FIRSTS Stories: The Boys Tell All

FIRSTS: Chapter 1

Tonight, I'm doing Evan Brown's girlfriend a favor. An awkward, sweaty, fumbling favor. Melanie, or whatever her name is, owes me big time.

Except she'll never know it.

"Wait there," I tell Evan before slipping into my walk-in closet.

I sneak a glance back at him, at his crouched-over stance on the edge of my bed, his skinny shoulders hunched forward and his hands on his knees. He looks like he's getting ready to play a video game. I stifle a laugh. This is one level he won't beat on the first try.

When I'm carefully ensconced in my walk-in, I wiggle into a pair of pink satin boy shorts and a matching camisole. I know by the fear on his face and the smell of nervous sweat emanating from his armpits that Evan can't handle the black lacy negligee, and especially not the red slip, the one with the slit that goes all the way up.

I open the drawer containing my garter belts and collection of fishnet stockings, then close it again. Evan wouldn't know what to do with a garter belt or fishnet stockings, and it's not my intention to embarrass him any more than he already is.

I apply pink lipstick and leave my hair loose around my shoulders. It's wavy, still damp from the shower. Normally I'd flat-iron it into stick-straight submission, but this time, maybe I'll drop the getup. I rub the lipstick off, but the judgment in my eyes remains.

Evan will get what I'm most definitely not—the good girl.

"God, Mercy," he says when I emerge. His voice cracks and he blushes redder than his hair, which makes the pimples dotted across his cheeks stand out. Puberty wasn't kind to Evan Brown.

"Don't say that," I command, climbing onto his lap. His legs are trembling.

"Don't say what?" His voice is trembling too.

"Mercy. That's not my name."

"But that's what Angela calls you."

"Angela's my friend. You're not. You're somebody I'm doing a favor for. You don't have to call me anything. But if you want to, my real name will do."

"Mercedes," he says, squeaking out the extra syllables. "My mom always wanted one of those." He slaps his forehead. "Shit, I didn't mean to bring up my mom. I'm not thinking about her or anything." He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. "I just didn't think I'd be so nervous."

I used to like my name. Mercedes. That is, until I figured out I was named after a car. The shiny red car that my dad loved more than anything—the one he waved from as he drove away. I remember liking that car, too. My dad used to let me sit in the front seat and pretend to steer. "You're going to have a lead foot," he would say over my childish vroom, vrooms. "Somebody'll need teach you how to slow down." But he didn't stick around long enough for that person to be him.

Out of Evan's mouth, my name doesn't sound fancy or fast. It just sounds complicated, like he's trying to speak a foreign language. I guess for Evan, I am a foreign language.

I smile and run my fingers through his hair. Or at least I try to, but he put so much damned gel in it that my hand gets stuck.

"Don't worry about it," I say, wiping my sticky fingers on the back of his shirt. "Everyone gets nervous." I kiss his neck, where I can feel his pulse beating against his skin. I move my hands to the base of his T-shirt and pull it over his head.

"I brought these," he says, jamming his hand in his jeans pocket and pulling out a roll of condoms. There must be about ten of them. He attempts a smile, but it looks more like a grimace.