Charlie gestures for us to come down to the field. He wraps Angela in a sweaty hug, which she looks more disgusted by than anything.

“Ouch,” I say, pointing out a bloody patch of skin on Charlie’s calf muscle. “That looks like it hurts.”

Charlie shrugs. “That Ridgewood guy was an asshole. I’ll make sure he gets what he has coming to him.” The sun glints in his eyes. He’s smiling, but I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

I pull my cardigan tightly around my shoulders, aware of a chill building at the base of my spine. Faye drapes her arm around my neck like we have been friends for years, not one day.

“So, which one’s your boyfriend?” she says. “Please, tell me it’s that young Antonio Banderas over there who keeps checking you out.”

I follow her gaze to the edge of the field, where a guy with black curly hair is indeed staring in our direction. When I meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away, so I do. I don’t like when guys stare like that. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I wonder exactly how much they know.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I tell her.

“Not even Chemistry Boy?”

“Nope.”

“Come on. No lab partner is that upset to move desks. Something must be going on.”

I grit my teeth. “I said no. He’s just some guy who happened to sit beside me.”

She doesn’t take the hint. “Come on. So he’s not an ex? A fling? Not even a drunken mistake?”

I shake my head. “None of the above. Just a chemistry partner, and I did the work anyway.”

In other words, end of story.

She bites her lip. “Well, want to grab a bite to eat? I’m starving.” She stretches her arms over her head, revealing an expanse of flat tanned stomach. Her belly button is pierced. I try not to notice, just like I try not to notice the beginning—or end—of a tattoo snaking out of her waistband when she turns around. But I guess I don’t do a very good job of not noticing.

“I made some bad decisions the summer before ninth grade,” she says with a smirk. “My mom wanted to kill me.”

I force a smile, but the effort leaves my face strained. I clutch my own stomach instinctively. Faye isn’t the only one who made bad decisions the summer before ninth grade. Except the bad decisions she made are ones Kim would have gotten on board with. I remember my first day of tenth grade, which Kim wanted to commemorate with mother-daughter eyebrow rings. That was the month she dated the drummer in some band and wanted to seem edgier. Thankfully, we never went through with it.

Somehow I don’t think Kim would agree with my bad decisions, and I’ll never give her a chance to know about them.

I tell Faye I’m not feeling so well and head to the parking lot. I don’t know why she has decided to be friends with me, out of all the people at Milton. She’d fit right in with the bubbly-perky-C-cup-plus cheerleaders, or the preppies, or even the drama geeks. Anybody but me.
Pick someone else
, I want to scream.
I’m damaged goods
.

All I want to do is go home and be alone. Except when I get to my Jeep, somebody is waiting there for me. The curly-haired guy from the soccer game, the one who was staring at me.

“You should be driving a faster car,” he says, pushing his foot against the tire of my Jeep. “How about a ride?”

“You should be taking the bus home,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’m not a carpool service. Especially for people I don’t know.”

He leans in. I reach into my purse for my keys, unsure whether I’ll use them to open my car door or stab him in the eyeball.

“I did not mean that kind of ride,” he says, his thick accent punctuated with a nervous giggle. “I am sorry. Forgive my bad joke.”

“What is it you want?” I say, thinking I might already know. “Because you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I want to give you my virginity,” he says. “If you’ll take it.”

I almost break out laughing. He says it so casually, like he’s offering me some kind of gift. Except I don’t laugh, because for some people sex is a gift. For some people, it’s special. Even sacred. I stopped thinking of it that way long ago. For me, it’s just science, formulaic elements combined together for an end result.

“What makes you think I’d be interested?” I say. I want to sound calm and collected, but my voice is rising. This guy is on the soccer team. Charlie is on the soccer team. If Charlie ever found out what I did, he would tell Angela. And if Angela found out, the one friendship that has gotten me through high school would be over.

“I hear about you from my friend. Trevor.”

I narrow my eyes, resolving to give Round Two a talking-to if we’re ever alone together again. Apparently he has a different concept of discretion than I do.

He bites his bottom lip, causing it to turn a cherry red shade. Despite my objections, this guy is attractive, and I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips.

“Tell me in one word why I should help you,” I say.

“One word. Isabella.” He sounds out each syllable, making the name sound impossibly exotic.
Is-a-bell-a
. “I love her. But I did not tell her she is my first kiss. And my first girlfriend. When Trevor tells me what you do for him, I have to seek you out.” He lowers his voice. “I love her.”

I look into his eyes. He does love this Isabella. He would be number twelve.
Twelve
. I can no longer pretend I haven’t crossed the ten line. But I can’t bring myself to walk away from this guy. Trevor shouldn’t really count. Round Two was a mistake, a mistake made when I was feeling especially vulnerable. I let my own agenda get in the way. I can make up for it with the guy standing in front of me, chewing his lip.

“Go home and shower, then come and see me.” I give him my address before getting into the Jeep, before I can chicken out. As I drive home, my hands are shaking and my heart is pounding. I’m exhibiting all of the telltale signs of being excited about something. When I first started doing this, I felt wary before each encounter, almost scared. My hands would tremble when I unbuttoned a guy’s fly and my legs would shiver when I climbed onto a lap. But somewhere between five and ten, this started happening. The sense that it’s not just for them anymore. The knowledge that I like it, too. The fear that I want more out of it than all of them combined can give me.

And if all of them combined can’t give me what I want, I’m scared to find out what will.

10

“I showered,” he says when I open the door to him waiting in full-on formal wear: a dress shirt, dress pants, and a tie, almost like this is a date. “And I brought you these.” He pulls a bouquet of red roses from behind his back.

He smells like too much cologne, but that’s better than pulling down a guy’s underwear right after he was at practice. I know from experience, unfortunately. The Nervous Giggler neglected to tell me that he “didn’t have time” to shower, which led me to gently inform him that I “didn’t have time” to tell him all the reasons why he would stay a virgin forever if he said that again.

“You’re charming,” I say, taking the flowers. “Charming works on your girlfriend, but not me.” My voice is sarcastic, but I’m a little bit touched. I have never received flowers from a boy before. Actually, I have never received flowers from
anybody
before. I want to put them in water and inhale their scent, but this would weaken me, so I toss them at the foot of the stairs instead as I lead him to my room.

His name is Juan Marco Antonio, which makes me a bit wary. His three first names and lack of a real last name make me nervous. Unfortunately, after my experience with William Malcolm, aka the Biter—who had two first names and zero idea that biting is not considered appropriate unless discussed beforehand—I don’t exactly have high hopes. I try not to put any bias on one guy due to a negative encounter with another, but it’s difficult to shake off the baggage sometimes.

It just so happens that Juan Marco Antonio is my very first exchange student. I learn this by looking him up on Facebook before he comes over, where I also learn that his home city is Madrid and he loves taking photos of himself. He isn’t in any of my classes, but I sense he is the target of much female attention, probably due to his newness and his sexy Spanish accent. So far, his relationship status shows that he is committed to this Isabella, even though I recognize her from my American History class last year and I’m pretty sure her real name is just plain Isabelle.

“Isabella is like the sun that shines over me. I want to please her. Show me how.” He stares up at me from where he is already lying on my bed.

This is the other thing that’s unsettling about Juan Marco Antonio. I find it extremely difficult to believe he’s a virgin and that he hasn’t tried to get Isabella into bed already. I wonder why a guy who looks like Juan Marco Antonio would need my help at all. He is beautiful, with molten chocolate eyes fringed by thick black lashes. And even if he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, his accent alone should be enough to get him a girl. But he doesn’t want to get a girl. He wants to keep her.

“I want Isabella to come back and meet my family,” he tells me.

“One step at a time,” I say, slipping into my walk-in closet.

I think the most unsettling thing about Juan Marco Antonio is that I don’t know how to read him. If I don’t know how to dress up for a guy at first, I almost always know by the time he has strung together a few sentences and made himself at home on my bed. But not Juan Marco Antonio. My trusty black negligee won’t do for him, and I don’t want to go the slutty cheerleader route for fear of offending his precious
Isabella
. Juan Marco Antonio seems too sophisticated for an oversized men’s shirt, and too foreign to appreciate boy shorts and a matching camisole.

For Juan Marco Antonio, I might have to break out the leather. It’s my hardest outfit to get into but the one that has the best chance of making Juan Marco Antonio the hardest. Although that’s never really a problem for any virgin.

But when I come out from the closet, he isn’t looking at me. He’s rummaging around in my nightstand.

“What exactly are you looking for?” I half shout from across the room. Nobody looks through my stuff.
Nobody
.

“I’m just searching for, you know, a rubber,” he says, turning to look at me. “Wow. You are so very beautiful.”

I put one leg up on the side of the bed and bend over it, giving him a view of where my breasts are bulging out of the leather straps binding them in. I might not be able to read Juan Marco Antonio, but I’m banking on the fact that he will respond to the universal language of cleavage.

And I’m right. His hands are out of the clutter on my nightstand and on my breasts in a second. Just when I think this might not be so bad after all, he has a very strange request.

“I want to blindfold you,” he says. “I always wanted to blindfold someone.”

I raise my eyebrows. It’s nice to know that I can still be surprised.

“I don’t think so. I’d like you to keep your hands where I can see them.”

“But it’s my first time,” he says, curling his lips into an exaggerated pout. “I want it to be very memorable for me.”

I scrutinize his face, the way he combs his curly hair off his forehead. I don’t like the way he smells, like he bathed in Armani Code, and I don’t like his odd request. But he has a point. It’s his first time, not mine.

“Fine,” I say. “But one weird move and I’ll be tying you up instead, and you won’t like it.
Comprende
?”

Some girls might like being blindfolded or tied up, but I’m not one of them. Being restricted or cut off from any one of my senses freaks me out. He uses his tie to cover my eyes, which I hate even more because it reeks of his cologne. I try to hold back my panic. Did he wear that tie with this idea in mind? How much thought has this guy given to me, considering I only just met him?

“Such a pretty girl,” he says, trailing his fingers down my arms. “Beautiful.”

I can feel his fingers on my skin, but nothing else. He doesn’t move in for a kiss, or make any moves to disentangle me from my leather bindings.

“There’s nothing wrong with going slow,” I say, hating the shrill tone that my voice has taken on. “But go too slowly and a girl might think you fell asleep on her.” I suddenly wish I would have gone with Faye after the game and not found myself in this predicament. My breath starts to get shallow. With any luck, he’ll think I’m turned on, not terrified.

“I certainly have not fallen asleep on you,” he says, and suddenly I feel the weight of him on my upper body, pushing me onto the bed. I immediately flip him off me and accidentally punch him in the chin.

“Whoa, Don Juan. Word of advice: never do that to a girl.” I rip off my blindfold and brush my hands through my hair, aware that they’re shaking.

“Please forgive me,” he says. “I did not mean to disrespect you.”

At this point, I don’t want to sleep with him at all, so I do something I have never done before. I turn him down.

“You should go,” I say. “I don’t feel right about this. I’m sorry.” I hand his tie back to him, expecting him to get off my bed and scamper away. But he just stares at me, unblinking.

“Please,” he says, pouting his lips like a girl. What a turnoff.

“I’m sorry,” I say again through gritted teeth, wondering why I’m apologizing and why my voice doesn’t sound authoritative like I want it to. I’m so good at ordering guys around in my bedroom. Why am I so bad at ordering one out of it?

“Look. Mercedes,” he says, his voice more like a purr. “I do not want to come across as, what you Americans say, an asshole.” He rolls the tie around in his hand and peeks at me from under his eyelashes. “But Trevor told me a lot about you. He said you would do anything to help guys like us.”