School’s Out Forever

By Carol Willis

The day I first heard Frank Blood’s name had been hot and humid. Summer of 1972. West Virginia. I was eight years old, you eighteen. The trees filled out, bulging, all silver-green and weeping sap. All the windows in the house open, the curtains fluttering weakly. The sun sloped westward, casting long shadows.

Home from the swimming pool, I lay slopped on the couch, watching television. Mom had just come home from work. Andy was outside under the carport, tinkering with his Ford Mustang. Dad wasn’t home yet.

You were sick, behind the bathroom door, throwing up, heaving. Scary and unearthly sounds came from deep inside you. You cried out for mom, a rusty sound. Your voice high-pitched and frightened and for an instant, I imagined you a little girl.

A thump on the tiled bathroom floor when you collapsed. A scurry of activity, mom running, a blade of light flashing in the dim hallway as the bathroom door opened and slammed shut.

Then mom’s strident voice from behind the door, Georgia, go get Andy.

Andy’s footsteps galloping down the hallway, another streak of light glinting like before. I strained to hear far distant noises, muffled cries, then mom yelling, Rosalyn! Your name sounding more like a question and I wonder briefly where you have gone.

I watch, survey the scene in the frenzy of a dreamer’s eye.

The bathroom door opens and shuts again. Screens rattle in the windows. Mom careens into the family room, fumbles for the phone hanging on the wall, her trembling fingers jerk the rotary round and round click-clicking.

Mom barks your name into the receiver, then she says the name of a person I do not know, Frank. Is she asking for someone? I cannot tell. She is mixed up, frantic. Words tumble out incomprehensibly in a stream, Frank and blood mingling with your name. She presses a hand to her forehead: her face a riot of panicked confusion. The cords on her neck rippling. She shouts, words sluicing, Blood! Rosalyn. Frank. Blood. Rosalyn. Frank. Blood. Her voice rises to a fever pitch, the words hemorrhaging together into a name I had never heard.

Georgia, go to your room!

The bawl of the ambulance siren. Hoofbeats, a herd thundering down the hallway. A hysteria of activity. Shouts and commands swell. I can no longer hear your cries. Mom’s voice is now the source of deep and unearthly sounds as she bellows hoarsely. Oh, Rosalyn, oh, Rosalyn, what have you done?

Later, I ask, what happened?

Then, much later still, who is Frank?

Not now, Georgie. Stay in your room.

Filled with shame for what I could not have said, I cowered, perplexed and hushed in the din with the name of Frank Blood ringing in my ears.

For the longest time, I thought Frank was your boyfriend. I never met him but I imagined him to look a lot like Danny, your previous boyfriend who looked exactly like the Jesus from the mass-produced print hanging up in my Sunday school class at First Baptist Church downtown—you know the one, the side profile of a fair, rosy-cheeked, white man, with trimmed beard, long sandy brown hair framing a high forehead over large sad eyes gazing upward to a sky full of white billowy clouds. With rays of sunshine radiating from behind his head, he seemed to glow.

Danny, a few years older than you, rented a room downtown across the 35th Street bridge in a dilapidated house on East Washington Street. East Washington was once a row of stately three-story homes built of brick and quarried stone. Each with a porte-cochère facing a courtyard and fenced-in gardens, tall arched leaded windows, and long wide porches with pillars boasting of grander times. But by the early 70s, most of them had been chopped up and turned into apartments with stairs zigzagging like scars on the outside leading to cramped attic apartments, A/C units jutting out like pimples from upper-story windows.

This is where you went when you ran away from home. I seem to remember visiting Danny with you—a dim, slanted room on the second floor, up narrow creaking steps, treading nervously on a faded and threadbare carpet, the cloying smell of sweat and bacon grease. John Lennon sings Lucy in the sky with diamonds. You sit on the end of his narrow bed under the window.

Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes and she’s gone.

I do not know if this is a manufactured memory—me simply trying to imagine Danny’s room and you in it, or if it actually happened. There is an equal chance for either. Timid and shy, a lot of my living occurred within the confines of my mind, trying to make sense of the snippets of what I saw and heard.

I was always trying to make sense of you.

Lessons from childhood. June 1972. Alfred Hitchcock and Alice Cooper.

You took me to the movies with a boyfriend. Was it Danny or someone else by then? In my mind, it was Danny, the Jesus man. The movie was the newly released Alfred Hitchcock film, “Frenzy.”

I asked, what are they doing, Rosalyn? Why does the man wrap his tie around the women and kill them?

Shh. He’s just a bad man, you say.

Long after I had been sent to bed with a cursory kiss and prayers, a long, thin rectangle of light wakes me as the bedroom door opens slowly. Mom steals in late at night and whispers admonishments to you in the dark.

What were you thinking? She’s only eight.

I thought it was a regular Alfred Hitchcock mystery—just good, clean fun, you said, the hitch in your voice crossing the room to me. “Frenzy” turned out to be the goriest and most controversial horror film Hitchcock ever made, but how were you to know?

Then, the sliver of light narrows and disappears. Mom is gone. Your voice slices through the darkness.

Thanks, Georgie. I’m grounded, you scold.

I realize, too late, that in telling mom and dad about the movie I had committed some grave betrayal. The gap between us only widened that night. Under the covers, in the dark, trying to fend off the images from the movie, I felt, as only a child can, that what I had done was worse.

Remember the Alice Cooper album? You had a small blue portable record player. One day, you and your friend, Mary M., brought home the new Alice Cooper album, “School’s Out.” It came with a pair of paper panties wrapped around the outside.

Why? What are they for?

You and Mary laugh at me. You rolled your eyes and said, Georgie, he’s gay! As if this would explain.

What’s that? I asked. I do not remember your answer, if you answered me at all.

You did this a lot—ignore me, that is.

You often spoke of things rather carelessly. But I took what you said as gospel truth. Much of what I learned early in life came filtered through you and your friends.

I am having a hard time conjuring you. Is it because you were elusive even in life? You were always just out of reach. Ten years apart, we slept in the same bedroom. Though linked by circumstance and proximity, we lived strictly in parallel. Like two sides of a record album.

You were the hit song, Rosalyn. And who ever listens to the flip-side?

Certain memories are striking in their clarity and in their rawness, the gritty reality, the low-down gut-punch of you—the bedroom is cold from the open window, when you climbed out and ran away. You were sixteen.

My mind skips forward two years. You are eighteen, sitting across from me on the couch, my eyes following the smoke from your cigarette as it curls lazily up in a thick gray-white ribbon. The sun is shining. The windows are open. America playing on the stereo, “A Horse with No Name.” I play the song over and over, lifting the stylus to the memorized groove on the vinyl album. I tell you it’s my favorite song. You flick the ash from your cigarette and inhale deeply. But you do not look at me.

Did you ever see me?

You have already lived long and hard by this time. A truant and runaway. When you finally moved back home, you appeared at the kitchen door out of thin air as if by magic. Was it six months later? Had it been a year? I seem to remember it was the day before Christmas, but even that fact seems tenuous. You stand at the threshold, your face collapsing, skin melting, draining off your head, holding a load of clothes in your arms as if you had just brought in the laundry.

You had run away only to return to pick up where you had left off—sleeping in a twin-size bed in a bedroom you share with your kid sister.

Simmering, simmering, simmering.

You are bored, restless, and angry. You want to go to the Lake of the Ozarks for a summer job.

You can’t, they say. Not in your condition.

What are you going to do, Rosalyn?

I overhear mom and dad echo one another in snatches of stolen conversation as I press my ear to their closed and locked bedroom door.

What condition?

What’s wrong with you?

And where was the Lake of the Ozarks, anyway?

These memories of you are fluid. They slip around in my mind, the timeline of you folding back on itself, then stretching out again. Frank Blood came after you moved back home. After Alfred Hitchcock. After Alice Cooper. After “A Horse with No Name.”

After I overheard your furtive voice on the phone to Mary M., Pick me up tomorrow… South Charleston.

South Charleston. For as long as I can remember, mom always warned me about that part of town. I had seen South Charleston a few times and only then from the passenger window of our car on our way to visit distant relatives—names and faces I can no longer recall. Chemical plants with belching smokestacks squatted in distressing tangles along the banks of the Kanawha River, appearing like something out of “The Lorax.” Reminders and warnings to stay away from “this part of town” were uttered like proverbs every time we drove past rows of rundown apartment buildings, chock-a-block housing merging with streets lined by seedy motels, and dubious businesses with flashing neon signs. Depending on the time of day, women spilling out of halter tops and tight mini-skirts, strapped in patent leather high heels, faces painted with bright red lipstick and blue eyeshadow and hair smoldering orange, would be leaning against a door jamb under the glow of one these signs or loitering on the street corner as if waiting for a city bus. My nose pressed to the window glass, my body tingling in deviant fascination.

“It’s rude to stare, Georgia,” my mother would say, her eyes wide-eyed as mine.

At times, I would overhear mom or one of her friends gossiping. They would lower their voice, “She’s from the southside, you know,” always followed by a knowing nod or hum of agreement. The southside was exotic and far-flung; a wild and foreign place strictly off-limits.

So, when I overheard you ask Mary M. to pick you up and drive you to South Charleston, a thrill shuddered right through me.

Your funeral service was held at First Baptist Church downtown. I sat between Andy and dad on the front pew while mom wept silently on the other side of dad next to the aisle. I kept looking around, craning my neck, watching people come in through the double doors in the back. I was on the lookout for Frank, the boyfriend I had never met, a boyfriend that seemed to be linked to your death in some inexplicable, crucial way. I kept watching for someone who looked like Jesus to walk in and sit in the back row.

Is Frank coming? I whisper to Andy, my hands cupped over my mouth to keep my voice out of earshot of mom or dad.

Who?

Frank Blood, I say, my eyes scanning the pews.

Shut up, Georgie, Andy says.

Later, when the minister was done with his brief sermon, and as Mary M. cried and hiccupped through the lyrics of some song, I kept waiting for Frank Blood to come forward and read a eulogy about how you had been the love of his life and he was sorry for everything that happened and hoped everyone, especially you, could forgive him and that even though you were dead and he didn’t know how these things worked that somehow you could hear him from heaven or wherever you were.

But no one named Frank Blood came forward. Danny did not come to your funeral, either.

In fact, no one that looked like Jesus came at all.

I try to find connections between these things—mostly trying to piece you together—but you never arrive to me whole. You come to me on a hot summer night, up a flight of creaking stairs or in the cold through an open window. I find you in the soundtrack of my youth, in the grooves of a vinyl album, enjambed between the lines of a song. I hear you as a sigh in the darkness, and see you in gusty shadows as white curtains sway. You enter my dreams riding a horse with no name under diamond-studded skies.

You are the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

Sorceress, temptress, witch, and wand. You were the spell. A dangerous secret. A lofty promise. You were a child. You were a woman.

You were a woman with child.

You were a contradiction. You asked for a Pepsi at breakfast. What were you thinking? You were not kind. You were selfish. You were obsessed with boys and music, bell-bottom jeans and platform shoes. You were always pushing boundaries: staying out past curfew, spending money intended for clothes on records, skipping school, lying about your whereabouts. The list of your misdeeds was long. But to me, scandalous as your behavior was, you pulsed with enchantment as if magic coursed right through you.

I was completely bewitched by you.

Mostly, I remember you as beautiful—a dazzling sprite with dad’s movie star good looks—a starlet belonging on the cover of a glossy magazine.

A wolf-whistle. “You, the sexy brunette.” Men always picked you out in a crowd. You pretended not to hear, a mischievous smile playing at your lips and pleasure blooming on your face. You loved the attention, the adoration. You were quick to laugh, as if life was one big joke. You always smelled of Love’s Baby Soft and strawberry lip gloss. Your throbbing vitality, your blatant sexuality—to me, you carried the very spark of life.

God, you were something, Rosalyn.

You never had a boyfriend named Frank Blood, of course, but it was a long time before I comprehended. Swept up in their own maelstrom of grief, mom and dad, and even Andy never explained the cause of your death and like most everything else from that time in my life, I only learned from scraps of conversation, piecing together scattered truths over time. I do not remember how old I was when I finally learned, and much later still when I learned back-alley is not just a place.

When we were young, our age difference was too great. Perhaps in adulthood, we would have become the sisters I always envisioned—you filling in the blanks from my childhood, both of us finding comfort in one another.

Fascinated with you as I was, being in awe of someone is not quite the same thing as love. Is it possible to grow to love someone after they are gone?

Yet is this not love?

Are you paying attention to what I’m telling you?

I have a vision, one in which I give you a future. I send you to Missouri for a summer job. You are eighteen years old, standing on a sandy beach along the Lake of the Ozarks in your red polka dot bikini, your long dark hair fluttering off your shoulders, your skin pink and warm from the sun. A young man, looking a lot like Jesus, is watching you. You feel his eyes as they drink you in and you linger, basking in the warmth of the sun and the heat of his gaze. You turn and smile, your face, your whole body an invitation.

New Jesus Man asks, “What’s your name, beautiful?”

“Rosalyn,” you say.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he says, testing you. Hoping.

To his surprise, and to yours, too, you say, “Sure, where to?”

In my mind, I leave you in this forever future, smelling like the lake and suntan lotion. I want to remember your smile as you feel desire thump in your heart and pulse its way to your loins. You slide into the front seat of his truck, the vinyl warm and smooth on the back of your legs. The windows rolled down, the radio playing. The sun glints off the surface of the water sparkling like diamonds in your eyes. You and New Jesus Man laugh shyly at each other. You’re up for a bit of fun. He can’t believe his luck. You go for a drive, singing along, “School’s out forever.”

---

Carol Willis

Carol Willis (she/her) received an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts where she served as a reader for VCFA’s literary journal, Hunger Mountain. You can find her short stories in several anthologies, numerous online zines, and forthcoming in Valparaiso Fiction Review. Please visit carolwillisauthor.com and Instagram @carolswritelife.

Amanda Davis art

Amanda Davis is a teacher, artist, writer, and innovator who uses her words and pictures to light up the world with kindness. Amanda is the author of the award-winning picture book, “30,000 Stitches: The Inspiring Story of the National 9/11 Flag,” “Moonlight Memories,” “Sometimes Shadow” (summer 2025) and another unannounced 2025 title. She also has poetry and illustrations featured in “The Writers’ Loft Anthology: Friends & Anemones: Ocean Poems for Children and Gnomes and Un-Gnomes”(December 2023). Amanda has over ten years of experience as a classroom teacher and was selected as Massachusetts Secondary Art Educator of the Year. Amanda enjoys helping other creatives hone their craft by offering critique and mentoring services through Carnegie Center for Literacy & Learning and connecting with students and teachers through her school visits. When she’s not busy creating, you can find her sipping tea, petting dogs, and exploring the natural wonders of The Bay State with her family and her rescue pup, Cora.

Bloom

© Amanda Davis

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© Amanda Davis

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© Amanda Davis

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© Amanda Davis

Paint the World

© Amanda Davis

Girl and Cat

© Amanda Davis

Moon Child

© Amanda Davis

Star Collector

© Amanda Davis

The Short Story of Success

By Angela Yeh

She wandered the aisles listlessly. She picked up a can of beans and set it down. She didn’t have anyone to cook for now. She let her memories draw her down to happier days. She sighed as she picked up a jug of orange juice. The small one this time. No need for the gallon jug. Not anymore.

When she reached the cashier, the kid barely glanced at her. She studied her stained flowered dress, and caught herself frowning, a pale reflection in the plastic divider. Dividing them and her. She slipped her hand underneath to take her change back.

“Have a blessed day,” he said, and she caught his eye this time. He leaned back, visibly shaken by whatever he perceived in the depths of her pupils. She smiled thinly and shuffled out of the way of a busy mother of three, monkeys leaping around her like crazy suns orbiting an exhausted moon.

“Enjoy these moments,” she announced to the mom because she was feeling mean.

The mother stared at her blankly but nodded, trying to be polite.

She reached her car, a beat-up gray Honda Civic with expired plates. She didn’t bother to buckle as she careened around the parking lot, being careful to avoid a stray dog limping by. She had the sudden destructive urge to run over the dog and put it out of its misery. She passed by, leaving the mutt unharmed, alarmed by her own thoughts.

When she got home, she threw her keys across the kitchen table and put the orange juice in the fridge.

The air conditioning unit buzzed and clanked, working as hard as it could in the hundred-degree heat. Still, the smell of rotting meat cloyed around the corners. The neighbors would call the police soon. That was okay. She was almost done.

“Hello, darling,” she said when she stepped airily into the living room. George sat where she shot him, one palm still curled around his beer, stiff with rigor mortis. His brain was sprayed against the back wall, although some had dripped to the brown carpet and congealed there. Flies were starting to find cracks and holes in the house and congregate at his shredded neck. She noticed the stubble on his chin. He would hate that.

“No need to shave anymore, George,” she said helpfully.

“You’d be proud of me. I only bought exactly what I needed. No silly spending on organic bread or expensive fruit. No, I got the orange juice and that was it,” she smiled, waiting for his approval. It never came. It didn’t now.

Sirens rose in the distance, and she wondered if they were coming for her. She stepped to the living room window and flicked up the beige curtains. No. They drove by, on their way to someone else’s house.

She turned back to George. “What? It’s too late for you anyway. I’m going to make some breakfast for supper. What do you think of that, George? And I’m going to watch TV. And I’m going to eat it in here. WITH the ketchup!” She grinned, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging beside the window, and froze.

“Well, hello there! Who are you?” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something awful, horrible, too nightmarish to process.

She turned, sure what she was seeing must be wrong. A trick of the light. Her right eye twitched.

George stood up, fully intact, burped, and lumbered to the kitchen.

Her shoulders tensed as the fridge door was jerked open, then slammed shut.

“Damn it, Charlene, you got the wrong size OJ again. And you forgot the Gin. Damn it, woman!” He thundered back into the living room, “DO I have to do EVERYTHING my own goddam self!?” His rage, instant, brilliantly hot, blasted over her like a supernova.  “You’re fucking useless. A goddamn burden. Good for nothing.”

She started to cry, falling to her knees, despair rushing over her, her soul sucking out through her toes.

“Oh, just cry again; that’s your favorite thing to do. Make me look like the bad guy. Manipulative bitch.”

Her spirit puddled out and squashed under his anger. His voice seemed far away now. When she looked up, he’d gone, slamming the front door so loud the screen door banged and snapped open and shut again. The Honda started up and roared out of the driveway.

She lay her hot cheek on the brown carpet; the individual threads could have been worms. Laughter bubbled up inside her. Was she dead already? She closed her eyes. Was she in the ground? A memory flashed behind her eyelids. Her, as a young girl, swinging through the maple trees on her grandmother’s farm. No. She was not dead yet.

She could swing one last time. Or she could leave. Start over. Death of a different kind. She looked around their small home. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had.

She was still wandering the rooms, as if memorizing them, taking one last look around when she heard the tires screech, someone laying on a horn, and a terrific crash, then awful silence. She waited, daring to hope. When she didn’t hear his heavy steps on the stairs she floated to the window. What she could see of the Honda was the trunk, which popped open on impact, the front end disappearing inside the bowels of a garbage truck. The driver staggered out of the high seat, lurching back to see what had hit him.

She found herself beside the car, peering inside the mangled mess of broken metal and snapped bone. The bottle of Gin was still rolling around in the back seat. The silence held. Hope grew. Relief bloomed, flowered, took root, and grew so fast she felt taller physically, and laughter escaped between her grinding teeth.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what happened. Is he—oh god. Dios Mio. Oh god, oh god, o—” The man turned green, spun away from her, and threw up on the sidewalk.

She needed to be sure. Sirens wailed in the distance, rapidly growing closer. Someone had finally called 911.

She walked quickly to the driver’s side. His face was gone, melded into the back of a rusted piece of grinding machinery. A rotting banana was flung over his shoulder and scraps and curls of discarded paper leaked into the backseat. She marveled at herself. There was no pity. No grief.

A strange feeling washed over her. It was light like a fire, burning and scorching as it filled her chest. She looked away from the wreckage, holding her stomach and doubling over with laughter, with relief.

She was led to the back of the ambulance. “Hysterical,” one said, shaking his head. “Must have been awful. She probably saw the whole thing. Poor girl.”

Kindly, he swabbed her arm and injected a low dose of droperidol.

“It’s alright, ma’am, he didn’t suffer at all. Happened instantly.”

As the drug began to calm her jagged nerves, she heard their voices in the air, floating like they were in dialogue bubbles. “— see what caused — someone said — driver didn’t see him coming — a dog.”

She sat up slowly, with help, as the second paramedic climbed into the back with a brown bundle of fur. In a flash of recognition, she realized this was the mutt from the supermarket.

“Is this your dog, ma’am?”

She looked into its liquid brown eyes, the whites showing from fear, and she nodded, folding the frightened dog onto her lap. “Yes. His name is George.”

Angela Yeh is an East Coast Canadian native who grew up a stone’s throw from Stephen King’s Maine. She now lives in Texas and sees Chuck Norris on the always. Angela is a short, tall-story-teller who loves to garden, write about magic, and eat cake. Her first published novel, “A Phoenix Rises,” was a finalist in the Dante Rossetti Book Awards for Young Adult Fiction. You can follow her antics on Twitter @thatplukcygirl and Instagram @thatpluckygirl and at her website www.thepluckycanadian.com.

X is for X-Rated

By Justine Cadwell

Let’s talk about sex ba-by/let’s talk about ther-a-py. Pretty sure that’s how the song goes.

***

“Waaaaaahh,” my 18-month-old daughter wails from my bedroom. I bolt out of the bathroom to rescue her.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

She approaches me with tears in her eyes, cradling a trembling pink toy she must have turned on by accident.

Oh—I see you’ve found my vibrator.

***

The first time I sexually experimented, I was 5 years old. My friend Natalie and I debated over who would play “the boyfriend” and decided to take turns. I pulled down my underwear to let her kiss my mons pubis and labia majora (it was all a “vagina” back then). She laughed in between kisses, highlighting the fact we were confused children with the vague notion genitals were “private” and therefore, forbidden and exciting. But also, haha—vagina!

Two years later, I set up an elaborate plan to kiss my friend Beth, creating a scene where we ran around a “building” (a large appliance box) and our lips just happened to run into each other. Somewhere in this plan, I convinced her to remove her shirt as well.

Shortly after this, I felt the need to come clean. Sexual feelings were embarrassing and certainly not appropriate for kids. During a bath, I confessed pieces of these events to my mom as shame spread through my body. The response I received was loud and clear: don’t do that again.

Inside a sleeping bag, I pseudo-masturbated around the age of 7. There may have been some play commentary that my older sister overheard on the other side of the room.

“What are you doing?” Louisa demanded, a tone of disgust in her inquiry.

The message I received was loud and clear: don’t do that again.

Catholicism taught me the sterilized notion of sex looking like a married couple having sex in the dark to create more of God’s children.

Casual sex was:

                                                           DIRTY

                 DANGEROUS

                   AN ABOMINATION

Lesson learned: sexual desire is wrong.

While watching the movie “Ghost”, my parents instructed me to hide behind the recliner during the pottery scene. When Forrest and Jenny make love in “Forrest Gump,” my Catholic maternal grandmother squirmed, prompting my sister and me to fast-forward. These movies were rated PG-13.

Most of the sexual media I absorbed as a child were the unedited bits of whatever was showing on cable television. As a result, I witnessed overemphasized elements of coercion and male pleasure. At the beginning of “Romancing the Stone” a woman is held at gunpoint while a dirty cowboy demands she take off her clothes. In “Abducted,” a deranged mountain man kidnaps and sexually assaults a female jogger. These movies were rated PG.

When I was twelve, I locked my bedroom door and muted my 19-inch television to watch late-night soft-core porn on Cinemax. I tried to trick myself into thinking I wanted to teach myself what was expected of me, sexually. I wasn’t depraved, this was research! Apparently, pubic hair was undesirable because these ladies didn’t have any.

X-rated movies hid behind a curtain at the video rental store. Years after tricking Beth into kissing me, I suggested we rent the horror classic “I Spit on Your Grave” because the description promised a rape and revenge tale. Not fucked up at all, huh? I was so desperate to view sex in a socially acceptable manner. I had to rely on Hollywood’s exploitation of women, cloaked in an innocent desire to watch a scary movie. America loves its murder porn.

I remember talking to my mom about sex exactly twice as a teenager. As I rummaged around the refrigerator for a snack, she caught me off guard.

“I saw on Oprah that kids in junior high are giving oral sex in school bathrooms. Do you know anything about this?”

“Uhh—”

I hadn’t even kissed a boy yet.

The next conversation happened in the car around the age of 15. My mom told me whenever I decided to start having sex, to be sure and get on the pill first:

“No daughter of mine is getting pregnant in high school.”

Good talk, mom.

My academic sexual education was not much better. In my sixth-grade health class, I received an assignment to write a letter to my future spouse, promising to “save myself” for him. During my tenth-grade health class, boys were instructed to stand on one side of the room while girls stood on the other side. We scribbled down STDs on sheets of paper and then walked toward each other in pairs.

“I just gave you syphilis,” I sheepishly announce to my classmate.

“And I am giving you herpes,” they reply.

From the novelty store Spencers, my male friend stole a white vibrator for me that looked like a medical device. I didn’t ask him to, but he had a crush on me, and maybe this was his way of wooing me? Perhaps I could self-educate. I attempted to masturbate, turning the vibrator on, and pushing it in and out of my vagina, mechanically. What is supposed to be so great about this? I didn’t understand the difference between a vulva and a vagina or where the clitoris was or how it worked or what to do— so I gave up on masturbation and eventually tossed the vibrator in an apartment dumpster.

***

All American women grow up facing the virgin/whore dichotomy: you should be pleasing to look at and accommodate men’s desires, but if you explore your own sexual inclinations, you’re a “hussy.” You can read all about it in “The Purity Myth” by badass Jessica Valenti if you want to be “woke.”

Thanks to Catholic indoctrination and America’s deranged views toward sex, I approach watching porn with a look-over-your-shoulder, because your parents might catch you vibe, even as a married thirtysomething year old.

Most porn is created with men in mind, and the industry is problematic. But women like porn, too, and there’s even some created by and for women. The “Fifty Shades of Grey” series is popular for a reason (despite the horrendous writing). I’m a feminist who doesn’t want to support raunchy old men, but I’m also a human being with the ability to watch people have sex in the comfort of my own home. What’s a girl to do?

***

From a naughty NSFW subreddit, I click on various videos, equally enthralled and horrified.

People get off on this? I wonder aloud, clicking on “Stepdad Fucks Stepdaughter on Kitchen Table.”

Suddenly, my sinful quest is interrupted by an official-looking message: my computer has been compromised, and I need to call the number on the screen to fix it. Obviously, a Microsoft message, created by Windows staff! Well shit, this didn’t look good.

I should call my husband Derek to verify this sketchy pop-up. He works at Microsoft and knows computers in a way I never will. He also knows I occasionally look at porn, so it wouldn’t be a total shock. But I’m embarrassed by the content I clicked on and prefer to erase the laptop memory when I’m done, so I’ll just solve this issue on my own.

I dial the number and await my fate. When a man answers the phone, there is excessive background noise which strikes me as odd, but he sounds official enough. He has a strong Indian accent, and I try to push any stereotypical assessments out of my mind. Microsoft has offices all around the globe, after all.

I tell him my plight, reading off the message on my computer screen.

“It looks like you were looking at some adult content.”

I want to die right now. “Yeah…”

“It’s only natural. I can direct you to some websites that are safer to visit in the future.”

“No, this has ruined porn for me. I’m never looking at it ever again!”

He butters me up, making my shame less palpable. Then, he gets down to business.

The man directs me to a help site where he pretends (I later learn) to log into a staff Microsoft account (he’s good) and proceeds to take control of my computer.

Occasional red flags pop up during our conversation, making me question the validity of this whole operation, but then he says or does something convincing, restoring my confidence.

Apparently, I need to buy a firewall program to solve the problem. The cost is somewhere around $100 or $200. Two hundred dollars and this all goes away? Worth it.

Then I do the unthinkable. I give this man my credit card info. To my credit (heh), I use a card with a low credit limit that isn’t tied to my bank account. So, I’m a dummy, but a cautious one at least.

The man keeps prompting me to purchase additional bells and whistles.

“I can’t afford that. I just want the issue resolved as soon as possible.”

After several minutes, he gives up and tells me to await a phone call from their billing department for confirmation.

I call Derek to confess and explain the situation to see if I had been duped. You bet I had.

“They have control of my computer, and they’re processing payment now—”

“Shut off your computer.”

“Shut it down?”

“Shut it off right now.”

“Ahhh, okay!”

I plead my case, “They were so convincing!”

“Yeah, I’ve seen some of those. They’ve gotten really good.”

Derek tells me to call my credit card company to try and get the charges reversed. During a three-way call with Capital One and the scammer “company,” I accuse them of such. They assure me they are a legit operation and would be happy to reimburse me.

After some investigation, Derek determined they were trying to sell themselves as a credible organization, so he wasn’t too concerned they would try to steal information off my computer, but of course, we updated our security, changed passwords, etc. to be safe.

Wisdom garnered: You’ll pay for giving in to your sexual curiosities, ya heathen!

***

Is it any wonder I didn’t have my first orgasm until I was in my twenties?  When my friend Kaitlin discovered this, she was horrified.

“We’re going to buy you a vibrator and I’m going to wait outside your bedroom door until you finish!”

That’s not how it went down but I appreciated her concern. In college, I finally received a proper sexual education via a health course that explained how important the clitoris was and a trip to Sex World where I purchased a pink vibrator.

“Have you had an orgasm yet?” my friend Annika asked.

“I think so?”

“You’d know.”

A few days later, the difference between almost and achieving climax became crystal clear.                

Unfortunately, the ability to have an orgasm with a partner was an entirely different story. A long one, so here’s a quick summary: After years of struggling to have an orgasm in Derek’s presence, he encouraged me to seek out the help of a sex therapist. She recommended an informative book called “Come As You Are: The Surprising New Science That Will Transform Your Sex Life” by Emily Nagoski. The contents of this book + more sex therapy + the decision to open our marriage + dirty thirties hormones = things have improved. But there was a lot of unlearning to do, no thanks to the sex-negative culture I was raised in.

***

I laugh as I reclaim my vibrator from my scared toddler. Whoops! I guess I forgot to put that away.

I aim to raise my daughter in a sex-positive household. Not too long ago, I heard her singing a song from the bathtub that made me proud:

This is the way I wash my vulva/wash my vulva/wash my vulva/This is the way

I wash my vulva /so early in the mor-ning.

A vulva and a vagina are not the same thing? Who knew?

Justine Cadwell is the author of “The ABCs of My Neuroses: Tales from an Anxious Life,” coming soon from Library Tales Publishing. She blogged at TheHungryGuineaPig.wordpress.com and ParentalAdvisorySite.wordpress.com. Her work has appeared in The Collapsar, Adelaide, Fine Lines, and Braided Way magazines. When she’s not writing, she’s working as a clinical dietitian at a long-term care facility, playing music as “Channeling Merlyn” on her YouTube channel, or volunteering at the food pantry or hospice with her best friend. Justine lives in Minnesota with her husband, daughter, and feline friend. To see more of her work, follow her on Twitter @JustineCadwell

Mea Conley

From the Column

Just a Moment

Poetry

When I was a Bullfighter

When I was a bullfighter I

Waved my red cape

Back and forth like a

Rippling sun.

You were kicking up dust and

Hollering like mad.

I couldn’t stop you.

Dust coated your bones and

Etched out maps of sinew and

Left you afraid of -

What, exactly?

Ivory silence against egg shell white

Backdrops finds us

Neutral ground where we can

Finally talk,

Matador to

Craven beast.

But I sit across from an empty chair,

In a crowded restaurant.

Cigarette smoke hangs like dread,

And I realize maybe

I was never a bullfighter

After all.

Alissa Aronson

Just Her

Beautiful was her calling
Or so the whispers said
No one would ever compare to
All the voices that lay in her head
Her ups became her downs
Racing and ranting so
Problems turned into promises
Her thoughts stuck in a deep limbo
Pointed fingers often lingered
And her mind was slowly awoken
She played victim to the masses
Still brittle and slightly broken
Her mind was not her own
Damaged in so many ways
Her moon was filled with lasting nightmares Her happiness slowly drifting away
Excuses became a blame game
Painting her fears with Bipolar
Still she’d rise each dawn
Like a lonely little love song
Smiling all the while
Knowing this was simply just her

My name is Alissa Aronson and I am the youngest of two. I grew up in the city of Framingham Massachusetts, instilled with a love of the arts at an early age by my father, an artist. I vividly recall penning numerous short stories in elementary school, where my love of poetry began to take shape. I worked briefly as a freelance journalist and have continued writing short stories. Over the last few years, I dove head first into poetry and have never looked back. I am so happy to share my words with others.

Casino Night

By Alison Ferris

I am walking down the back stairs of Troy High School to the cafeteria for lunch. I’m a freshman and it’s 1977. At the bottom of the stairs, I turn right, and I find myself shoved under the staircase, up against an institutional mint-green tile wall.

“I’m going to kick the shit out of you. John is my boyfriend.”

The girl’s name is Paula, and she is, according to John, his ex-girlfriend. John is a sophomore boy who regularly stops by my locker to talk to me. “He likes you, Alison,” my best friend Mara taunts.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I reply to Paula, exposing a mouth full of braces and small, blue rubber bands. I feel panic enveloping my body. I don’t know how to fight.

“Who do you think you are, rich girl,” she says, glaring, her face now in mine. Unbeknownst to me, my other best friend, Lisa, is running down the stairs, skipping some as she goes. Paula is yanked and pushed against the wall next to me, her head hitting the ceramic tile with an alarming crack. “Leave my friend alone.” Lisa says through gritted teeth, her hands pressing Paula’s shoulders against the wall. “Do you hear me? Leave her the fuck alone.” Paula nods. Lisa grabs my arm and leads me to the cafeteria. She has a reputation for getting into fights with anyone who provokes her rage. But Lisa is a sweet, generous friend to me and Mara. The three of us are inseparable.

“Jesus, Lisa. Thank you.” I’m sitting at a table across from her, still dazed by the incident.

“That girl’s a slut. I know her. She won’t bother you again.”

Lisa is right. Paula hasn’t given me as much as a sideways glance since the incident under the staircase. And John doesn’t stop by my locker anymore, either.

Troy, New York, is on the east side of the Hudson River, 150 miles north of New York City. It is one of the three cities—including Albany and Schenectady, on the west side of the river—that constitute the Capital District. For years, Troy was disparaged, and for good reason. The patriarchs of Troy bought into the 1960s idea of “urban renewal” and demolished blocks and blocks of buildings containing small businesses and nineteenth-century brownstones that housed predominantly black and low-income families. The plan was to build a mall with plenty of adjacent parking, to attract business and shoppers to downtown Troy. Through lack of foresight, if not abject racism, they tore the buildings down before they raised the money to build the mall. My family moved to Troy in 1968 when I was five years old, and ever since we’ve lived here, it looks as if a bomb was dropped on the city. The area that was destroyed is surrounded by a series of tall chain-link fences, the debris from the destruction visible like an open, oozing wound. The violence of it is startling.

Downtown or south Troy is low-income or working-class; the further up the hills, the more prosperous. My family lives about ten minutes up the hill from downtown, off Route 2: middle to upper-middle class. One of the wealthiest neighborhoods, Brunswick Hills, is a bit farther east of ours and is a series of even higher hills. Paula doesn’t recognize me from her side of town, so she assumes I’m rich. And honestly, if I hadn’t already known, I’d have guessed she was from South Troy. In my neighborhood we don’t fight. We orchestrate ostracism and, as a last resort, make public accusations of obscene behavior.

Mara, my best friend since kindergarten, is a rich girl. She lives in the neighborhood across a field, to the east of mine, and we constantly shuttle back and forth to each other’s houses. Mara’s father owns a successful business downtown, her mother is a member of the Junior League, and their family belongs to the country club. In the winter, they go skiing every weekend. Downhill, not cross-country like my family. Oh, they also have a sailboat that they keep down on the Long Island Sound.

My dad is a professor and teaches at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and my mom works part-time as an educator at the local Presbyterian church. My parents are considered radical weirdos in our small, suburban neighborhood because they voted for Jimmy Carter. Plus, we’re Protestants. Most of the people I know are Catholic. My mom was one of the first mothers in our neighborhood to get a part-time job back when my sister and I were in elementary school. She didn’t have to take the job for financial reasons, but she wanted one because she is a feminist, and she wants more out of life than being just a wife and mother. It’s true that she also likes having her own money to spend so she doesn’t have to argue with my dad about it. Getting a job meant that she also needs her own car, and her first car was a used, white VW bug. We celebrated by decorating it with five flower-power stickers, swirly psychedelic daisies, three on the hood and two above the back bumper. Laura, my younger sister, and I were proud of her for having a job and being a feminist. I’m personally having some doubts about her job now, not because I’m against feminism or don’t think women should have jobs. It’s just that she’s obsessed with her job. It’s all she thinks and talks about. But anyway, I’m not sure what all this means about my family, I just know it means we’re not rich because our life is nothing like Mara’s.

Mara is, easily, the most hilarious and fun person I know. We are outrageously silly together. She is also an irrepressible flirt. Whenever I have a crush on a boy, I hope Mara doesn’t flirt with him because boys always end up liking her more. She has a brother, Frankie, who is four years older. Frankie tells her what French kissing and blowjobs are, and she loves to explain it all to me. She also learns about make-up and what’s in fashion because she goes with her mother to a hair salon almost every week. When we were in seventh grade, Mara came with me to the army/navy store downtown, to help me pick out my first pair of jeans: straight-leg, stone-washed Lee jeans. Freshman year, she showed me how to put liquid blue eyeliner on the inside rim of my lower eyelids. We always share our clear, fruit-flavored lip glosses.

It is Mara who informs me about the sexual revolution. There are articles about it in her Mom’s Cosmopolitan Magazine that is on a magazine rack in the upstairs bathroom. The main thing I learn, from reading Cosmo and then talking to Mara about it, is that the sexual revolution made it okay to have sex, even if you weren’t married. I think it might have started in San Francisco with the hippies during the Summer of Love in 1967 but I’m not sure. The sexual revolution also happened because of the pill. Feminists say that any woman should be able to get birth control pills, not just women who are married. And now because of feminists, the sexual revolution, and the pill, women like to have sex. I guess they didn’t like it as much before because they always had to worry about getting pregnant.

It's hard to make sense of the difference between feminism and the sexual revolution and what kind of woman belongs to which movement. For instance, some people say that feminists are lesbians and hate men. That doesn’t make sense because my mom is a feminist. Even though she fights with my dad a lot, I don’t think she hates him. People also say that feminists aren’t attractive and even try not to be attractive, but my mom almost always looks nice. Her hair is long and straight, and she puts it in a ponytail or twists it up, securing it with a suede, butterfly-shaped barrette. She cuts her hair herself. On special occasions and Sunday mornings when we go to church, she wears clip-on earrings. She wears jumpers or skirts that she sews herself. She hardly ever wears jeans, even when she works in the garden, or we go hiking. She’s not fancy but she tries to look okay.

Mara’s mom is very fashionable, but I think that’s because she believes in the sexual revolution. She gets her hair frosted and has it professionally cut. She wears black, beige, or grey turtlenecks in fine knits, tucked into her low-cut, bell-bottomed jeans. She has brown motorcycle boots, and a couple of leather jackets. She has pierced ears and wears large silver hoops and her turquoise-laden silver cuffs remind me of Wonder Woman’s bullet deflecting bracelets. She also tries new recipes for her family’s dinners from Better Homes and Gardens.

My mom uses Betty Crocker’s Cookbook and Campbell soup can recipes. She describes our family as being “non-materialistic.” I ask my parents why our family doesn’t belong to the Country Club. Dad says, “I don’t play golf.” Mom explains, “We just don’t share the same values as Mara’s family, honey.” I get it, but sometimes I wish my mom was as cool as Mara’s mom and our food didn’t always taste like Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup.

Mara and I met Lisa in our open-concept art class in eighth grade. When we were getting to know her in class, and Mara and I were being silly, Lisa would look up from her art project and slowly begin to smirk. She has a great sense of humor. But only a few people, like me and Mara, know this. Like us, Lisa lives on a hill outside of downtown Troy, but on the south side, in a small suburban neighborhood that was built next to a low-income housing development. Lisa is tall and has red hair. She walks with a swagger and isn’t quick to smile. Sometimes her expression is hard, her dark eyes almost blank. One day, I notice she has bruises on her neck, near her collar bone, and ask her how she got them. “My stepdad.” she says.

“What do you mean, your stepdad?” I ask.

“He got mad at me and grabbed me. I punched him in the stomach, and he let me go. I’m used to it.”

During the late spring of eighth grade, on Friday nights after dinner, I’d get my dad to drive Mara and me across town to Lisa’s house. Lisa’s mom, Sharon, thinks Mara and I are a good influence on Lisa who, until she met us, I guess, was a loner. Sharon loves the fact that my dad is an RPI professor and that Mara’s parents belong to the Troy Country Club. She thinks that by hanging out with us, Lisa has come up in the world. It seems to give her hope for her daughter’s future which makes me sad, but I don’t know why.

On one of those Friday evenings at Lisa’s, we decide to drink beer. Lisa heard about a store downtown that would sell alcohol to anyone; no ID required. We can walk there from her house. We meet an older kid and it turns out he is going to that store, too, so he offers to buy us the beer.

“What kind of beer do you want?” he asks.

“Genny cream ale,” says Lisa like a pro.

“And a pack of Marlboros!” Mara calls out. She was regularly stealing and smoking her parents’ cigarettes. We walk back up the hill and find a place to sit in a clearing on the edge of the development, overlooking downtown Troy. It is the first time I drink a beer and smoke a cigarette.

“I feel like I’m going to puke.” I say after taking a drag of the cigarette.

“You’ll get used to it.” Mara reassures me. Lisa is quiet, staring below at the neighborhoods of brownstones with flat rooftops interspersed with church steeples. Iron foundries and the old, semi-abandoned textile factories where shirts and detachable collars were made in the nineteenth century, line the banks of the mighty, muddy, polluted Hudson River. Interstate 787 runs parallel to the river, to the west, and hums with cars and trucks. The sky turns yellow and pink over a distant range of gently sloping mountains and then a couple of stars appear.

“I like the view from here,” observes Lisa.                        

“This is the best.” I sigh.

“I’ve got to pee,” Mara announces. We pick up our bottles and put them in a brown paper bag. Lisa pulls a pack of Bubblicious out of her jean jacket pocket and gives us some. “So your dad doesn’t smell the beer on your breath,” she explains. Dad’s 1970 two-door Ford Torino is waiting in Lisa’s driveway when we get back to her neighborhood.

“Those are some big wads of gum,” Dad observes as we get in the car.      

“It’s new. It’s called Bubblicious.”

“You sound like cows chewing on their cud.” he replies. As we back out of the driveway, I turn the car radio on to WTRY. When I see the station advertised on billboards, the letters read to me as WhyTRY. Aptly named, our radio station, for our blighted, economically depressed, post-industrial city in bleak, upstate New York.

When we start high school, the incident involving Paula almost beating me up is just the beginning. As the fall progresses, I notice that Lisa, who is always a little uneasy and on edge, is full-on agitated. Something isn’t right but she’s not saying what’s wrong. She is smoking joints instead of cigarettes, which she shares with Mara and me in the parking lot. And then, Mara tells us about her father. Her brother saw their father at a bar downtown, drinking and talking with prostitutes. Not only that, but he snorted coke with them. She wonders if her father sleeps with them, too. This information, like the bruises that keep appearing on different parts of Lisa’s body, is so foreign, so outlandish to me, I don’t know how to make sense of it. These are my two best friends, and I don’t know how to talk to them about what’s happening. The two of them are closer now, bonding over the increased complications in their lives which they know I can’t comprehend. I feel left out. I watch as they graduate from smoking pot to popping speed, quaaludes, whatever they can get their hands on. I’m scared for them, tell them that, and they just laugh and turn away. Everything feels out of control and my friends’ newfound interest in amphetamines isn’t helping me feel better. I make the decision not to join them on their journey towards oblivion. I even quit smoking pot with them. But I can’t just stop being friends with them. That would be cruel. The only way to get out of this situation, I think, is to leave Troy High.

I tell my parents I want to visit the private, all-girls high school in town. My mother, who isn’t paying attention to me or Laura, caught up in her career and own endeavors to discover herself, says she doesn’t want me to go to this private school because I’d be removed from the “real world.” But Mom has no fucking idea about my “real world.” Dad grimaces because it costs money. Typical. What about not having boys around, Laura asks. It’s true. I think about boys a lot. But going to an all-girls school simply means boys will not hog all the attention in class. I know where to find them if I want to at the end of the day. A new school, surrounded by an imposing, black, iron fence topped with sharp spikes seems more promising in terms of keeping me and my life together. Somehow, I convince my parents I must go.

********

September 8, 1978, is the day I go to the new school, a boarding school for girls officially categorized as a preparatory high school. When the school was started in 1821, it was called the Troy Female Seminary. Dad sometimes asks me at breakfast, “Do you need me to pick you up this afternoon at the Troy Female Seminary?” I always laugh and reply in a fancy voice “Yes, I do. Will you be arriving from the Polytechnic Institute?” The Troy Female Seminary was originally in downtown Troy. When the new campus was built in 1910, it was renamed the Emma Willard School, after the school’s founder. It’s at the top of one of Troy’s hills, the one called Mt. Ida. Most of the girls live in dorms at the school and are called “borders.” Those of us from the Capital District area who don’t live there, are called “day students.” Day students come from diverse family and class backgrounds but few match, in status and wealth, the families of boarding students. Perhaps that’s why day students have a separate entrance on the opposite side of the campus. The day student “lounge” is next to that entrance, in a basement of one of the classroom buildings, furnished with musty, secondhand couches, and a rickety old wooden coffee table that we put our feet on because we can, surrounded by three or four round, scratched, rigid plastic, yellow chairs. Our meager, rusty lockers are nearby. It’s a dark, forgotten place. There are about thirty of us, and no one complains about being relegated to the basement. I relish living amongst the daytime cave dwellers; it is a world onto itself, and we’re mostly left alone.

When we emerge from the underground tunnels, the school is as majestic as can be imagined; it is a castle on a hill. Its architectural style, I learn, is Gothic Revival. The buildings have gargoyles. There is a bell tower, a quadrangle, a chapel, and a separate new gym in addition to the dormitories and classroom buildings. Emma Willard has rituals, traditions, a distinct history, and the unspoken expectation that all the young women who go here, even the day students, are going to someday change the world for the better. In the meantime, thankfully, there is a smoking area. The smoking area is one place where day students and boarders mingle in an unstructured environment. I go there often with my friend Margo. Margo wears L.L. Bean Faire Isle sweaters and penny loafers. I bet she thinks about my clothes the same way I think about hers – that they’re kind of odd – even though my untucked, striped, oxford-cloth shirt, jean jacket, and dark, burgundy cowboy boots are normal. She has a sassy, chin-length bob while mine is almost down to my waist and parted in the middle. Margo has the best laugh I ever heard–it’s deep, full, guttural, and authentic–and, as we smoke Merits and drink Diet Cokes, I do my best to invent the most outrageous, irreverent cracks I can come up with about the people and our school, just to hear her roar. Hot Blooded by Foreigner plays in the background, and I ask her: “What’s with that mean math teacher, Mrs. Mayer? She looks like That Girl with her flippy hair and bangs. Doesn’t she know it’s the seventies? And why is she so mean?” “Does anyone talk about how creepy Mr. Bernhard is? He kinda looks like a pervy Herman Munster.” “Also, why does everyone wear the same clothes here with whales and anchors and alligators on them. Does it mean, like, if you’re wearing a whale belt, you’re part of some kind of whale cult?” I once asked, on a more serious note, why, if everyone at this school wants us to be strong women and successful leaders, there’s no talk about feminism. All I got in response were blank faces and shrugs.

  There are two dining halls where day students can join the borders and faculty for lunch. I learn, during these lunchtime conversations, how different my life is from most of these girls. An articulate and self-assured girl I admire for her fierce intelligence reads a letter in the lunch line. I watch her face, eagerly drinking in news from home, switch in an instant, to despair followed by tears. She says out loud, “This isn’t from my dad, he had his secretary write this.” She left, I guess, to go to her room to suffer the betrayal on her own. It gave me a new appreciation for my dad who, even though he spends every evening working at his desk, always makes time for me if I ask for it. Another time, on our way to lunch, we see the police arrive. Word spreads that one of the girls left campus without permission, was picked up by men in a van, and raped. She left school and never returned.

One of the first dances I go to is also attended by Prince Abdullah II of Jordan. The boys are bused from Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts. It is winter and the dance is in one of the dining halls, minus the tables and chairs. Walnut paneling and molding line the old buildings with dim, yellow lights in old-fashioned, brass fixtures. The softly glowing, dark interiors are spooky to me, as a stranger to the place at night. The boys wear jackets and ties and have expressions and affects unfamiliar and unreadable to me. I can’t guess what they whisper about to each other like I can with the boys I grew up with. I recognize one boy, Danny, who transferred from Troy High to Deerfield. Wearing the same kind of jacket and tie as the others, he’s now mysterious–but I didn’t really know him before, so we don’t talk. My memories of this night are like scenes in a film, the camera panning back and forth and through the dance floor, recording the awkward forms of dancing adolescent bodies, their laughing faces askew in slow-motion, evoking an overall strange, distilled atmosphere of dislocation.

I am walking back from the outdoor smoking area, having taken a break from the dance, when I meet Tim. Standing on the walkway shivering, we talk for a bit and then, out of the blue, he invites me to an event at their school the following month. I don’t understand the nature of the occasion, but I say yes because I think his eyes are kind and it will be an adventure. I end up going, on a bus the school provides, with a bunch of boarders, girls I don’t really know, because none of my day student friends want to come along. When we arrive, I wonder, as we wait in line to get the tickets needed to participate–the event is called Casino Night–if Tim remembers he invited me. A sit-down dinner takes place first, and with Tim nowhere in sight, I slip into the first empty chair I can find. The boys at the table proceed to explain to us girls how the night is about to unfold and the rules of the casino games. Then the conversation moves to discussing who-knows-who. Everyone seems to have people they know in common except me. When it’s my turn to chime in, I explain I am supposed to meet Tim but so far, I haven’t found him. At first the boys say, “Who?” and I try to describe him, the little I know about him. One of them responds, “Oh! I think I know who you’re talking about. It’s that kid who’s into fencing.” “Fencing?” What are they talking about? “You know, the sport you see at the Olympics that looks like sword fighting.” Someone volunteers to find Tim for me. He returns with one of Tim’s friends. “Oh, you’re Alison! Tim didn’t want to come tonight, but he said if you were here, I should bring you over to his dorm.”

It's rude to invite someone to an event and then decide not to go yourself. But I accompanied Tim’s friend to the dorm anyway. At least I’m polite enough to follow through on my part of the plan. In truth, I’m relieved not to go to Casino Night. The way the boys were explaining the rules at dinner was confusing.

Because I am a girl, I am not allowed in the dorm, so I wait outside while Tim is alerted to my presence. Tim shows me around the campus, and we walk through minimally lit, empty buildings because everyone else is at Casino Night. I’m fine with this. These school buildings are just as wonderfully mysterious as the ones at my school, but in an old-fashioned, New England style rather than Gothic Revival.

“Do you want to see the art rooms?”

“Yes!”

It is in the art room where he starts kissing me. Then he leads me downstairs to the photography darkroom where, in the red light, with pungent vinegary, sulfur-smelling chemicals filling the humid air, he grabs my hand and pulls me to the cold, cement floor. I kick off my cowboy boots. He lays by my side and starts exploring my body, first sliding his cold, dry hand up and under my cheap, flimsy, polyester bra, squeezing my nipples a few times. Then he finds the elastic at the top of my thick, black cotton tights, and moves his hand under them and my skimpy bikini underwear, searching between my legs for the folds of my labia. He puts a finger inside of me, feeling my wetness. It feels good, his finger in my vagina, and we kiss some more. I can hear water running; it’s gently trickling over the edges of a plastic tray in a sink. Suddenly, the speed of our encounter goes into high gear, and he pulls my underwear and tights down and off my skinny, pale, freshly shaven legs. On his knees between my legs, he faces me as he fumbles for a second with the zipper on his pants. He turns to his side to pull them off. He resumes his position on his knees, holding his penis with one hand, and lightly falls on me, guiding its tip in the slippery warmth of my labia until he finds the opening of my vagina and enters me. I gasp because it hurts for a second and because it startles me, this new, full, physical sensation inside my body where I haven’t yet even placed a tampon. After a few movements with his hips and a quiet animal-like moan, he is done. I sit up quickly because it suddenly registers what has just happened. I am surprised we just had sex, but I didn’t fight it, I let it happen. It was natural, I console myself, thinking about what I learned when reading The Joy of Sex one night while babysitting. I’m glad I wore my long skirt because it provides a kind of cover as I pull up my tights and underwear. I feel the crotch of my underwear become damp and then increasingly wet. Leaning up against the cinderblock wall as I am trying to put myself back together, he asks:

“Did you come?”

“No.”

“Hmm. You were supposed to.”

He sounds disappointed, like I am a toy he just purchased but discovers, after he’s opened the package, that it doesn’t function as advertised.                                                                                                                                         

“I’m sorry, it was my first time.”                              

“Oh,” he said.

Had I been on my home turf, I’d have gone straight home, but I have nowhere to go.                                          

“Would you like to come back to my dorm? We can hang out in the parlor.”                       

As we walk from the art building to his dorm, I feel a growing warm wetness between my legs. I am more alarmed by the potential stain on my skirt than I am by the fact I just lost my virginity. I’m not worried about getting pregnant. Mara says you can’t get pregnant the first time you have sex.

“May I please use the ladies’ room?”

“There’s no ladies’ room here but I can watch the door of the boy’s room for you.”

I hurry into a stall, past the unfamiliar, slightly startling sight of a urinal. I pull down my tights and underwear and see blood and semen. I use toilet paper to try to pat the crotch of both undergarments dry. It doesn’t seem to make much difference. When I return to the parlor, I bunch up my long skirt and sit on it, like it’s a cushion, so the moisture doesn’t cause a stain. I don’t care if Tim thinks it’s strange. I glance shyly over at him. He doesn’t look at me. He looks down at his feet, at the ceiling, at the old radiator because it pings and gurgles as the water runs through it. He probably doesn’t like me anymore because we had sex. I remember reading an article in Seventeen about this: a girl has sex with a boy who says he’s been in love with her forever but then, after they have sex, he ignores her. I realize I don’t understand why I didn’t try to stop this from happening. I sit, too, without talking. I really hope that if my skirt is stained, no one sees it.

A man walks into the building and with a loud, stern voice says, as he enters the parlor, "You need to leave, young lady." His tone startles me. He sounds like the caricature of an authoritarian. I gather up my coat, contorting my body in such a way so as not to reveal the back of my skirt. “Bye, Tim.” I murmur and without waiting for him to respond, I slip out the door. I find the bus driver and he let me wait on the bus until Casino Night is over. “Where were you?” one of the boarders asks as they get on the bus. I shrug and look out the window, staring at my reflection in the glass for the two-hour trip back to school. The dampness between my legs grows cold if I don’t keep my thighs pressed together but keeping the moist cotton pressed against my skin makes it raw and irritated. I didn’t plan to lose my virginity to Tim that night. In fact, I never thought much about when, where or with whom I’d lose it and I end up feeling the same way I did when Lisa told me about her stepfather and Mara told me about her father. I can’t find words for my feelings. “Lonely” is one that comes to mind, but doesn’t seem quite right. Maybe, “empty.” I see the Torino in the parking lot as the bus rolls in. I pull the heavy door shut with a thud.

“How was the dance?” Dad asks.                                                                                            

“It wasn’t a dance.”                                                                                                                     

“Oh. What was it you went to?”                                                                                            

“Casino Night.”

“Did you win anything?”                                                                                                            

“No.”

That spring, there is a dance and the boys from Deerfield come back. Prince Abdullah II didn’t show up and neither did I. I had to babysit. Tim attends. He calls my house–someone looked up my phone number for him–and Laura answers. She calls me right away to tell me she just gave a boy the number where I was babysitting. In a panic, I take the phone off the hook. I don’t want to talk to him. At school on Monday, a few girls come up to me to tell me Tim was looking for me. I say nothing in response. I feel a dull throb of shame when I think about what happened. I gave up trying to make sense of it. I just want him and the memory of it all to go away.

The following fall I received a postcard in my mailbox at school. It was from Tim writing from a college in New Orleans, or maybe it was Vermont. Printed in small, neat letters are the words “I’m sorry” with his return address below his name. I feel bad I didn’t talk to him when he called in the spring. I didn’t tell anyone I lost my virginity that night. I mean, it was going to happen at some point anyway. But I still don’t want anything to do with him, so I send a postcard to the address on the card telling him it’s ok, and not to worry about it. I figure it’s the nice thing to do. I hope, too, it will make him feel like he doesn’t need to write to me anymore.

The rules of the game were obscure to me that night, and because my body said yes, I followed along, not understanding that I had the power to say no. It’s easy to blame Tim for taking advantage of me, and I do blame him, though I also meant it when I said I forgave him. He took responsibility and said he was sorry. Most of the time, boys never say they’re sorry. As for me, I began to take control of my make-out sessions with boys. I know, not in theory but for real, what they want, what the end game is, what “home base” means, what fucking is. This knowledge gives me an embodied power that I almost never lose or let go of again.

I’ve gotten more used to being at Emma Willard. I’ve joined the art club and I’m working on the yearbook. I like what I get to learn: classes in American social history, art history, literature classes that focus on different themes and, of course, all the different studio art classes. I know I’m lucky that I’m not taking those boring classes at Troy High. But honestly, I feel like a tourist at Emma Willard, a visitor who’s tolerated for the time being. Sometimes I want to fit in more than I do, and other times, I don’t care. Mom and Dad give me the light blue Fair Isle sweater I requested for my birthday. It’s not from L.L. Bean, but that’s okay. I’m wearing my sweater to school today under my jean jacket. Dad is letting me borrow his 35-millimeter camera because I am taking a photography class. The camera hangs around my neck like an extra heavy necklace.

An exchange was arranged between our school and Deerfield, so a dozen boys are now living here and attending classes while about a dozen girls from Emma Willard attend theirs. A few of the boys are regulars in the smoking area, and one of them is kind of cute. When I get there, Pink Floyd’s The Wall is playing on someone’s boom box. Margo is waiting for me. She’s laughing as I sit down next to her.

“What?”

“Nice sweater.” she says. She takes a drag on her cigarette, points to my cowboy boots, and says, “Next I bet you’re going to stop wearing those.” Holding on to the camera, I cross my leg over my knee to examine one of my beloved, well-worn boots. When I look up, I see the cute boy staring at me. I look right back at him. He turns away.

“I’m never going to wear fucking penny loafers, if that’s what you mean.” She laughs her amazing laugh and I smile and light my cigarette.

Alison Ferris is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at Antioch University, Los Angeles. She is an adjunct professor at the Maine College of Art and Design and lives in Midcoast Maine.