Good Girls Part 12

He pulls two rubber gloves out of a box on the counter and puts them on. They're exactly the same brand of glove, I see, that I bought at the beauty supply store.

This seems all wrong to me.

"Now I want you to lie back on the table and put your feet in these stirrups."

Put my feet up in what? Are you freaking kidding me? I do what he says, though, focusing hard on the ceil- ing. It's one of those white cork ceilings with all the crazy pockmarks. "Audrey, I need you to open your knees."

"Sorry," I say. I'm blus.h.i.+ng, but the nurse still looks bored as she hands the doctor what looks like a huge plastic salad server shaped like a duck's bill.

"This is a speculum, Audrey," he says. "I'm going to insert this and get a better look at your cervix, okay?

You might feel a bit of pressure." I feel something pok- ing at me. "Audrey, try and relax."

YOU RELAX!!! I take a deep breath. The salad server forces its way in. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's 141 weird and I hate it. "Ow," I say.

"Are you okay?" he says.

No. "I guess."

"You're doing great, Audrey." He looks around inside me for a while. "I'm going to take a swab of your v.a.g.i.n.al secretions."

Ew. "What for?" I say.

"Just to make sure there's no infection. It's routine."

Infection. Right. How nice.

He pokes around some more. "Everything is looking healthy, Audrey. I'm going to remove the speculum now.

Then I'm going to insert two fingers to check your ovaries and fallopian tubes, all right?"

NO! NO! NO! "All right."

He stands and sticks his fingers inside me while press- ing down on my stomach from the outside. He looks thoughtfully off into the air as he does this, as if he's composing poetry or writing songs in his head. I think he's a terrible person. Only sick and terrible people would want to do this for a living.

"Okay," he says. He pulls his fingers out and whips off the gloves while Nurse Potato adjusts the stirrups and helps me to sit up again. "Though we'll make sure of it with some tests, everything looks fine to me."

Exhale. "I'm glad," I say.

He plunks down on his trusty black stool. "Now, since you are s.e.xually active, I do want to talk to you 142 about a couple of things. You told me that you used a condom, and that's good. Condoms can do a lot to pro- tect you from a whole host of s.e.xually transmitted dis- eases like chlamydia, gonorrhea, HIV, and genital warts."

"Warts," I say. "I don't like the sound of warts."

My hands twist in my lap, crinkling the paper blankie.

I know about warts and about a lot of other stuff, mostly from books and the Internet, but also from Mrs. Hurtado, our ninth-grade s.e.x Ed teacher . Mrs.

Hurtado was fearless. She showed us a movie of a live birth that looked so b.l.o.o.d.y and painful it had every girl surrounding her desk afterward, carefully examin- ing all the methods of birth control she'd brought with her . She would answer any question we had with com- plete seriousness, no matter how dumb, like Isn't birth control the girl's job? or, You can't get pregnant your first time, right?

"Warts are one thing," the doctor is saying. "But there's also some evidence that condoms might offer protection against something called HPV, human papil- lomavirus, that can cause cervical cancer down the road if it's untreated. I want you to keep using condoms, Audrey, whenever you have s.e.x. Nonlubricated con- doms for oral s.e.x, too. And I want you to have regular checkups."

He makes it sound as if I were having s.e.x every other 143 day. I'm not sure I'll ever have s.e.x again. "Okay," I say.

"Now, condoms are fairly effective in deterring preg- nancy, up to ninety-seven percent. But only if they're used correctly. Make sure you read the package yourself; don't leave it up to your partner to figure everything out.

And I'd recommend another form of birth control for you to use in conjunction with condoms. You're young and healthy, so I think the birth control pill would be an excellent choice. You can also consider Depo-Provera shots. Ninety-nine point seven percent effective."

Shots? I need shots? "I don't want shots," I say.

He smiles at me, a bland, just-giving-you-the-facts smile. "You don't have to get shots. You don't have to get anything. But I do want you to remember that no single birth control method is one hundred percent effec- tive, okay? Not condoms, not pills, not anything. Only total abstinence works all the time."

Duh. "I know."

"So then you can understand why we think it's a good idea for you to select a birth control method to prevent pregnancy and pair that with condoms to pre- vent STDs."

"Yes," I say.

"The nurse will give you some information to take home, and you can think about it. Are your parents with you?"

"My mom is here."

144 "Then maybe you can discuss it with her to come up with the best option for you."

"Okay," I say. Now I think he's terrible and insane.

"Do you have any questions?"

Yeah, when can I get out of here? "I don't think so,"

I say.

"If you have any problems or any questions, I want you to call me right away. We'll be happy to help you."

He smiles again, this time in a friendly and sort of fatherly way, and he doesn't seem so terrible. "We'll leave you to get dressed now. The nurse will be back in a few minutes to take you to the waiting room.

Remember, you can come back or call at any time if you want to discuss birth control options or if anything else comes up. Other than that, I'd like to see you in a year for a checkup."

"Okay," I say.

"Good." He shakes my hand one last time, and then he and Nurse Potato are out the door . I rip off the flimsy outfit and throw on my clothes. My head is spinning with visions of condoms and warts, swabs and shots.

When the nurse takes me back to the waiting room and I see my mother sitting there and I hear her murmur "How was it?" I realize something. If every teenager had to have this exam, if guys had to have some giant duck- billed salad server shoved up their b.u.t.ts on a regular basis, if every high schooler had to hear the words 145 WARTS and GENITALS and CANCER in the same freaking conversation while wearing nothing but a cou- ple of napkins, no one would ever have s.e.x again, and that could be the whole point.

146 The s.l.u.t City World Tour When I sat down with Pam Markovitz and Cindy Terlizzi and sampled their fries, I never thought that it would become a habit. But every day, I walk into the lunchroom and see Ash turn from me as if I have human papillomavirus, see Joelle look faint and theatrical. Then I scan the room and see Pam clearing a seat for me. One 147 thing leads to the next, and then I'm sitting with them all the time.

At first we don't talk much. We order cheese fries, split them three ways, and eat them, occasionally com- plaining about a teacher or some stupid guy who said some stupid thing. I tell them that Ash thinks I'm a s.l.u.t and I don't want to hang out with her , and they don't ask for the gory details.

We start to talk. Things that I didn't know about Pam Markovitz: (a) she's funny; (b) she's smarter than every- one thinks she is; and (c) she's sworn off guys. She says she's had enough of them to know that they just aren't worth it, at least not at this age. "Do you know that the last guy I went out with was trying to get in my pants in the car on the way to the movies? He didn't even wait for me to get my seat belt on, just 'Hey, how are you, you look nice,' and wham! right for the fly. I'm like, Whoa! And he's like, What? As if normal people always ram their hands down each other's pants on first dates."

She waves the air in front of her face as if there's a cloud of smoke, which of course there isn't, because we're in school. "I'm not wasting any more time with boys. What do they know about pleasing a girl?" she says.

"Nothing. That's what they know. I'm saving myself for a man."

"Seems like a good plan to me," I say.

She nods at me. "You get it. You found out the hard 148 way. Heh. No pun intended."

It's the first time they've said anything about the pic- ture or about Luke. I'm tempted to ask Pam if she was with him, too, but I don't, because I know she was and because I really don't want to hear about it. "Yeah," I say. "I found out the hard way." And, to be mean, because I am feeling mean lately, I say, "Or the not-so- hard way."

"The never-hard-enough way!" says Cindy. She laughs, open-mouthed, and then covers her mouth with her hand. Cindy's bottom teeth are crooked, and she's really self-conscious about them. Pam told me that the first thing Cindy wants to do when she turns eighteen is to audition for Extreme Makeover or one of those other plastic surgery shows, like maybe something on MTV.

She wants the works: teeth, b.o.o.bs, cheeks, other cheeks, etc. I think that those shows make everyone look like the talking robots at Epcot Center, but what's the point of telling her that? People don't listen.

"You guys should try Pam's Boy-Free Plan," Pam says. "I feel great. No ha.s.sles, no stupid phone calls at midnight, no begging. No telling me that rubbers ruin the s.e.x for them. Poor , poor babies. Please. Give me a break." She glares out the window, as if the boys who said these things to her are chained up outside, just wait- ing for her to come and kick the c.r.a.p out of them for fun.

149 "I think things used to be better for women," Cindy says. "I'm reading this book where this woman gets kid- napped and has to be harem girl for this guy?"

"Which book is this?" I say.

Cindy digs around in her bag and pulls it out. The woman on the cover is wearing gauzy, see-through pants and a spangly bra. A guy with long, windblown hair and a windblown white s.h.i.+rt stands behind her , pulling her elbows back in a way that could not be comfortable.

The book is called Slave to Love.

"Oh, yeah," says Pam. "She looks like she's having a great time. Is he trying to dislocate her shoulders?"

"You didn't let me finis.h.!.+" says Cindy. "This girl?

Her name is Vienna? She gets rescued from the harem by this guy, Rafe, before anything bad happens to her at the harem. And then Rafe falls in love with her. I'm just at the part where he asks her to marry him."

"Sweet," says Pam. "And?"

"What I'm trying to say is that guys used to be gen- tlemen, didn't they? Some of them, anyway."

"Cindy," I say, "I don't think that those romance novels are historically accurate."

Pam bites the tip off a fry. "Plus, they're rotting your brain."

"Uh-oh," says Cindy, lowering her voice to a hiss.

"Don't look now, Audrey, but here comes your little friend. And your other little friend."

150 I look up and see Ash stomping toward the table, Joelle right behind her. Joelle has a pleading look on her face, like, Please, don't blame me, I couldn't stop her, you know how she gets. I do know how Ash gets, but I don't know how she got this way this time. It's been two and a half weeks since our fight. I broke down and called her right after it happened, but she was furious and wouldn't budge. You screwed up, she told me, you need to admit it. I got mad all over again, hung up the phone, buried my face in Stevie's fur. My mom wanted to know why I needed a ride to school all the time, and I made something up about before-school play rehearsals. To keep my mind off the whole thing, I stud- ied even harder. When I aced my latest essay test (Pride and Prejudice, 101 percent) Mr . Lambright pulled me aside and told me that whatever I was doing, it was working. Ron the Valedictorian folded his own test (98 percent) and gave me a dirty look.

Now Ash stands next to the table, glaring at me, at us.

"Welcome to s.l.u.t City," says Pam, her voice like a refrigerator . "What do you want?"

Ash doesn't answer. Her face relaxes, and she flicks at her eyebrow ring nervously. She sighs and stares at the floor . "I've been a jerk."

"Yes," I say. "You have."

"Yeah," says Pam. "You have."

151 "Ditto," Cindy says.

n.o.body breathes for a minute. Then Pam crosses her arms over her chest. "That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

The muscles in Ash's jaw grind and s.h.i.+ft, and I'm afraid she's going to tell Pam to screw herself. They have completely different styles and att.i.tudes, but the same sort of fierceness. Inside the rings of liner and shadow, their eyes sparkle with hostility. But instead of telling Pam off, Ash says, "No, that's not all I'm going to say, as if it's any of your business. Audrey, this is all my fault.

I just didn't want you to get hurt like I got hurt. And I was upset that you didn't tell me the whole story. But I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry."

Pam and Cindy glance at me. I know there's more to it, and she owes me, but I can't stay mad. I miss her .

"That's okay," I say.

Pam sighs and Cindy shrugs, as if to say, Oh, well, I guess that's the end of this little friends.h.i.+p, see ya. But Joelle claps her hands together in relief. "Thank G.o.d that's over. I was so stressed I thought I would have to get a prescription." She climbs into a seat next to Cindy.

"Can I have a fry?"

Just like that, it's the five of us. I don't have to ask my dad to help me get the materials for the Hamlet stage set; Cindy's dad has an oversized van. Over 152 Thanksgiving break, she drives me over to the Home Depot to buy wood, paint, and other supplies. Ash, Pam, and Joelle insist on coming. Pam is a bad influ- ence on Ash; there's enough chain-smoking to fill the entire van with a thick gray cloud. I roll down the windows to let some out. We're like a traveling five- alarm fire.

"Do the two of you have to smoke at the same time?" Joelle says.

Ash and Pam say "Yes."

"I'm freezing, and my clothes are starting to stink,"

Cindy says. "Smoking is so gross. I don't know how you guys can do it."

Pam says, "You and Joelle could have stayed home."

"I'm not even sure there's going to be enough room for the wood with all of us in the car ," I say, my eyes stinging.

"You would have missed me too much if I didn't come with you!" says Joelle.

"Didn't you have a rehearsal or something?" Pam asks her .

"Yes," Joelle says irritably. "But it was only Polonius.

I can't stand Polonius."

"Joelle's got a crush on Ophelia," I explain.

"You have a crush on a chick?" says Pam. "That's kind of cool."

"It's O, not Ophelia," Joelle says. "And he's not a 153 chick. He's a guy. And he's hot."

"Guys, schmuys," Pam says.