piano) by eighth, and then, once they reached high school, going “all the way.” It happened like clockwork: There would be a party at somebody’s house over the weekend—the parents having disappeared for a vacation in Hawaii, graciously enabling their children to roll a keg into the chaperone-free living room—and on Monday, girls would show up at school with squared shoulders and a fresh familiarity with the male anatomy. (“Oh my God, his penis, like, curved!” “He—so gross—had hair on his back !”) They dropped like flies all freshman year, judging by the conversation in the girls’ locker room. Virginity flew out the window, blossoms of used condoms bloomed in wastepaper baskets all across town, sheets were furtively dumped in spin cycles with extra bleach before Mom and Dad’s town car picked them up at the airport.
Lizzie wanted it so badly she was almost embarrassed. It wasn’t like she believed that losing her virginity was somehow going to be a ticket to womanhood—just like getting her period for the first time had been more of a messy pain in the ass than the entrée to some feminine sisterhood that Margaret had promised. It was more that she wanted to be in the inner circle, to have those terms—clitoris? smegma? pearl necklace?—mean something to her, too. You either knew or you faked it, and she was tired of faking it, tired of nodding sagely while she listened in, uninvited, to yet another whispered tale of deflowering or requited lust, as if she could totally relate, when in fact she couldn’t. Losing your virginity was the ultimate sign of social success, she decided: It meant that you were the object of desire, that a boy wanted you so badly that he couldn’t control himself. She wondered when her mom had lost her virginity. Surely she hadn’t been a virgin on her wedding day.
And neither would Lizzie, thanks to Justin Bellstrom, the indisputable star of Millard Fillmore High’s swimming team.
Her first spring regional swim meet had happened in Sacramento the last week of March. Her mother was playing in the spring tennis tournament at the club, and her father was off on the IPO road show, so Lizzie had gone in the team bus without them, not sure whether she was relieved that they wouldn’t be there embarrassing her or disappointed that they wouldn’t see her swim competitively. And although she didn’t win a blue ribbon at the meet, she did place third in the 100-meter breaststroke time trial. She tried calling her mom on her cell phone to give her this piece of news, but her mother didn’t answer—she was probably on the court. Lizzie didn’t bother leaving a message.
That was the weekend Justin cruised to first-place in the men’s freestyle. As he stood on the pedestal at the end of the race to receive his award, leering at the cheering crowd, Lizzie thought he looked like one of those Greek gods they were studying in her Ancient History class. Adonis. Maybe Hermes. (Or was that the one with the weird clubfoot?) Anyway: Justin’s sun-bleached waves shone, faintly green from chlorine damage (Justin, famously, refused to wear a swim cap), and she could see the downy hair on his legs, growing thicker toward his crotch. He was wearing a fake gold tooth someone had given him as a joke, and when he smiled his trademark dimpled smile, you could see it glint. When they announced his name, he pumped his fist in the air in victory, then quickly turned, yanked down the top of his Speedo, and mooned the crowd with a pale, bumpy behind. Anyone else, the coach would have benched for that stunt, but not Justin. He could get away with anything.
As he was climbing off the pedestal, his gaze snagged on Lizzie’s. Shockingly, he winked at her with one big, pink-rimmed eye—wickedly, as if they’d just shared some secret. She could feel her face burning with pleasure. Was it a message? Had his mooning been some kind of display just for her? Had he secretly had a crush on her all this
Lizzie wanted it so badly she was almost embarrassed. It wasn’t like she believed that losing her virginity was somehow going to be a ticket to womanhood—just like getting her period for the first time had been more of a messy pain in the ass than the entrée to some feminine sisterhood that Margaret had promised. It was more that she wanted to be in the inner circle, to have those terms—clitoris? smegma? pearl necklace?—mean something to her, too. You either knew or you faked it, and she was tired of faking it, tired of nodding sagely while she listened in, uninvited, to yet another whispered tale of deflowering or requited lust, as if she could totally relate, when in fact she couldn’t. Losing your virginity was the ultimate sign of social success, she decided: It meant that you were the object of desire, that a boy wanted you so badly that he couldn’t control himself. She wondered when her mom had lost her virginity. Surely she hadn’t been a virgin on her wedding day.
And neither would Lizzie, thanks to Justin Bellstrom, the indisputable star of Millard Fillmore High’s swimming team.
Her first spring regional swim meet had happened in Sacramento the last week of March. Her mother was playing in the spring tennis tournament at the club, and her father was off on the IPO road show, so Lizzie had gone in the team bus without them, not sure whether she was relieved that they wouldn’t be there embarrassing her or disappointed that they wouldn’t see her swim competitively. And although she didn’t win a blue ribbon at the meet, she did place third in the 100-meter breaststroke time trial. She tried calling her mom on her cell phone to give her this piece of news, but her mother didn’t answer—she was probably on the court. Lizzie didn’t bother leaving a message.
That was the weekend Justin cruised to first-place in the men’s freestyle. As he stood on the pedestal at the end of the race to receive his award, leering at the cheering crowd, Lizzie thought he looked like one of those Greek gods they were studying in her Ancient History class. Adonis. Maybe Hermes. (Or was that the one with the weird clubfoot?) Anyway: Justin’s sun-bleached waves shone, faintly green from chlorine damage (Justin, famously, refused to wear a swim cap), and she could see the downy hair on his legs, growing thicker toward his crotch. He was wearing a fake gold tooth someone had given him as a joke, and when he smiled his trademark dimpled smile, you could see it glint. When they announced his name, he pumped his fist in the air in victory, then quickly turned, yanked down the top of his Speedo, and mooned the crowd with a pale, bumpy behind. Anyone else, the coach would have benched for that stunt, but not Justin. He could get away with anything.
As he was climbing off the pedestal, his gaze snagged on Lizzie’s. Shockingly, he winked at her with one big, pink-rimmed eye—wickedly, as if they’d just shared some secret. She could feel her face burning with pleasure. Was it a message? Had his mooning been some kind of display just for her? Had he secretly had a crush on her all this
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