The Anti-Virginity Pact Page 11

  “So, what do you like to draw?” Sam asks, but his gaze lingers on me just a moment longer. When he looks away, the trance breaks, and the noise around us suddenly seems louder—the tapping of keys on a laptop in the back, the rumbling of the coffee machine, the whirl of a ceiling fan. My heart hammering embarrassingly hard in my chest.

  Harper tells him about the difference between using watercolors and acrylics, and which paintbrushes look the best with different types of paper. Sam never looks away from her. He leans forward on the table, nodding as she talks, the left corner of his mouth lightly curled up, encouraging her to keep going. I can tell by the way Harper keeps touching her hair that she’s self-conscious, but the more she talks, the stronger her voice comes out, and I can guess exactly how she’s feeling. How having Sam look at you like that can light a match in your chest, igniting a confidence you didn’t know was there.

  I watch Sam as he scratches the stubble beneath his jaw—fuller now than it was on our date—how he tilts his head to the side when he listens.

  He glances up and catches me staring.

  “The two of you should totally collaborate,” I blurt out. “Sam writes the story; Harper does the drawings. You guys could become a famous picture-book writing team.”

  “You write fiction, too?” Harper asks.

  Now it’s Sam’s turn to look slightly abashed. “A little.” He meets my eyes again. “We’d have to only write books about animals so Mare can do our fact-checking, though. You know how to draw a Maltese?”

  ✦✦✦

  When we meet back up with Maman after the service, Sam gives me a quick kiss to the side of my head like it’s the most normal thing in the world before heading off with his dad. It leaves my entire body feeling hot and tingly. Harper and I linger outside of the church, pretending like we’ve just come from the service, when Maman rushes toward us, eyes and lips stretched wide.

  “Girls’ Day!” she squeals.

  Harper and I both widen our eyes, but probably for different reasons.

  Maman crushes us in a hug as if she hadn’t just seen us an hour ago, but when she pulls away, I notice two rather awkward-looking people lingering behind her.

  “Oh!” Maman pulls back and steps aside, flapping her arms at the two women to come closer. “How rude of me. I invited Ramona and her daughter Silvia to join us. I hope that’s okay.” Maman looks to me and Harper, eyebrows drawn together, like we might actually be upset by this.

  I can’t stop myself from staring at Silvia. She’s in a floral maxi-dress, a cream cardigan on top, her dirty-blonde hair chopped into a bob that barely skims her chin. She’s staring at her feet, tucked inside yellow sandals, her toenails painted light pink.

  The last time I saw her, she was in ripped black jeans, chipping black nail polish, a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and her hair was down to her lower back—she was constantly braiding it and pining it into cool styles that looked like they belonged on Game of Thrones. Harper, beside me, also seems to be ogling her former friend.

  “Silvia just got back from visiting her grandparents yesterday,” Maman is saying, “so I thought it could be fun for us all to go out shopping! Harper, Meredith, you know Silvia, of course.”

  Silvia finally glances up, but even when her eyes meet mine, she doesn’t seem to see me.

  Ramona, her mother, is standing beside her in a hot-pink pencil skirt and black and white polka dot blouse. She wraps her arm around Silvia, who immediately flinches at the contact.

  I glance behind them, but there’s still one noticeably absent figure. “Where’s Papa?” I ask.

  “Oh.” Maman waves her hand dismissively. “He’s staying late today to meet with some other parents from your school. He said he’d find a ride home.”

  “Meeting about what—?” I start to ask, but Maman’s already resumed flapping her arms and directing us to her car across the lot. Harper glances back at Silvia, who trails behind us with her mom, then shoots me a look. I wonder if she heard the rumors, too. I can’t exactly ask her now, though.

  We file into the car, everyone silent but Maman, who keeps tittering on obliviously about which stores we should hit at the mall and the coupons she got in the mail. Ramona joins her in the front seat, praising Papa’s sermon about loving everyone today. Even I can admit that Papa’s good at his job, but considering the restrictions on who everyone entails, it sounds like a load of B.S.

  Harper squishes into the middle between me and Silvia, who scoots to the very end of her seat, practically flattening herself against the door to put more distance between herself and my sister. She stares out the window wordlessly.

  “It was a long drive back from Montana yesterday,” Ramona says, turning around in her seat to look at us. “Silvia’s a bit tired.” She reaches over and squeezes her daughter’s knee.

  Silvia stares at her mother’s hand until it releases her, then glances at Harper and me. “Yeah, sorry. I just haven’t gotten much sleep.”

  Judging by the deep purple circles beneath her eyes, there’s probably a lot more truth to that than Ramona’s story implies.

  Maman fills the car with some gospel music on the radio as we drive, saving us from trying to fill the time with awkward conversation. As soon as we head into the first department store, Harper grabs my hand and slows until we fall to the back of the group. I watch as Maman takes off toward a rack of frilly blouses and eagerly starts collecting them into her arms.

  “You’ve heard the rumors, right?” Harper whispers.

  I nod.

  Her gaze darts to Silvia, who is standing beside her mother at the jewelry counter. Ramona’s chatting with a woman behind the counter, who’s nearly a foot taller than she is, with ruby-studded earrings that go all the way down to her shoulders. Silvia’s just standing off to the side, fidgeting with her cardigan and scanning the space around her.

  “They did something to her.” Harper’s eyebrows draw together as she watches her friend. “That’s not…that’s just not Silvia.”

  “Meredith, Harper!” Maman calls, holding up a burnt orange tank top. She waves it around like a flag to signal us over.

  “I have an idea,” Harper murmurs as we head over to where Maman is stockpiling clothes. She already has too many to carry, so she’s pushed aside the clothes on a nearby rack to hang her finds.

  “Hey, Maman?” Harper says. “Do you mind if Mare, Silvia, and I head to the food court real quick to grab smoothies? We can meet you and Ramona at whatever store you go to next.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for Maman to offer to join. She surveys her pile of clothes, clearly not finished here yet.

  “We’ll be quick!” Harper adds.

  “Okay,” Maman concedes. “I think we’re just going next door after this. But don’t take too long!”

  Silvia joins us wordlessly as we head out into the mall. I let Harper take the lead on this one, partly because the two of them used to be friends, and also because I straight-up have no idea what to say.

  The halls are flooded with shoppers, their arms decked out in various shiny bags. A group of giggling middle school girls cuts us off as soon as we step out of the store, hurrying to the other side where some bright pink store has the word sale in the window.

  Silvia stares after them with a blank expression.

  “We’re glad you’re back,” Harper offers, nudging her friend with her elbow as we start toward the food court.

  Some form of a smile flashes on Silvia’s face. It looks painful. “It’s nice to be back.”

  “I like your haircut,” I offer.

  Silvia’s hand flies up, smoothing down the back of her hair. The smile is gone from her face.

  Okay, so clearly I just shouldn’t talk.

  “Can I just be straight with you?” Harper bursts, grabbing Silvia’s wrist and pulling her to a stop. A family with half a dozen kids and two strollers tries to edge around us, and we step to the side of the walkway.

&nb
sp; Silvia pulls her wrist away and cradles it in her other hand. She sighs. “I know what you’re going to—”

  “There have been rumors going around ever since you left,” Harper says.

  “There are always rumors going around.” Silvia rolls her eyes, but she’s clearly avoiding eye contact with Harper. “What else are bored church ladies supposed to fill their boring lives with?”

  “So, you’re saying there’s no truth to them?” Harper pushes.

  Silvia doesn’t respond at first, shooting a glance over her shoulder. “I should probably get back to my mom.”

  “Silvia, I know we haven’t talked in a while, but—”

  “Don’t you get it?” Silvia hisses, taking a step toward Harper. For the first time since I saw her standing there, I recognize that old fierceness in her eyes. “I can’t talk about this.”

  Harper opens her mouth to respond, but Silvia has already whipped around and started rushing back the way we came. I stare after her, noticing the line of her hair is uneven in the back.

  Harper may not have gotten the answers she wanted, but I think I just did.

  12

  The school day on Monday passes as can be expected: tediously and in a haze. The only thing that keeps me semi-awake enough to shuffle from class to class is the quad-shot espresso I grabbed on my drive to school. From the drive-through, obviously. I don’t need the stress of face-to-face interactions that early in the morning.

  My classes pass in yawns and desperate looks at the clock until three o’clock finally rolls around, and freedom has never felt so good.

  But even then, my mind keeps wandering back to Silvia. The uneven line of her hair swaying back and forth.

  She didn’t speak another word to me or Harper the rest of the afternoon, and no matter how many shopping bags Maman accumulated, or how many blindingly bright articles of clothing she showed us, the negative energy surrounding the whole trip wouldn’t fade. Enough so that even Maman picked up on it and called it quits after a mere two hours of wandering through the mall. No pleas to prolong the day with facials or a movie or anything.

  When I pull up to the house, Sam’s SUV is already sitting by the curb. I park in the driveway and notice him waiting on the front porch, his backpack at his feet, a white paper bag in his hands. When he notices me, he shoots to his feet, tossing the strap of his backpack over his shoulder, and beams.

  “Hey,” is all he says, like it’s completely normal for him to be here. Is that what people do when they’re dating? Just show up whenever they want to see the other person? I’m happy to see him, of course, but my anxiety could do without the lack of planning.

  “Hey?”

  He raises the bag and his shoulder simultaneously. “I thought we could hang out. I know you probably have a ton of homework, but I thought maybe we could study together or something.” His smile falters, just for a second, like he’s doubting showing up here.

  “What’s in the bag?” I ask.

  “I know they’re not technically French, but I figure everyone likes fries, right? And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  I laugh and take the bag as he offers it to me. Inside, there are two large orders of fries, both of which, if I’m being honest, I could totally devour on my own. “You figured right.” I nod my head toward the house and unlock the door. “Come on in.”

  We both kick off our shoes by the door and I lead him to my room on the second level. Even though Maman and Papa aren’t home, I leave the door open, if only to avoid a lecture on the off chance they somehow found out. We’ve never actually had to flesh out the no boys alone with you rule since Harper and I have never brought boys home before, but I’m definitely willing to bet closing the door is off limits.

  Sam pauses in the doorway, taking it all in. I do a quick scan on the ground to make sure I didn’t leave any dirty underwear or something equally embarrassing laying around, but everything’s in place; my bed is neatly made, the lavender comforter tightly tucked into the bed frame; the twinkle lights strung around the perimeter of the room are glowing softly, except for that batch in the corner with the broken bulbs; my textbooks are stacked in a neat little tower beside my bed with an old AP Chem one proudly standing on top, because I’d been reading from it for fun last night. I’d even vacuumed the cream shag carpet the other day.

  There used to be a small glass desk in the corner, but I let Harper take it when she started high school since it made my room feel a little too crowded, and I like doing my homework on my bed anyway. There’s a small cream butterfly chair in its place now, occupied with a couple throw pillows that match the bedspread perfectly.

  “You painted the walls,” Sam finally says and follows me inside. I plop my backpack on my bed and situate my pillows against the headboard to assume my usual homework position.

  I guess he’s right; the last time he would have been in here was probably eight years ago, back when the walls were bright green and pink. Around freshman year, Papa helped me paint them a neutral beige again, save for the dark brown accent wall across from my bed, where photos of all the dogs we’ve had come through the shelter are strung on a piece of twine held up by little clips.

  He paces over to the wall, looking at the pictures, and points. “Squirt!”

  Her picture is the farthest to the right, and it’s the perfect candid shot of her outside, head twisted over her shoulder, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.

  I chuckle a little. “I think that’s my favorite picture of her. Jo took it.”

  He inspects it a second longer. “She’s a great photographer.”

  I smile like a proud mom.

  He points to another picture, this one closer to the center. A chubby six-year-old me stands center frame on a porch with a bright blue sky behind my pigtails. In it, I’m proudly holding up some starter microscope kit in a bright yellow box above my head, smiling so wide you can see all of my missing teeth. Grand-mère and Grand-père, who gave me the gift, are squatting beside me, both donning goofy grins and thumbs-ups. Large black sunglasses take up most of Grand-mère’s face, but Grand-père just squints against the sun, his face a deep tan from all those hours working in the garden.

  My chest twinges a bit at the sight. When Harper and I were younger, the whole family made yearly trips to France to visit them, but as we got older and everyone’s schedules got busier, those trips started happening less and less. I think the last time we went, I was in middle school. I used to love hiking through the French countryside with Grand-père as he pointed out all the different kinds of plants, or visiting the city with Papa, hearing about his study-abroad adventures in college and seeing the coffee shop where he and Maman met.

  “Weren’t they…?” he trails off, pressing his lips together like he’s second guessing his question. He points to the picture of Grand-mère and Grand-père again. “I thought I remembered talk of them moving here, way back when.”

  The twinge returns. I nod. When I was twelve, they started the papers to immigrate here, but even with family in the United States, the process is still unbelievably outdated and slow. I shrug. “They’re still waiting. Some people wait decades before they make it to the front of the line. So all they can do is wait.”

  “Wow.” Sam takes a step away from the wall. “I had no idea it took that long. Is it like a quota thing?”

  “Yes and no. Quotas, and also just an overwhelmed system that hasn’t been updated since the nineties.”

  “Yikes. I’m sorry.”

  I shrug again. “It is what it is, I guess. I just feel horrible for them. They’ve already been waiting for over six years. It feels like so much lost time.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to dig all of that up for you.”

  “It’s okay.” I give him a wide smile, trying to lighten the mood again as he comes over to join me, stretching out along the foot of the bed. His tall frame is way too much for my queen mattress to handle, so his fe
et dangle off the end. He pulls a book out of his bag and reaches a hand toward me. I stare at it, confused.

  He peers at me over the book. “Fry?”

  I laugh and set the greasy bag between us—I usually refrain from eating in my bed because I hate all of the crumbs, but today, strangely, I couldn’t care less—and hand him a few of the fries. He dips his head in thanks as I pull out The Binder.

  There’s something about being told no or you can’t that has never sat well with me. So naturally, upon hearing from everyone around me that college—at least any colleges I’m actually interested in—was out of the question, I’d taken it upon myself to find a way to work around that. The Binder is so full everything is practically bursting out of it. Printed-out copies of all the college applications I submitted, old essay drafts, financial aid applications, private scholarship applications, separate essays for each scholarship, work-study applications, advice columns for scholarship essay writing—everything I could possibly need is in here.

  Sam stops what he’s doing when I pull it out and stares.

  “What is that?” he asks.

  “My golden ticket out of here,” I reply, flipping it open and pulling out an old draft of my UC Davis essay for motivation, along with my dozens of current scholarship applications. It’s my ultimate dream school, and they have an amazing vet program for post-grad. I worked doubly hard on that application, but it won’t mean much if I get in and can’t afford it.

  Tuition is forty grand.

  A year.

  I’m both anticipating and dreading my acceptance decision showing up in the mail this month.

  He scoots closer and cocks his head, trying to read. “College apps?”

  I sigh. “It’s a never-ending process.”