The Anti-Virginity Pact Page 3

  “What do you think her deal is?” The guy on my right nods his head toward the receptionist. “My guess is divorce.”

  At first, I’m not sure he’s talking to me, but no one else has looked up from their phones, and now he’s definitely looking at me, waiting for a response. He has short dark hair and those invisible braces on his upper teeth, and I’m pretty sure he’s on the basketball team, though I’m certain we’ve never spoken before.

  “Uh—” As usual, my brain fails me in coming up with a witty response. Or in this case, any response. Heat slowly creeps up my ears.

  In some small act of grace, a woman appears around the corner and calls, “Meredith?”

  I quickly hoist my backpack up and hurry after her, not looking back at the boy who now probably thinks I’m mentally deficient.

  “I’m Mrs. Russell.” The woman offers me a hand to shake, and I cringe a little because I know mine’s sweaty. She pretends like she doesn’t notice and leads me to her cubicle, which is the farthest one in the back. She’s tall, her height further exaggerated by the six-inch heels she’s wearing—bright yellow to match her blouse. Maybe wearing bright colors is some psychological job requirement.

  Her cubicle is minimally decorated with a few plants and crayon drawings probably done by her kids. The one closest to me looks like a top-heavy giraffe with pink-painted nails, but I’m honestly not sure. She sinks into the seat behind her desk and motions for me to take one of the plush chairs across from her. The entire office reeks of lemon-scented cleaning supplies.

  “Let me just pull up your file,” she says, her typing much quieter than the receptionist’s was. “Are you excited about graduation?”

  “Very.” I offer her a closed-lip smile.

  “Well, your grades look great, and that’s quite the impressive ACT score. I see here that you’re interested in pursuing a pre-vet program? Are you still looking at the schools you have listed here?”

  I wring my hands together in my lap. I’m focusing so hard on keeping eye contact with her that I almost don’t process what she’s saying. “Yeah, but now I’m just trying to find somewhere I can get a good scholarship.” I break our eye contact and look at the picture of her golden retriever on the desk instead. “My parents don’t really like the schools I’m looking at, so they’re not going to help pay.”

  She leans back in her chair. “That’s surprising. Most parents would be thrilled. UC-Davis, Cornell—these are all great schools.”

  “They’re not all-girls, Christian, or close by.” The words come out a lot harsher than I intend.

  For a moment we just stare at each other.

  Mrs. Russell nods slowly. “Beaumont. As in Pastor Beaumont?” Her voice sounds oddly sour when she says it.

  “That would be the one.” The closed-lip smile again.

  “Well.” She rolls her chair back and sifts through the brochures on her back wall. “You definitely have the grades to be a strong contender for a scholarship. You’ll also need a good essay. A lot of schools offer merit scholarships, but you could also look for private ones. Have you already started applying? A lot of them have early deadlines. I think a lot have passed. Do you have any extracurriculars, volunteer work, work experience, anything like that? Good grades and test scores are great, but they won’t be enough to make you to stand out.” All of this comes out without her taking a single breath.

  She hands me the stack of brochures, then rolls back over to her computer and starts typing again.

  “I volunteer at the animal shelter,” I say weakly.

  “That’s good.” She nods, though it’s less than enthusiastic. “Anything else?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “Hm.” She purses her lips and scrolls on her computer. “You have a lot of AP classes, which is good. But colleges are really looking for more well-rounded and interesting candidates.”

  Did this woman seriously just call me boring?

  “People with interesting hobbies, accomplishments, awards,” she continues. “I’d work on padding your resume some more, and make sure you have a really impressive essay.” She keeps nodding, though it seems to be more to herself than me, and leans forward to read something on her screen. Maybe she’s reading from a script. “You should also apply pretty widely. For as many as you can. There’s a big book in the library full of private scholarships you should check out. Did you apply to any smaller schools? You might want to aim lower—they might be more generous with their financial aid.”

  When she finally looks back at me, we stare at each other in silence for a couple of seconds before I realize I’ve been dismissed.

  “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” I stand and slip my backpack over my shoulder.

  “Don’t forget your brochures!” She shoves the papers I’d left on her desk at me. “And good luck with everything!” She glances at her watch, stands, and follows me to the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”

  The moment I take a step out of her cubicle, she passes me and heads back to the lobby. I shuffle through the papers in my hands, all of which are for local community colleges, and promptly shove them in the trashcan before following.

  ✦✦✦

  I’m halfway to Mr. Graham’s classroom for World History when the bell rings, and the hallways instantly clog with people, as they always do during passing period. I flatten myself against the lockers as I attempt to slip through the jostling mass of bodies. The high-fives, loud conversations, and slamming lockers are just static in my ears. Usually, my anxiety would be going crazy in this crowd, but my mind keeps getting stuck on that look on Mrs. Russell’s face, like I was completely delusional and out of my depths. Like I had no chance of going somewhere good. If my straight A’s, near-perfect test scores, and volunteer experiences aren’t enough for colleges, then what possibly is? If I weren’t so angry by how dismissive and completely unhelpful she’d been, I’d probably be crying.

  Jo was smart and scheduled her appointment earlier in the semester, but from what she told me, they hadn’t been much help for her either. Once she dropped her aspiration bomb of art school and a photography degree, she pegged herself as an alumn unlikely to become a success story for their newsletter, and they sent her off with a pat on the back and a good luck! But Johanna’s family has money, so at least they didn’t tell her don’t bother.

  When I finally reach my destination, I nearly run into the door because the boy in front of me couldn’t be bothered to hold it.

  I slip inside, and Mr. Graham is standing at the front of the room in his fancy Mr. Graham attire—he always looks like he just stepped out of a Calvin Klein catalog—with his back to the class as he writes something on the whiteboard. You’d have to be blind not to notice how attractive he is, but I’d never really given it much thought. After that conversation with Jo this morning, however, I am hyperaware of him. My eyes fall on the way his hand grips the dry erase marker as I enter the room, and I quickly look away, heat prickling the back of my neck.

  I head for my desk in the back, head down. Johanna’s seat is next to mine, but she’s not here yet. The girls who sit in front of us, both members of what Johanna has labeled the Pretty Committee, are twisted toward each other in their chairs, chatting, blocking the entire aisle so I can’t get through. I wait beside them, obviously trying to get past, but they don’t move.

  Finally, I say, “Excuse me.”

  They pull away from each other without looking at me, but they don’t stop talking. The movement is so minor that I basically have to climb over the combination of bags, feet, and knees still blocking my path.

  When Jo shows up, it’s a completely different story. She doesn’t bother waiting; she just pushes the girls aside and forces her way through.

  “Excuse me!” Ashley, the blonde who sits in front of me, says.

  “Yeah,” Jo replies as she sinks into the seat beside me. “Excuse you. You’re blocking the whole goddamn aisle
.”

  Jo and I are not popular for two very different reasons. Me, because I’m invisible. Her, because she calls out bullshit when she sees it, hates everything about the Pretty Committee, and isn’t shy about letting them know it. I, on the other hand, have nightmares at just the thought of confrontation.

  Ashley levels Jo with a chilling look and then turns it on me, as if I’m guilty by association, before turning back to her friend. Johanna and I exchange a sideways glance.

  While digging out my World History stuff from my backpack, I hear Jo make a drawn-out hum. She’s watching Mr. Graham, shaking her head a little.

  “Damn, he has a nice ass,” she whispers to me. “Have you ever noticed how nice his ass is?”

  I stare at her. “You’re seriously starting to weird me out.”

  She sighs, rests her cheek in her hand, and continues to watch Mr. Graham as he strolls over to his desk and picks up a stack of papers. “I just appreciate nice things,” she muses.

  “Does someone want to help pass these out?” Mr. Graham asks the class.

  “I’ll do it!” Ashley pops up from her seat, smoothes down her plaid skirt, and hurries over to Mr. Graham. He hands her half the stack and she flips her hair over her shoulder.

  “His first name is Oliver. Oliver Graham. God, even his name is attractive,” Jo whispers.

  I try to think of a nice way to tell Johanna she needs to stop wasting her time. It would be one thing if she just had a crush on him—and in all honesty, that would be justifiable—but she actually wants something to happen. And there’s no way Mr. Graham would ever go there with her, or any student for that matter. Just look at the way he’s ignored Ashley’s obvious flirting the past few months.

  “Jo—”

  “Who is…Meredith Beaumont?” Ashley stands at the front, squinting at the paper on the top of her stack.

  I lift my hand a little. “Over here.”

  It’s not like I sit behind you. Or have had at least one class with you every year since fourth grade.

  “Oh.” She struts over to our seats and plops the old worksheet on my desk. “Sorry.” Funny. She doesn’t look the least bit sorry. “You’re just so quiet.” She pauses and smiles like she’s waiting for me to laugh with her. Like she just said something clever. As if she’s unique in pointing out the one thing every fucking person feels the need to point out, as if I of all people am not cripplingly aware of this fact.

  Extroverted people like to point out shyness like it’s the punchline to the ultimate joke. A joke that just never seems to get funny, despite hearing it thirty times a day. But every time someone points it out, I feel myself shrink just a little bit smaller. Because no matter how hard I try to break out of my comfort zone, to talk just a little bit more—hell, even if I did a complete 180 and turned into the bubbliest of extroverts—it wouldn’t matter. Once people have decided you’re a “quiet one,” they never let it go.

  They never let you forget it.

  As she flips away and moves on to the next paper in her hands, one of her friends—another member of the Pretty Committee—leans toward her and whispers, “Has she been in our class the whole year?”

  Ashley giggles. “Right?”

  Suddenly my whole body feels hot, and I hear their laughter like it’s crawled inside of my bones. But I do what I always do. I grit my teeth, pretend I didn’t hear, and turn back to Jo.

  Mr. Graham stops beside my desk to drop off my latest test. Ninety-four. Relieved, I snatch it off my desk and do a quick flip through of the pages. History has never been my strongest subject, but I studied for this one for weeks. While he shuffles through the remaining papers in his hands, I glance over to catch Jo shamelessly staring at him. He pulls one from the pile and hands it to her, facedown.

  “Johanna, could you see me after class?” he asks.

  She sits up taller, smiling. “Of course.”

  As soon as he’s gone, Jo leans across the aisle and whispers, “Did you hear that? He wants to see me after class.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  I flip her test over. Fifty-two.

  I grimace. “I think it might have more to do with that.”

  Her lips pucker.

  “What do you have in this class right now?” I ask. “You know you need to pass to graduate.”

  The pucker intensifies. “History really isn’t my forte.”

  “If you want, I could tutor you—”

  She gasps and slams her hands down on her desk, her eyes lit with excitement. Blonde Number Two whips around to glare, but Jo just waves her off with a middle finger and turns back to me. “Thanks for the offer—really, Mare, I love you forever—but I just got a better idea. What if I ask Mr. Graham to tutor me? Then we’d have all this alone time, and…you know,” she mouths. “This couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it.”

  I’m shaking my head before she even finishes speaking. “Jo, please let this go.”

  But Mr. Graham has already returned to his place at the front of the class to begin teaching, and Jo turns away, fully engrossed.

  “Today is the day I know you’ve all been looking forward to.” Mr. Graham holds up a stack of papers. “Group projects.”

  The class makes no effort to hide their groans as Mr. Graham starts working his way through the aisles again, assigning group members and passing out papers. I say a silent prayer that I don’t end up with a group that makes me do all of the work. Usually, when that happens, it’s not that big of a deal. But apparently, at least according to our esteemed guidance counselors, I have a lot of work to do if I want any hope of getting into college, so I don’t have time to carry a bunch of dead weight for a project that’s worth half our grade.

  “Meredith.” Mr. Graham appears at my side and hands me the assignment. “You’ll be with Johanna and Ashley.” He hands each of them a sheet of paper and moves on before my brain has the chance to fully process this information.

  “I am so sorry,” Ashley’s friend mutters and lays her hand on Ashley’s arm before turning away to her own group.

  Ashley turns around in her seat to face us, her upper lip curled back.

  “Don’t worry,” Johanna says flatly. “We’re just as happy about this as you are.”

  “That’s doubtful,” Ashley snips.

  “Look at it this way,” Johanna replies. “You just lucked out. You’ve got a group who’ll do everything for you so we don’t turn in anything stupid.”

  Ashley’s jaw sets. “Did you just call me dumb?”

  “We just both need a good grade on this,” I cut in before Jo can say anything else. Judging by how high her eyebrows have risen, it wouldn’t have been anything pleasant.

  Ashley turns her glare on me, nostrils flared. “And you think I’m incapable of getting a good grade?”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “We can meet at my house,” Johanna offers. “This isn’t due for a while, so how about next week?”

  “Fine,” Ashley says through her teeth. “And since you two are so smart, why don’t you start brainstorming topics? Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go be stupid in the bathroom.” She storms out of the room, a tube of lip gloss in hand.

  “I think we just made her hate us even more than she already did,” I mutter.

  “I didn’t think that was possible.” Johanna grins like this is an accomplishment.

  “Everything okay back there?” Mr. Graham calls from his desk.

  Johanna just grins wider and gives him a thumbs up. “Oh, everything is great.”

  3

  I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for so long that even after I blink my eyes shut, I can still see the webpage burned into my eyelids. Immediately after getting home from school, I’d set myself up in my room and gotten to work. And after two hours of sitting here, all I’ve learned is there are about a million different ways I can write my college essay, but unless I’ve already won an Olympi
c medal, started a successful nonprofit, or starred in a Hollywood movie, none of them are going to do me much good.

  I’ve drafted the essay approximately fifty-six times at this point, all about my life, my passions, my goals. Which should be good enough, given this is a personal statement, but I can’t stop replaying that stupid guidance counselor’s words in my mind. There’s nothing about my life that’ll make my essay stand out from however many thousands of applicants. There’s nothing that interesting. Nothing they haven’t already seen before. I’m a kid who likes animals and has good grades. But so does every other applicant now. Everyone has straight A’s. Everyone takes AP classes. Everyone gets a thirty-five on the ACT. Maybe I am just boring.

  With a frustrated groan, I minimize the now overly-revised Word doc and pull up my most frequented bookmark: the link to Closet Atheists.

  My eyes immediately dart to the door. Even though I know it’s closed, I still double check. Maman’s still at work at the boutique, but I can hear Papa’s gospel music downstairs and Harper working out next door. It’s very unlikely either will come check on me.

  I keep the link hidden three-folders-deep on my computer, so just in case someone borrows it, they don’t stumble across the site accidentally. The red bubble at the top of the page informs me there are four new posts in a forum I’m following. The thread is about atheists and non-believers trapped in religious households. I’ve never posted anything out of paranoia that it would somehow, someway get traced back to me. Even though the site uses anonymous usernames, I’m terrified Papa will somehow find out, as if my internet search history is tattooed on my forehead.

  One of the chat rooms shows recent activity, so I pull it up and start scrolling.

  Fallen2Reason009: If I’m forced to lead prayer at the dinner table one more time I swear I’m going to scream.