FIRSTS Stories: The Boys Tell All

FIRSTS: Chapter 2

My mom's car is still in the driveway when I head out the door in the morning, which means I have to maneuver my Jeep around it to avoid hacking a side mirror off. Despite the time it takes, I'm relieved. The obnoxiously yellow Corvette convertible in the driveway means my mom made a smart decision last night and didn't drive her car to happy hour at the martini bar. Kim's DUI last summer cost her a three-month license suspension and would have entailed a couple days in jail if not for her excellent lawyer. Kim would never admit it, but I know she's secretly proud of her DUI. Now she shares an extracurricular activity with D-list celebrities everywhere.

Needless to say, Kim fits in perfectly with the housewives of Rancho Palos Verdes, gossiping relentlessly and spending the money from her divorce settlement on expensive champagne and the kind of plastic surgery that everybody gets but nobody admits to. She blends in, but I can't wait to get out, and this particular morning marks the start of my last six months here. I know exactly where I'm going and how I'm getting there. Massachusetts Institute of Technology. MIT. The mecca, the holy grail of chemical engineering. It will be a fresh start, as far from Southern California as I can get, in a state where people wear black instead of pastels and the seasons actually change. My grades will get me in, and once I'm there, I'll work hard to stay there. No guys. No distractions. Nobody there will know who I am or what I have done or how many people I've slept with.

When I have safely cleared the driveway, I gun my Jeep down our suburban road, hoping to make up some time with my lead foot. Angela hates when anyone is late for prayer group, and I don't like making my best friend upset.

The great thing about getting to school this early is a guaranteed prime parking spot, which I slide the Jeep into. After a breathless run down the hall, I dump my extraneous textbooks in my locker. That's when I see it in my locker mirror—a small hickey at the base of my collarbone, no doubt Evan Brown's handiwork, most definitely unintentional. I swear under my breath and duck into the bathroom to cover it with a blob of concealer, knowing that despite my best intentions, I'm going to be late anyway. But covering this up is worth a scolding from Angela.

I rush into the library right when Angela is about to start reading. She smiles at me over her Bible and gives me a little shake of her head, almost like she expected me to be tardy. I take a seat beside Angela's boyfriend, Charlie, the only other person who attends prayer group on a regular basis. Charlie's eyes flicker over my face, and I swear they come to rest on the hickey, although I must be paranoid.

I met Angela at prayer group in grade nine, which I only started going to because Kim was pushing me to find a boyfriend and naturally, I told her I wanted to join a convent instead. Angela is why I kept the charade up. And this year, the bonus has been that it makes an excellent cover for my pay-it-forward scheme. Even if there were a rumor or two, who would suspect the girl who's almost a nun?

But I would never tell this to Angela. Angela thinks sex is a sacred gift that you only give to your husband on your wedding night. She has been dating Charlie for nearly two years, and the farthest they have gone is "petting on top of the clothes," and that was only the night he gave her a promise ring.

In today's prayer group, Angela has a revelation. Literally. As in, Revelation 1 of the Bible. "'I am the Alpha and the Omega,' says the Lord God, 'Who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.'" She asks what this means to us. Angela is big on making prayer group interactive.

Charlie spouts out something about the suffering of Christ, which I tune out. Who is, and who was, and who is to come. Angela would freak at my answer, because for me, that's a loaded sentence. Who is: today, Zach is. Who was: I would have to refer to the notebook I keep in my nightstand under the boxes of condoms. The notebook has a white pearly cover—it was a gift from Angela for my last birthday. Angela would be horrified that the pages are filled with details of my sex life, although I think of it not as a record of my conquests but a remembrance of my good deeds.