“Will you at least think about it tomorrow at school?”
“Whatever,” Jonas says. “Study for your history final.”
“I am, I am. Can we go get doughnuts before school, though? I need sugar for brainpower.”
“Sure,” Jonas says. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Thanks, Jonas,” I say, and I mean it for a thousand different things, which I think he understands.
When we hang up, I stare at my history book for a few moments. I mean to study—really—but that damned Princess Ball questionnaire stares at me. Lurking, there beneath a bunch of papers on my desk. I grab a pink pen and begin to fill in the first page.
1. Your Name: Shelby Crewe
2. Father’s Name: Doug Crewe
3. Mother’s Name:
Mom told me once that growing up, she’d been determined to never change her name when she got married. When she met Dad, that changed—his last name is Crewe, like the main character in her favorite book, A Little Princess. She said it must have been fate, so she changed her name for his. I stare at the blank where her name goes—usually, I would just put a dash or skip the Mother’s Name part of school forms and stuff, because as awful as it is to dash Mom out of existence, it’s way better than how people look at me when I go through the whole “She had breast cancer and died, so no, she doesn’t have a daytime phone or e-mail address” explanation. People get this sad look and talk to you in high-pitched voices, then about two minutes later go on to something else. The world keeps spinning, I guess. Even my world.
I wish it wouldn’t.
I look down at my hands, clutching the pink pen. Do they look like hers? I can’t quite remember. It’s like every year, she gets more watery in my head, her features a little less defined without the help of a photograph. I wonder what she would think of all this—I mean, she went to the Princess Ball, she wore a white dress just like I’ll have to. But as far as I know, she didn’t have to say vows aloud. Would she understand why I can’t?
Would she be disappointed in me?
I try to picture myself telling her about it, asking her advice. She’d talk some sense into Dad, I bet. I daydream about lying on my parents’ bed, sun streaming in the windows, while she sorts laundry and I ask her what she would do if she were me.
People expect you to miss the big things after someone you love dies. They expect you to think about graduating, falling in love, getting married without your mother there. And I do think about those things. But the things I really miss are smaller, fractions of my life intersected with hers, the moments I didn’t bother remembering because they seemed too unimportant—going to the grocery store, coming down the stairs in the morning, watching television, folding laundry. Things that happened a thousand times that will never, ever happen again. It’s like a drug that I can’t have, yet am hopelessly addicted to; I want those moments all the time. Some days all I do is imagine them, an endless stream of daydreams.
But even in my daydreams, she can’t respond. Mom is stuck in time—I can never know what she’d say to a problem I’m having in my life now, especially not this one, because everything would be different if she hadn’t died. Daydream Mom just smiles at me, folds a T-shirt, reminds me of the Promises. She doesn’t age—she always looks thirty-two in my dreams, the way she looked just before she got sick. What will happen when I turn thirty-four and my mom is younger than I am? When I’m no longer her little girl?
I’ll have to grab onto something, someone, just like before, because I know it’ll feel like the world is collapsing all over again. I wonder if I’ll reach out for God again, only to be completely unable to grab hold.
Maybe. But probably not. I think I’m done reaching out for him.
It’s not that I didn’t want to find God after Mom died. It’s not even that I don’t believe in him—in fact I believe in him now even more than I did when I was little. When your world is all about your beautiful mom and funny dad and birthdays and pony rides and laughter, the God Sunday school teaches you about seems like another pretty story they just haven’t made a Disney movie of yet. But when your mom dies slowly, painfully, while you pray and beg and give just like you’re told, your entire world shifts. God is more real than ever—because he’s hurt you. And you’re forever left wondering why, when you reached out, God didn’t let you grab on.
I wish he would. It’d be so much easier to blame him that way—so much easier to handle than the thick disappointment in God that I can never really shake. The Promises, however, let me grab on every time. I did everything God ever asked of me and Mom still died—so maybe if I do everything Mom asked… well, some good will come of it, surely. I won’t be losing my virginity for nothing.
I shake my head and turn back to the questionnaire, eager to push away the gnawing ache in my chest. I’ve gotten good at casting pain aside. I move on to the next question without writing in Mom’s name.
4. Do you have any brothers, close uncles, close male cousins, or other men who play a significant role as a guiding figure in your life?
Well, Jonas, sort of, but I don’t know that I’d say he’s a man in my life, exactly. Still, he keeps the Life List, he’s my best friend. It doesn’t get much more “guiding” than that. I write his name in.
5. How much quality time do you spend with your father exclusively on any given day?
Um… quality time? What is quality time, anyway? Does it count as quality if we just sit together over dinner and try to avoid too much discussion?
I wonder what Dad would say about the LOVIN plan. Not that I’ll talk to him about it, of course, but sometimes I daydream about Dad the same way I daydream about Mom—only I think about the dad I would have if he weren’t torn apart by grief. I pretend he’s the kind of dad who goes to the school plays I’d be in if I hadn’t quit theater, who helps me make lame science projects, who glares at boys who want to take me to prom and teaches me how to drive on the weekends.
I wonder if he sometimes pretends I’m a different kind of daughter.
I scribble in one hour and push the paper aside.
33 days before
The doughnuts don’t help me with my history final. By the time I make it out of the two-hour test (which is cruel and unusual punishment, if you ask me), my brain is fried. We have a half hour before final number two of the day; luckily I’ve never had a big problem with English. I skip reviewing the study packet and sit down beside Jonas in the lunchroom.
“Okay,” I say, anxious to get the French Revolution off my mind. “This is our chance. Who is LOVIN plan material?”
“This is still the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Jonas mumbles, and pretends to read his history study guide.
“Come on,” I plead. “I don’t want to choose people without your opinion, Jonas. You know them as guys. You’ve got insight. You’ve got secret knowledge!”
“The only thing I’ve got is a serious headache from all this. Come on, can’t it wait till after finals?”
“Nope. I’ve only got five weeks, remember?”
Jonas sighs and sets down his packet, then helps me scan the lunchroom. I’m looking with anticipation; Jonas is looking nauseated.
“Maybe we should take this table by table,” I say when I realize that looking at the entire school at once is a little intimidating. Anna Clemens sits down beside Jonas and glances around to see what we’re staring at.
“What’s going on with you two?” she asks.
I quickly give Jonas a small shake of the head; I don’t want anyone else knowing about my LOVIN plan. I may be going through with this, but it doesn’t mean I’ve lost sight of how crazy it is. Jonas sighs and doesn’t answer Anna, who turns her questioning gaze to me.
“I was asking Jonas,” I begin, realizing just how helpful a girl like Anna could be, “if he thought any guy in school is particularly sexy.”
“You asked Jonas that?” Anna asks as Jonas’s face turns beet red. “And you were looking, Jonas?”
&nbs
p; “Something like that,” Jonas says with a scowl.
“He was just helping me out,” I say.
Anna shrugs it off and scans the room. “I don’t know about sexy, really. Why?”
“I was just trying to figure out how many of them have actually had sex, you know?”
“Oh! Well, hell, Shelby, I can tell you that,” Anna says, face lighting up. If Anna doesn’t know about a hookup, it simply didn’t happen. And if that hookup involves the marching band she knows if it happened, the size of all body parts involved, a time frame, and underwear colors.
“Let’s see, the entire football table, pretty much, though I don’t know if I’d ever call one of them sexy. But then, I’m not into jocks,” Anna says with a shrug. “The theater table—Jason and Mike play for the other team, but the rest are straight. I think they’ve all gotten to the last levels, but only Mark and Nick are on the high-score list. I’d also say most of the horn line has played the game, and the majority of the drum line has gone hot and heavy with a girl or two—usually from the woodwind section. People always figure it’s the color guard, but seriously, it’s the woodwinds you’ve got to look out for.”
“Good to know,” I say, almost sincerely as I analyze the maze of metaphors. Jonas seems to have zoned out, focusing intensely on loose threads at the bottom of his T-shirt.
“Anyway, it’s kind of random. Sometimes it’s the guys you’d never expect, truth be told,” Anna says, looking at Jonas and me with a shrug.
“Right…” I eye the drama table carefully. The king of the drama department is Ben Simmons. He’s the sort of guy who is incredibly popular despite not being a jock, but there’s nothing quite like playing Romeo to win the heart of every high school girl (and maybe a few young teachers). We were friends in middle school when we were both in drama club; I dropped out when I realized my lack of acting skills would always relegate me to celebrated roles like “Cowboy #6” or “Eager Fan.”
“What about Ben Simmons?” I ask. Jonas’s head jumps up.
“Oh yeah. He’s kind of the man whore of the drama department. I made out with him at a party once, actually. Probably the most popular I’ll ever get,” Anna says with a sigh.
As soon as the bell rings, I tug Jonas aside. “Put Ben Simmons on the list.”
“Are you crazy? I thought you were just entertaining Anna. Ben is an arrogant asshole. You wanted my opinion and—”
“But there’s not a rule against jackasses, remember? And besides, he’s probably got standards that I can meet without going to the football players. Jonas, come on…. He’s just an option. Maybe I won’t even need him.”
Jonas rolls his eyes but nods. “Fine, but he can’t be the number-one pick.”
“Deal.”
I meet up with Jonas at the end of the school day and make him pull out the LOVIN List so I can see Ben’s name, which is sitting halfway down the page. Still, having one name makes me feel better, like I’m making progress instead of just accepting my eternal virgin fate.
“Think of anyone else?” Jonas asks as we walk to his car, a defeated sound in his voice.
“Sort of.” The name occurred to me in the middle of my English final. He’s not the person I’d most like to sleep with, but there are worse choices.
“Who?” Jonas asks.
“What about… Daniel?”
“Daniel? Costume Daniel? Ex-boyfriend Daniel?” Jonas asks.
“Sure. I mean, I know he doesn’t have any creepy disease or whatever. And besides, we already fooled around a little bit. He’s an okay guy.”
Jonas studies me for a moment. “Daniel. Really?”
“You sound surprised,” I say as we approach the door to the parking lot. People bottleneck here, smashed together like cattle.
“I am. Daniel…” Jonas says as he ducks to avoid getting hit in the face by a girl’s giant frizzy hair.
“I’ve got a better shot with him than Ben, I imagine.”
Jonas sighs. “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” he quotes as we break out of the cattle herd and emerge in the heat of the day. We squint in the bright sunlight, and the scent of cut grass from the baseball field is heavy in the air.
When we get to Lucinda, Jonas pulls out the LOVIN List and scribbles Daniel’s name at the top. “If you’re actually going through with this, I guess it’s better Daniel than Ben,” he mutters.
We’d promised Ruby we would drop by Flying Biscuit after school, and by the time we’re there I’m already considering my options for a third guy. Jonas seems sick of hearing about it, so I keep quiet as I race through guys in the marching band. Steven what’s-his-name? He’s not entirely unattractive. Maybe. But then there’s also Alex, a trumpet player who has a reputation….
“So have we come up with a better loophole for the ball? Tell me fast. I’ve got a table of those Red Hat Society ladies waiting on a messed-up order,” Ruby says with a grin. She slides into our booth, braided pigtails swinging back and forth. Her skin looks even more elaborate in the afternoon light, a watercolor of peach tones.
“No, we’re still going with your plan, unless you’ve got a better one,” I say. “I have five weeks to find someone—”
“Five weeks? Man. I thought you had more time,” Ruby says. “So, who is the lucky winner of your virginity, Shel? Because the new waiter here asked about you. Jeffery? And all I’m saying is, I wouldn’t throw him out of bed.”
“We’re making the list,” I say, “and at the top is Daniel Caulfield. He’s the perfect candidate. We aren’t friends anymore, and as far as I know, he’s STD-free. No offense to Jeffery—I’d just rather start with people I somewhat know.”
“Daniel Caulfield,” Ruby says, flipping her order book back and forth as she thinks. “The guy you dated last year, right?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Jonas interrupts with a defeated tone. “And that was also the guy she broke up with last year.”
“That’s only relevant if they broke up for a sex-related reason,” Ruby says, leaning back to eye the order-up counter. “I mean, if they split because he’s all, like, ‘Oh, baby, I want to have hot carnal relations with you now in this beanbag chair,’ then he’s perfect for this—”
“I so don’t want to hear this,” Jonas cuts her off, then clamps his lips down on his soda straw and slouches, letting his shaggy hair fall in front of his eyes.
I turn to Ruby. “We broke up after only a few weeks because I couldn’t compete with his love for cosplay. I refused to miss Jonas’s birthday to go to some ginormous costume convention with him. But we did, um… fool around a few times. So I don’t think sex is too far out of the question.”
“How ‘around’ was this fooling?” Ruby asks. Jonas puts his head down and groans.
“Removal of shirts, reaching under other… um… articles of clothing,” I say like I’m explaining a medical condition.
“That’s not very ‘around’—oh, wait, hold that thought,” Ruby cuts in as the cook slides a plate heaped with pancakes under the heat lamps. She hurries over to deliver it to a table of impatient-looking women in elaborate red and purple hats. They look like a bunch of oversize berries.
“I didn’t know that,” Jonas says, sighing as he sits back up.
“Huh? That Daniel and I—”
“No, I figured that. He was always staring at your boobs—no way he wouldn’t cop a feel. But I didn’t know about why you and Daniel broke up. I thought it was just the cosplay thing. I didn’t know the thing about my party.”
I prop my feet up on the opposite side of the booth, trying to keep my sundress tucked under my legs. “Well, it was really just convenient timing. The cosplay thing was freaking me out, and your mom told me you’d be getting the car, so… you know. I couldn’t miss the unveiling of my primary mode of transportation.” I smile, and Jonas laughs, yet shakes his head.
“Fair. But promise me that if he wants you to dress up like Wonder Woman in order to have sex, you’ll bail.”
“Oka
y,” I say. “He’s more of the anime-loving-fuzzy-ear-wearing-girl type anyhow.”
“Naturally,” he says, grabbing for his glass again as Ruby slinks back over.
“So how and when are you going to get him into bed?” she asks with a candied gleam in her eyes. I blush a little.
“I’m thinking Saturday, just because I can usually get the van on Saturday nights. I’m not sure how, though. I figured I’d just, like… you know, hit on him, and then… I figured I could just—”
“Are you going to tell him you’re still a virgin?” Jonas interrupts.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “What if he gets cold feet?”
“What if he doesn’t know and is… rough?” Jonas asks, folding his arms across his chest and raising a bushy eyebrow.
“Good point, Jonas,” Ruby says. “Seriously, Shel. If you’re hoping he’ll tell from your face that he’s hurting you, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I’ll just tell him to be careful. I’m not going to explain the whole plan and ball and everything, though. That’d definitely scare him off.”
“Good idea. And what about the panties?” Ruby asks.
“Oh, God,” Jonas groans.
“The panties?” I ask.
“Yes. I know the kind of panties you wear, Shelby, and if you think those are going to get the deed done, you’re putting way too many eggs in the ‘He’s after what’s underneath them’ basket.”
“Ugh, stop saying ‘panties.’ That word is totally unacceptable—but besides, I wear cute underwear!” I say. “I’m wearing ones with little flowers—”
“Do they have lace?” Ruby asks, folding her arms so that she looks like Jonas.
“No, but—”
“Exactly. This isn’t a guy you’ve dated for ages who will think you’re adorable no matter what. Trust me on this one, Shelby. A matching lace bra and panty set will make you impossible to resist. It’s like guys have some sort of irreversible programming when they see them. ‘Ah! Lace bra and panties! Allow me to sex you up, please!’ ” she proclaims in a robot voice.