Virgin(73)
A line from my childhood flashed into my head. I used to love reading What Katy Did Next, when I wasn’t reading Pollyanna or Anne of Green Gables. My favorite Katy line was when she got jealous of her friends: How heavily roll the wheels of other people’s joy.
That was my life. Emma’s joy was rolling very heavily over me. What was wrong with me? I should be happy for my friend, just like she was happy for me. Instead I was being typically selfish and wishing Jack would ask me if we could be exclusive. I sighed and forced myself to be a grown-up. I hugged Emma.
“Uff, what’s this for?” she asked, her voice muffled as she spoke through the holes in my scarf.
“It’s a congratulations hug. And a thank-you hug, for listening to all my crap about Jack. I promise I’ll stop soon.”
She laughed. “Um, please don’t stop. Where else would I get such brilliant stories about bad waxes and awkward dates?”
I shrugged. “Meh. I guess you have a point. Did I tell you Jack had never seen a Brazilian before?”
Her eyes widened. “No way! He didn’t like the Hitler?”
“Only I’m allowed to call it that,” I barked. “But yes . . . he was freaked out by it.” She started to laugh and I scowled in response. “Emma,” I moaned. “Do you not think it was embarrassing enough having to be there and see him freak out at the sight of it, without you making me relive the humiliation?”
“It’s good for you,” she advised, and then broke into laughter. “Oh man, just imagine if it had been you, and he’d pulled his trousers down and there was a man-Brazilian staring at you.”
“Oh my God, don’t,” I cried. “It’s too close to the truth. Jack was completely shaved down there. It was so unexpected—James Martell had a full-on bush.”
“Oh yeah, a few years ago hardly any guys even trimmed but now they’re really getting into shaving and removing it all,” said Emma. “I guess it evens things out with women.”
“Really? I find it so odd. I’d rather we all just left it au naturel and no one had to bother about any of it.” I sighed. “Anyway, thank God the Boy-Brazilian hasn’t become a trend yet.”
“Here’s hoping.” She clamped her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I almost forgot to show you. Are you ready for your present?” I looked at her in confusion as she rooted around in her leather tote and pulled out a rolled-up magazine. “Ta-da!”
It was the new edition of the student magazine. “Oh my God, my column!” I screeched. “Have you seen it? What’s it like?”
She grinned and brandished the relevant page in my face. “It’s amazing—and you look beautiful and clever and funny and I could not be more proud.”
The column was on the left side of the centerfold. It was headed “Ellie on ANARCHY” and they had used the picture I had sent in where the sun’s rays naturally airbrushed my skin. I quickly scanned the column and realized they had barely edited it. At the bottom it read “by Ellie Kolstakis.” “Oh my God,” I cried out. “I can’t believe it’s finally in here and it actually looks good!”
Emma whooped and hugged me. “It looks more than good, and I’ve very proud of you. I’ve already seen a bunch of students reading it. Just think—you’re going to be famous. A total BNOC.” I raised an eyebrow questioningly and she sighed. “Big Name On Campus, Ellie. Keep up with the slang.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I can’t see that happening anytime soon, Em. Anyway, we’re late for Chaucer.”
For one more day, my mood was euphoric. Then it wore off and I started my comedown. I was sitting in the library on Tuesday morning when it dawned on me that I hadn’t heard from Jack since we’d done the deed two days earlier. He hadn’t sent a single message, and okay, we didn’t exactly text every day, but I’d given him my virginity.
His silence was disconcerting. Every time my phone vibrated, I pulled the screen open expectantly. Eventually, mid-Tuesday, I decided to take matters into my own hands and send him a message. I was a twenty-first-century female—why should I sit here waiting for him to message? Hell, he was probably twiddling his thumbs at home wondering why I hadn’t messaged him yet. I asked him how he was and if he wanted to meet later in the week.
After ten hours of tension and stress, he finally replied, saying it would be good to meet up this weekend, but he’d have to let me know when, and that he was well and how was I? My face lit up the second I got his message. He wasn’t blowing me off—he was just busy and he still wanted to see me. I decided not to reply for a while, so I could prolong the feeling of calmness and contentment his message had provoked. I knew the second I replied, the tables would turn, and I’d sit in a state of angst waiting for his response. Seeing as how I had a dissertation to finish and hand in at the end of the week, I needed my emotional levels at optimum tranquillity. I put my phone in a drawer, sat down with pen poised in hand and proceeded to edit my dissertation.