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Dirty Little Secrets – Read Now and Download Mobi

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They have sex too early and for the wrong reasons. They get STDs. They get pregnant too young. They have “friends with benefits” but with no benefit to themselves. They don’t get called. They get dumped. They hate themselves for being unlovable for being needy. They are loose girls they are everywhere and they need our help. In the provocative hit memoir Loose Girl, Kerry Cohen explored her own promiscuity with brutal candor and stunning clarity. Dirty Little Secrets is the eye-opening follow-up readers have been clamoring for, a riveting look at today’s adolescent girls who use sex as a means to prove their worth. Cohen lays bare the hard truths about this dangerous life that reveals itself in girls you wouldn’t expect and in ways you might not see-and that can seriously damage and hurt these girls. Featuring stories from self-admitted loose girls across the country, Dirty Little Secrets is an unforgettable wake-up call for our culture, ourselves, and our vulnerable daughters. “Very few people can write about teen girls’ sexual promiscuity with the candor, empathy, and intelligence Kerry Cohen does…I think any girl who reads this will recognize at least one girl she knows-and that girl may be looking back at her in the mirror.” -Rosalind Wiseman, new york times bestselling author of QUEEN BEES AND WANNABES and BOYS, GIRLS, AND OTHER HAZARDOUS MATERIALS “As compassionate as it is enlightening, Kerry Cohen’s Dirty Little Secrets argues for female safety and desire, and provides a road map for authentically healthy, vital sexuality.” -Jennifer Baumgardner, author of Look Both Ways, F ‘Em, and Manifesta “A must-read, for it sheds light on the truth behind the secrets and lies teens tell themselves… Women of all ages can relate and benefit from this book-I can’t recommend it enough. Dirty Little Secrets is urgently needed.” -Amber Smith, model and star of Dr. Drew Pinsky’s Celebrity Rehab and Celebrity Sex Rehab “Kerry Cohen has ‘been there’-and it shows in her empathy, her insight, and her remarkable ability to draw out the truth…Dirty Little Secrets busts the myths, breaks down walls, and takes us where we need to go to understand the private lives of so many young women today.” -Hugo Schwyzer, PhD, Pasadena City College, Coauthor, Beauty, Disrupted: the Carré Otis Story (20110530)

Author
Kerry Cohen

Rights
Copyright © 2011 by Kerry Cohen

Language
en

Published
2011-09-01

ISBN
9781402260698

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Copyright © 2011 by Kerry Cohen

Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Jody Billert/Design Literate

Cover image © Cultura RM/Masterfile

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional service. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought.—From a Declaration of Principles Jointly Adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations

This book is not intended as a substitute for medical advice from a qualified physician. The intent of this book is to provide accurate general information in regard to the subject matter covered. If medical advice or other expert help is needed, the services of an appropriate medical professional should be sought.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by Sourcebooks, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cohen, Kerry.

Dirty little secrets : breaking the silence on teenage girls and promiscuity /by Kerry Cohen.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
1. Teenage girls—Sexual behavior. 2. Promiscuity. I. Title.
HQ27.5.C64 2011
306.70835—dc22

2011007322

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To the young women who generously shared their stories, and to those whose stories still ache to be told

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
LETTER TO MY TEENAGE SELF
INTRODUCTION: Girls Like Us

PART ONE: The Loose Girl

CHAPTER 1: Girls Will Be Girls: Female Sexual Development
CHAPTER 2: Boy Crazy: The Fantasy Girls Have about Boys
CHAPTER 3: The Unholy Trinity: The Virgin, the Slut, and the Empowered Girl
CHAPTER 4: Best Friends and Role Models: Mothers and Loose Girls
CHAPTER 5: Daddy Issues: How Fathers Matter
CHAPTER 6: Loose Girls in Context: Risks and Losses
CHAPTER 7: Saying Yes, Saying No: Consensual Sex and Rape
CHAPTER 8: Brave New World: The Loose Girl Online

PART TWO: Gaining Power

CHAPTER 9: Grown-Up Girl: The Adult Loose Girl
CHAPTER 10: The Beginning of Change
CHAPTER 11: Waves: Protecting against Loose-Girl Behavior

PART THREE: Resources

APPENDIX
NOTES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my tireless and supportive agent Ethan Ellenberg, to Sara Appino for seeing the potential for this book, and to my editor Shana Drehs for enthusiastically believing in the book, even when I struggled to. I’m still amazed, Shana, that you got me to the end. Thanks also to Deirdre Burgess, Regan Fisher, and Katherine Faydash for their thoughtful contributions and edits. Tremendous gratitude to April Sirianni and Heather Moore for their impressive work getting the book heard.

My writing group—Michael Guerra, Ken Olsen, Gigi Rosenberg, Katherine Schneider, Jeffrey Selin, and Ellen Urbani—helped me formulate the project and clarify the direction. My family has always been supportive—especially Michael and my two beautiful sons who accommodated my disappearance to work. Thanks to James Bernard Frost, who whisked me away to get writing done, even when we didn’t.

For research help, thank you to Tiffany Kalahui and Helen Delutz.

Finally, but most of all, endless thanks to the thousands of women—young and old—and men who have sent me their stories over the years, and especially those who shared their stories for this project. Had it not been for them, for their honesty and conviction, this book couldn’t exist.

Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying language—this will become, not merely unspoken, but unspeakable.

—Adrienne Rich

LETTER TO MY TEENAGE SELF

I see you. It’s summer, that salty, hazy time when the sun’s heat on your skin feels like the promise of something. When light breezes feel like soft kisses on your face. You’re tan, sun kissed, highlighted. You’re pretty, but you don’t think you’re pretty enough, not enough to make you worth loving.

A boy thinks you’re pretty, too. You know that. I see you, the way you throw him glances, shy smiles, the way he looks back, eager. I see you, the stirring inside, the way you perk up. You’re thinking, Maybe this one will save me. Your father is unaware. Your mother is one thousand miles away. So you go with the boy, because he’s there with you. You go off into the long beach grass, behind storage sheds, into the bedroom of the rented beach house when your dad is gone. Your hands are always on him, and when they’re not, your mind remains on him. Every kiss, every touch, makes you want more, more, more, and soon nothing is enough, nothing feels good enough, nothing fills you. Just like always. And you start to push for more. You start to push even though you know you shouldn’t, even though you know you’ll push too hard. You always do. And sure enough, the moment comes. You say, “Stay with me. Want only me. Make me better, worth something.” And so you’ve sent him away.

I see you two nights later, as well, all the color gone from your face. You watch him, want him to look, but he never does. His friend, though—his friend looks. He smiles, leans in, and whispers in the first boy’s ear. For the first time, the boy you still want glances at you and looks away. Your stomach is in knots. It’s all you want, for him to come to you. So when his friend does instead, you think, This is close enough.

You look back, twice, three times, at the boy you like as you go, but he still doesn’t turn to see. This new boy, the friend, doesn’t see you looking away, or he doesn’t care. He pulls you by the hand. You can’t remember his name, but you know it’s too late to ask. He ducks into a laundry room. I see you, your blank expression, the way you acquiesce, the way you let him take off your underwear, do what he wants, the way you turn your head, waiting for it to be over. Your father is somewhere. Your mother is nowhere. I can almost hear your thoughts: It doesn’t matter. It’s just one more boy.

Afterward, you walk back to the beach house. I see you. I do. I see the way you let your hair fall over your face. You walk quickly, eyes on the ground. “I’m sorry,” I want to tell you. “You’re loved. You’re worthwhile. You don’t have to be anything for anyone else.” But you wouldn’t hear me, because you’re there and I’m all the way over here. You’ll have to keep walking, keep hurting, and someday you’ll reach a point where you say, “Enough of this.” You’ll think it’s possible that you deserve better. You’ll turn to head down another road, also difficult, but worth it. A road you will question often, wondering, Is this really any better? Many times, you will change directions again. Many times, you will think, I’m not worth this. But then you’ll realize again that you are. It will be a long, tiresome road, but eventually you’ll come to know what I know. For now, I see you. For now, I think, If only someone else had seen you, too.

Introduction

GIRLS LIKE US

You see them everywhere. They walk along busy highways in low-slung jeans and tank tops, peering into every car that passes. They sit with their friends in diners and coffee shops, searching, their thoughts clearly on who is looking at them. They catch the eyes of the boys they pass. They smile and flip their hair. They post photos of themselves in bikinis on Facebook. They are just girls. They are your sister, your daughter, your friend, your niece. They are not remarkable, really, in any way. They are almost every girl you see. They believe in their hearts that they are worth nothing, that they have little to offer. They believe boys will pull them out of their ordinariness and finally, finally, transform them into someone better than who they are.

They have sex too early and for the wrong reasons. They get STDs, and they get pregnant too young. They are “friends with benefits,” but with no benefit to themselves. They give out blow jobs like kisses and hope for love in return. They are ignored. They don’t get called. They get dumped again and again. They lie alone in their beds and hate themselves for being so unlovable, for being so needy, for not being like every other girl, for not being able to just have fun. But they aren’t sex addicts or even love addicts. What they crave is the attention, that moment when a boy looks at them and they can believe that they are worth something to someone. They can believe that they matter.

When these girls grow up, they find that in this way, they are still girls. They carry their pasts with boys into their futures. They remain needy, desperate, anxious for someone to prove their worth. The boys, though, become men.

For much of my life, I was that girl. When I became a therapist, I learned that there were many others like me. And when I wrote my memoir, Loose Girl, about my experiences, I heard from many, many more girls like me. They assumed that they were the only ones, that they alone suffered this peculiarity. How could this be? How do we get so far into our lives and into these experiences without sharing them—and our feelings—with our friends, our parents, or a caring adult? Because we feel so alone—because we carry immense shame about our behavior and, more so, our desperation. Some came from divorce, like I did. Others had lived through severe abuse. Still others had untarnished childhoods, intact families, and the feeling that they had been loved. Some had sex with only three men; others with fifty. The number of men isn’t important. It is the feelings these young women experienced—that if they got a man’s attention it would mean they were worth something in the world.

You might be this girl, too. Maybe in some ways you have experienced such feelings even if you never acted on them the way some of us did. You have met eyes with a man and thought, Maybe he could save me. You have done your makeup and dressed provocatively to attract men at an event. You aren’t immune to the feeling that a man will make you feel something more than just love, more than just sexy—that he will make you feel valuable.

We aren’t sex addicts or love addicts—at least not at first. We aren’t diagnosable. We aren’t yet to the point where we let these feelings utterly destroy our lives, even if, in some ways, it seems they do. They consume us. We are obsessed with getting love, with using male attention to make ourselves worthwhile in the world. Like the girls Courtney L. Martin describes in her book Perfect Girls, Starving Daughter: The Frightening New Normalcy of Hating Your Body, girls who don’t have eating disorders per se but obsess over the idea of needing to be thinner than they are, the girls I discuss in this book are on a continuum of promiscuity.1 Sex and love addictions are simply more extreme versions of what many—maybe even most—girls face regarding sex and love.

What happened to us? How did we get to this point, where we use male attention like a drug, again and again, as unsatisfying to us as it is? Why do we keep going back, even though our behavior often becomes self-destructive? And, finally, how do we move from that behavior, those feelings, toward real intimacy?

After Loose Girl arrived on bookshelves, readers were eager to share their stories, to voice their feelings, to know that they weren’t alone. Many wanted answers, a formula, to get themselves to a new place, to stop harming themselves with their promiscuity. This book is my answer to their plea. It is a study of the cult of female, teenage promiscuity, and the silence that surrounds the topic; it is a sharing of numerous stories about the harm done and the movement toward real intimacy. It is also a genuine discussion about how we can make change for ourselves, our daughters, our clients, and our culture.

The bottom line is that we don’t like to talk about teenage girls and sex. Sure, we see it everywhere. Teenage girls in provocative clothing flood the media. They have sex on Gossip Girl and Degrassi and One Tree Hill. And they definitely have sex on reality shows like The Real World and 16 and Pregnant. But when we discuss adolescent girls and sex, it is only in one way: don’t have sex. This is easier than anything else. We tell teenage girls to stay away from sexual behavior and to practice abstinence. Don’t have sex, we say, because we don’t like to imagine them having sex. If they do, then we have to think of them as sexual creatures, and that makes us squirm.

In fact, much of the promiscuity among young women, both heterosexual and homosexual, is likely to go undetected because it makes therapists uncomfortable. When I appeared on Dr. Phil to discuss two teen girls whose parents were unhappy they were having sex, the tagline next to the girls’ names when they were on screen was “sexually active,” as though that was a disorder or a crime of some sort.

But while we refuse to discuss teenage sex, it is happening. According to the Guttmacher Institute, although teenage sexual activity has declined 16 percent in the past fifteen years, almost half (46 percent) of all 15- to 19-year-olds have had sex at least once, and 27 percent of 13- to 16-year-olds are sexually active. The larger proportion of these teenagers are black (67.3 percent) and Hispanic (51.4 percent) rather than white (41.8 percent). Much of the sexual behavior occurs in populations traditionally thought to have less experience in sexual activity, though, such as teenagers from affluent homes and preadolescents.2

Ultimately, the statistics for STDs and teenage pregnancy aren’t promising. We are experiencing a record high of teenage girls with sexual diseases. Of the 18.9 million new cases of STDs each year, 48 percent occur among 15- to 24-year-olds. One in four teenage girls aged 14–19 and one in every two black teenage girls has an STD. Each year, almost 750,000 teen pregnancies are reported for women aged 15–19, and 82 percent of those pregnancies are unplanned.3 The MTV reality series Teen Mom, a spin-off of the wildly successful 16 and Pregnant, had the channel’s highest-rated premiere in more than a year—evidence, I’d say, of our fascination with teenage motherhood. What happens behind these statistics, the feelings and motivations behind promiscuous behavior, and the direct results of it, is less clear. These are the dirty little secrets that girls carry. These are the stories they have—we have—but don’t tell.

There is some research that casual sex among teenagers can be more harmful than we’ve thought. The adolescent brain’s prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain responsible for judgment—develops at an explosive rate. There are in fact only two times during development that the brain is overrun with synapses (neural connections) in this way: right before birth and right before puberty. At this critical time in preadolescence, the brain manufactures far more synapses than necessary. The synapses that are used become stronger. The ones that aren’t used weaken and die. As a result, certain experiences become sealed in that teen’s growth, in the strong synapses. If they handle intimacy—and sex—in ways that don’t get them what they really want, again and again, they are likely to wind up with a potentially harmful approach to intimacy.4

What’s more, the prefrontal cortex is not fully developed until the mid-twenties, and there is some evidence that bonding through sex and then breaking up again and again damages the ability to establish meaningful connection through intimacy. In other words, when teens bond and break, bond and break, before the cortex is fully developed, as most teens do, they potentially set themselves up for trouble with real intimacy later on. (This research, however, is based on findings concerning oxytocin, and many have argued that we don’t know enough about oxytocin to make such claims. See the “References and Notes” section at the end of the book for more information.)5

At the same time, though, we know that a girl’s ability to express her sexual desires is a necessary step toward developing healthy sexual intimacy, and it is essential if she is to protect herself against unwanted or unsafe sexual activities. In fact, in one study, researchers found that the fewer sexual partners a girl had, the more likely she was to not assert her beliefs and feelings during sexual activity, thereby potentially setting herself up for negative sexual experiences.6

Not all teenage sexual behavior derives from self-harm. Ideally, in fact, none of it would. Sexual curiosity and experimentation is a perfectly natural part of growing up. Girls have just as much sexual desire and curiosity as boys. They are curious about their genitals and others’ as children. They masturbate. The hormones that race through a teenage girls’ body create just as much sexual feeling as boys’ hormones do.

Psychological discussions about why girls might engage in sexual activity, however, do not include any information about girls’ sexual desire. Michelle Fine refers to this as “the missing discourse of desire” in her article of the same name.7 She notes that we talk about victimization, violence, and morality, but we almost never examine the fact that girls, too, have desire. In fact, sexual desire is seen as an aberration for girls, which means that we almost always assume that girls act sexually only to fulfill their hopes for a relationship. This can certainly be the case, but it’s potentially dangerous—as we make policy, as we aim to help girls, as we aim to help ourselves—not to account for the fact that they also experience sexual arousal.

We don’t generally like to say these things about adolescent girls. We don’t acknowledge that they have desire. We live in a culture that provides little space for any sort of female teenage sexual behavior, including what many would consider normal curiosity and exploration, because it makes us so uncomfortable.

How did this odd untruth about female desire arise? Ancient and medieval understandings of puberty emphasized vitality and social benefit, and they made little distinction between male and female desire. The rising influence of Christianity, though, established the beliefs that youthful sexuality was dangerous, immoral, and threatening to social order. With the Enlightenment, boys regained some freedom over their right to sexual expression, but girls’ sexual desire remained deviant. Over the following centuries, while puberty for boys took on its association with manly desire, for girls it grew more and more removed from any notion of desire and instead focused entirely on preparation for reproduction and motherhood.8 In conjunction with this, girls’ experience with puberty was associated only with the need to protect their purity so they would be ready for their fate as mothers. Our notions today about girls and female desire are built on outdated patriarchal, religious notions.

Today, the cultural narrative is as follows: boys are horny, but girls are not, and so girls must do what they can to keep boys and their out-of-control hormones at bay. We like this narrative, outdated and unscientific as it is. It keeps us safe from the notion that girls might want to be sexual as much as boys do. But, you might be thinking, what is the problem with keeping girls safe? As I explore in this book, the problem is that when you deny a group of people an essential part of who they are, a part they have full right to, they often wind up using it in a self-destructive manner rather than as a natural part of their development. In other words, if teenagers getting STDs and becoming pregnant and acting out sexually is a cultural problem, then stigmatizing teenage sex only makes it worse—much worse.

The distinction between acting on natural sexual feelings and using male attention and sex to fill emptiness is an important one. In this book, I carry the underlying assumption that teenage girls have natural sexual feelings, just like boys, and that perhaps we need to find an outlet for girls to express themselves sexually, an outlet that the girls control themselves, not the cultural expectations about who they should be as sexual creatures. I also try to demarcate what it might look like when a girl has stepped beyond cultural boundaries and has begun using male attention and sex to try to feel worthwhile. And there is a difference: some girls manage to cope with our culture’s lack of space for girls to have sexual feelings, but others struggle and tend to use sexual attention and behavior to harm themselves emotionally. So for the purposes of this book, I refer to self-destructive sexual behavior as promiscuity and to the girls who pursue such self-destructive attention as loose girls.

Without discussion, without creating the space for girls to talk about their sexual experiences, we are left with assumptions that are almost invariably wrong. If we are not virgins, we are called sluts. We get what we deserve and what we wanted. Or—and this emerging view is not as positive as it seems—we are empowered by our sexuality; we are waving our flags of sexual freedom. After all, in this day and age, to suggest that a girl having sex is anything other than empowered and strong is antifeminist.

Meanwhile, the media continues to propagate the double-edged sword, the messages that girls have always received. You must be sexy, but you may not have sex. You must make men want you, but you may not use that to fill your own desires. The women’s studies professor Hugo Schwyzer calls this the Paris paradox, based on Paris Hilton’s comment that she was “sexy but not sexual.”9 He notes that young women raised with Paris Hilton in the limelight were promised sexual freedom but wound up with more obligation than abandon. In other words, girls’ requirement to be sexy greatly outweighs any attention to what might be a natural, authentic sense of their sexual identity.

This is not a book telling teenage girls not to have sex. On the flip side, it’s also not a book that encourages promiscuity. It’s a book about how we can all work together to find a way to let teenage girls stop harming themselves with their sexual behavior. It’s a book—at its core—about girls’ rights and sexual freedom.

The true experience of being a teenage girl these days is so lost inside all this noise, all the assumptions and messages coming from everyone but the girl herself, that we couldn’t possibly know what emotions are behind promiscuous behavior. That’s why I went straight to the source—finally—and asked to hear from the girls and women themselves.

I interviewed approximately seventy-five American volunteers who had originally emailed me after reading Loose Girl.10 I do not claim by any stretch of the imagination to present scientific findings. These are qualitative stories from real girls who believed in this project and understood that by sharing their stories they could potentially help other girls out there who struggle with similar feelings and behaviors. Some are still teenagers, but others are older and either still act out or have learned to stop. These girls come from a range of socioeconomic backgrounds. Most are white, but about 15 percent are black, Asian American, Hispanic, and biracial. Some call their mothers their best friends. Some have never met their fathers. Some have happily married parents and eat dinner with their families at the same time each night. Some have been raped. Some got pregnant. Some have been treated for STDs. All of them have carried shame about their behavior at one time or another, and all of them have felt alone. Not one felt there were any guidelines out there to help them move out of this behavior. This book answers that need.

All of the girls and women I interviewed have been given pseudonyms to protect their privacy. In an ideal world, they would be able to claim their stories without needing confidentiality. But unfortunately, girls who talk about their sexual experiences often get bullied and ostracized. In my mind, this is more evidence of our need for these conversations, more evidence of how badly we need to normalize sexual desire and behavior among adolescent girls.

This book has two purposes. First, I want to simply open a discussion that aims to identify girls’ sexual experiences in our culture, how they develop as sexual creatures inside a culture that largely holds the reins on what that means. I aim to help readers understand how girls head into adolescence as loose girls, how they often wind up using male attention and promiscuity as a way to feel worthwhile, and how that experience gets reinforced once it is under way. Second, I hope to provide some suggestions for helping girls find their way out of this negative experience with promiscuity and for protecting girls from using sex in this way in the first place.

With that intention, the book is split into two parts—identifying the loose girl experience and helping girls gain power over their sexual lives. At the beginning of each chapter, I include a quote from the girls and women who have contacted me about their own sexual experiences.

In chapter 1, I examine girlhood, from puberty on, from a sexual perspective. Here girls discuss how their identities are tied up with how teenage boys view them and how they think of themselves in relation to other people. This includes the notion that girls must measure up to a certain physical standard to be worthwhile, how they can assess that measure on the basis of male attention, and how impossible it is for a girl to ever feel that she is good enough as she is. Chapter 1 also examines the ways in which female adolescent development is perfectly poised for those sorts of belief. It briefly discusses the ways this belief has remained relatively constant throughout much of our history, and is, in this way, interwoven with the female identity, even as so many other strides have been made for women over time.

Then we’ll delve into boys and discuss just what it is about them that makes them so beautiful, so free, and always so unattainable. Chapter 2 explores the fantasy that our culture builds about boys and how that gets tangled up with girls’ beliefs about them. We’ll look at how those fantasies get wound up with the idea that boys will free us from that particularly female belief that we aren’t good enough as we are.

In chapter 3, we’ll dive into that minefield that is teenage girls and sex. It is one of our long-standing taboos. And yet, teenage girls have sex. They have sexual desires and curiosity. They experiment. They have fantasies. Usually when we discuss teenage girls and sex, though, we do so in prescribed, limited ways. Girls are virgins, sluts, or empowered. In this chapter, I explore—with the help of the girls I interview and existing literature—how girls see themselves in relation to these archetypes. Together we find that they don’t often fit these constrictions, and yet because of these archetypes, they feel voiceless, shamed, and alone.

Much of the research out there suggests that, for girls to have a healthy relationship to sex, they must have a healthy relationship with their mothers. Through interviews with girls and the current literature, chapter 4 examines the ways in which severed intimacy with mothers both does and doesn’t contribute to promiscuous behavior. We’ll also discuss the issue of mothers modeling attention-needing behavior from men, and how that influences girls’ behavior as well.

Most people assume that a girl’s relationship with her father determines her future with boys and men. In chapter 5, we will examine whether, and in what capacity, this has been true for girls. This examination includes fathers’ behavior with women, their direct and/or indirect sexualizing of girls, and their ability to show appropriate attention to their daughters.

In chapter 6, we discuss other ways girls harm themselves in conjunction with promiscuity, such as alcohol, drugs, cutting, and eating disorders. How do these behaviors interact with promiscuity, and in what ways are they part and parcel of the same thing? We also look at the prevalence of depression and other mood disorders with promiscuous behavior.

Sex, rape, and losing virginity is chapter 7’s focus. As we’ve discussed, teenage girls do have sexual desire and curiosity. Is it possible to build a society in which we can allow them to experiment sexually, to make their own choices regarding sex, without being tunneled into the archetypes available to them?

One of the challenges tied up with that question is rape. We tend to think of rape as a black-and-white issue—you either are or aren’t the victim of rape. You either say yes or no. But the concept can become blurry when a girl acts out promiscuously because of low self-esteem or because she so often feels violated even when she consents. Rape is legally and clearly defined, of course, but the sense of violation many loose girls experience can have long-lasting emotional effects that are similar to the consequences of rape.

Another challenge is the fantasy world we apply to sex, particularly for adolescent girls. To lose her virginity, a girl must be in love. It will be the most magical, eventful night of her life. Much too often girls get drunk to lose their virginity so that they will have an excuse later, so they won’t have to take on the aura of a girl who chooses sex. Through interviews with girls, I examine these various issues and how, with them, we might build new avenues for girls’ sexual choices.

In chapter 8, we’ll look at the brave new world of dating. It was the 1980s and 1990s when I was living out the scenes that I would later share in Loose Girl. Computers were just beginning to enter our culture. No one I knew used a cellular phone. And yet I managed to get myself into trouble with boys again and again. We’ll examine how things are different now and what those differences mean in terms of promiscuous behavior. We’ll also explore the dangers that may come up when a girl pursues male attention, and the newer, more complex venues for this danger to play out today.

In part 2, we’ll look at a few ways that girls can gain power. Too often we assume that younger girls act out sexually but learn to control their impulses and ultimately find intimacy when they mature into women. The more common truth is that girls carry these struggles into adulthood. In chapter 9, we’ll hear stories from women who still feel addicted to that attention from men.

In chapter 10, we’ll explore various ways girls have come to new and better places with promiscuity and with their need for male attention, and how we can help them make those changes. We’ll also look at those who haven’t been able to change and the dangers involved in that inability to change, and we’ll consider the possibility that change is only partially possible and depends on the particular situation of the person trying to make that change.

Ultimately, if we are to make true change for girls, we also need to transform our culture away from one that positions girls as sexual objects and only allows particular archetypal figures for girls engaging in sexual activity. Chapter 11 explores how girls might take the lead on that change, including through transformation of our sex education programs.

My hope is that women young and old, parents, therapists, and school administrators, will see this book as an opening, a break in the silence surrounding teenage girls and sex.

PART ONE

THE LOOSE GIRL

Chapter 1

GIRLS WILL BE GIRLS

Female Sexual Development

As years went by sex became exactly what I wished to win, because it told me that I was valuable and beautiful, and those things were so important to me.

When Faith was eleven years old, she went with her family to the community swimming pool like she had each summer. Every summer prior, she had pushed through those gates, pulled off her outerwear, and jumped right into the deep end. She prided herself on her back dives and her handstands and the fact that she could swim underwater from one end of the pool to the other without once coming up for air. But this summer, something was different. Faith felt hesitant. She walked more slowly. She was hyperaware of her body, of the small breasts that had ached and pressed beneath her chest during the fall and spring, and of the fact that her inner thighs now touched.

There were boys at the pool. Boys! They had been there every summer, of course. How had she not noticed? The boys didn’t turn to look at her as she walked along the edge of the pool, which suddenly mattered in a terrible way. Was there something wrong with her? Was she ugly? Was she fat? Was she not sexy? Rather than jump right into the pool she lay on a lounge chair and considered how she appeared to the boys who might look at her. She lifted a leg so her thigh fat wouldn’t spread. She left her sunglasses on even though that might make funny tan lines on her face, because she thought she looked good with them on—glamorous, like a movie star. Faith’s mother, concerned, asked why she wasn’t going in the water, but Faith just shrugged. She wasn’t going to tell her mother the real reason—that she felt watched, desperate, both embarrassed that the boys would see her and terrified that they wouldn’t.

Lana, just a little older than Faith, was always an exceptionally pretty girl. Her father, especially, took tremendous pride in her round, blue eyes and blond curls. When she was little, he liked to bring her to the fire station where he worked and show her off to his coworkers. His friends told him he better be careful when she grew up, and he laughed and rolled his eyes, but Lana could tell that he liked that they thought this. She was quite aware of all of this, actually—her father’s admiration of and pride in her looks. And she was equally aware of her mother’s jealousy over the way he treated Lana. From a very young age, she did what she could to be extra pretty. She smiled sweetly. She spoke politely to her father’s friends, answering all their questions.

When she started puberty at ten years old, though, her father distanced himself. It was subtle, but it was clear: where once she had been her father’s daughter, now she was handed off to her mother. Lana continued to do everything she could to be pretty, and—following cultural guidelines—sexy. She wore shirts that showed off her young breasts. She wore skirts that exposed lots of leg. She wore makeup and nail polish and perfume. Her mother felt she was out of control. Her father became stricter and told her she needed to focus on her schoolwork, not boys, which only made Lana feel betrayed.

So, at the young age of twelve, Lana began to pursue boys. She let them touch her however they wanted. She gave blow jobs regularly. She worked her way through the boys at school. At the same time, she grew withdrawn and depressed. She fought with her parents. She started bringing in bad grades. One day her mother said to her, “Where did my Lana go? I don’t even know who you are anymore.” Lana didn’t know who she was anymore, either.

Before girls become women, they are whole, energized, excited. They take on the world without hesitation. They are their own directors, in charge of their lives. But then things almost always change. Mary Pipher famously described this seismic shift that comes about as girls enter puberty. She writes, “Just as planes and ships disappear mysteriously into the Bermuda Triangle, so do the selves of girls go down in droves. They crash and burn in a social and developmental Bermuda Triangle.”1 As girls enter adolescence, they also enter another culture, one in which how they appear to others becomes how they exist. “Girls stop being and start seeming,” Pipher notes, quoting Simone de Beauvoir.2

Sally Mann, my favorite photographer, captures this transitional time in her collection At Twelve: Portraits of Young Women. In each photograph, girls are on the cusp of something. They are both children and too knowing. In some, it is obvious by the ways they hold themselves that they know too much. In others, you can see the light that has begun to fade. Ann Beattie writes in her introduction to the images, “Twelve-year-old girls know what brought them to the present moment, but that’s as far as they’ve gotten.”3 In other words, they fully know themselves, even as they have begun this change, but they can’t see where they are headed.

Boys and girls enter adolescence—they become “tweens”—already amid challenges. They go through their greatest physical and emotional growth since infancy. Puberty—a well-known test for most—comes earlier these days. Although the average age of puberty onset is 10.5, with most girls entering puberty between the age of 8 and 13, there is evidence that this age is dropping.4 In 1997, a landmark study of approximately seventeen thousand girls found that 15 percent of Caucasian girls and 50 percent of black girls already started to show signs of puberty by age 8.5 More recent research suggests an even further drop to age 7. A fifteen-year study out of Denmark published in 2009 determined that the average age of breast development for girls has dropped a full year—from 10.88 years to 9.86 years.6

Age of menarche, a girl’s first period, does not seem to be lowering, however. In other words, many girls’ secondary sex characteristics—breast development, pubic hair growth, and widening hips—are developing early, but first menstruation, which means ovulation and hence the ability to get pregnant, does not arrive with those secondary sex characteristics. (Researchers theorize that increasing amounts of obesity and estrogen in our environment (via Bisphenol A [BPA], pesticides, compounds in cigarettes, and phthalates) cause the earlier onset, but no studies have been conclusive.)7 Caucasian girls’ average age of menstruation is 12.6, which is not significantly earlier than it was in the 1970s. We do know, though, that black and Mexican American girls’ median age of menarche has always been lower—12.06 for non-Hispanic Blacks and 12.25 for Mexican Americans.8

As I alluded to briefly in the introduction, when adolescence hits, there is also a vast overproduction of brain cells and neuronal connections. It is during the early teen years that kids prune out the connections they don’t use. At the same time, their frontal lobes, which control judgment, logic, and organization, are not yet well developed. New teens have access to most emotions, but they don’t yet have the skills to deal effectively with them.

For girls, these developmental changes are particularly affected by what happens in the environments surrounding them, and most particularly in the ways they are sexualized by our culture. The images that control our understanding of girls are, in fact, so pervasive, such an ordinary part of our lives, that they are almost unseen. To even say that girls are sexualized in our culture verges on not saying anything at all.

Images of womanhood, of who we are supposed to be, are fed to us from infancy—go to any store that sells toys and there is a distinct “girls’ aisle” where everything is pink and tulle and satin. It doesn’t matter that there are also career-themed Barbies, or other dolls and playthings meant to encourage independence. The point is simply that everywhere a girl looks, from the moment she comes out of the womb, but then especially once she reaches adolescence, the media establishes clearly that it owns her sense of self.

What we speak of less, though, is how that wave of objectification and those mixed messages—“be sexy but not slutty”—are so strong that girls really don’t have a fighting chance. Magazines, billboards, commercials, Internet ads—these are just the tip of the iceberg. Take a quick glance at some of the top teen girls’ magazines and you see these headlines: “How to Get a Guy’s Attention,” “383 Ways to Look Hot,” “Look Pretty,” “How to Get Perfect Skin,” “Get Pretty Now,” and “Be Irresistible.” Girls see more than four hundred advertisements per day telling them how they should look.9 The images are so pervasive that we barely notice them.

Naomi Wolf calls the sexy-but-not-slutty images “flattened beauty,” attractiveness defined by a cultural ideal that has nothing to do with girls’ organic, individual beauty.10 Airbrushed bodies and flawless faces sit on the cover of every popular women’s magazine. The television runs a reel of size zeros and twos, of symmetrical faces and perfectly styled hairdos. Such people populate some of the most popular shows teenagers watch—iCarly, Gossip Girl, The Vampire Diaries, and Glee. Models, celebrities, and pop stars plaster advertisements, billboards, and screens. These people are all we see, which is a constant reminder to average-looking people that we are not that, but that we should certainly spend every moment trying to be that if we, too, want to be seen.

The most pervasive and scrupulous of these images, however, are the ones pertaining to sex and romance. Everywhere we look is a carefully designed suggestion of sexiness and the clear message that girls’ primary interest should be getting a boy’s attention through her looks. Open any teen magazine. Watch any commercial aimed at teen girls. She washes her face, wears a tampon, buys school supplies, and wears sneakers all in some sexy manner that reveals the intention of getting boys to notice her. And it starts way earlier than the teen years—just about every Disney princess plot revolves around snagging a man. The Little Mermaid is a perfect example. The main character Ariel doesn’t even speak, and then she gives up her entire identity as a mermaid and singer to get her guy. The meaning has been the same for decades: be available but not too available and, most important, get male attention at all costs. Girls have limited choices in how to respond to these messages. If they want social acceptance, though, the options vanish and there is really only one message left: “be sexy but not sexual.” The message is only made worse by the sheer number of outlets available to deliver it.

Even those images that seem to support independence and strength—ass-kicking girls like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Veronica Mars, or self-contained girls like Bella’s character in the Twilight movies or Elena Gilbert on The Vampire Diaries—often maintain impossible standards of attractiveness. More important, they are almost always caught up in the process of trying to make a boy love them or of keeping a boy’s love. Bella, for instance, is painted as an everygirl. In the Twilight books she is not supposed to be anywhere near as attractive as the actress who plays her in the movies. But even in her ordinariness, a stunningly gorgeous vampire wants her and only her. He has eyes for no one else. Bella begins as a self-contained teenage girl who knows who she is and is not swayed by others’ opinions of her, but soon after Edward falls for her, her entire existence hinges on his love. Stephenie Meyer encourages a fantasy most all girls have: to be as plain as they are but to be adored and chosen by a really hot, really respectful guy.

Elena from The Vampire Diaries is exceedingly attractive, so it makes perfect sense that two hot vampire brothers spend much of their time trying to get with her. Although Elena’s character, like Bella’s, is supposed to be independent, not swayed by boys, the plot shifts soon enough so that her entire life depends on the love she shares with the brothers.

Yes, we’ve had shows like Ugly Betty, starring a more realistic looking female someone who didn’t have that “flattened beauty,” who didn’t spend all the episodes trying desperately to be loved. But the show was so unique in this way that the entire plotline had to involve the fact that she wasn’t our cultural ideal. The show’s name even called this very attractive woman “ugly”! And anyway, while viewers raved for one season, by the second season, they were over it, ratings fell, and the show was canceled. This disappearance is familiar. Darlene Conner from Roseanne and Angela Chase from My So-Called Life, also long gone, were strong, sarcastic characters who really didn’t care what you thought of them—but even then, cool, plain Angela spent pretty much all her on-screen time chasing Jared Leto’s character, who was, let’s face it, super good looking but equally vapid and dumb.

Recently, Lauren Zizes’s character on Glee gives new hope. Puck, the attractive, popular player, falls for her. First, the focus is on her large shape. He tells her he loves her curvy body, but, unimpressed, she says, “I look like what America looks like.” Finally he admits he likes most that she’s more of a badass than he is.

Even if we were to assume that a violent female, an “asskicking” female, equals a strong female, one study found that in films where females participated in violent action, 58 percent of those female characters were portrayed as submissive to the male lead and 42 percent were in romantic relationships with them.11

So, even Lauren Zizes is guilty of this. (Her character still defies all expectations of what’s come before, and, hey, she’s on prime time, so I cannot feel disappointed.)

If our media has an obsession with romance and love, then it shows sexiness to girls as the way to get that romance. Generally, when we talk about girls in the media, people express outrage about excessively sexy images, which they argue lead to promiscuity. It’s true that sexual behavior and images of sex in our media have increased rapidly over the decades. Partially, this is simply because of increased tolerance for sexual imagery. Also, the modes of technology—places where we can see those images—have multiplied. But I would argue that our concerns about sexualization are mostly misguided. When given a bare-backed, tousled-hair photo of Miley Cyrus, only adults see a postcoital image. Kids generally don’t pick up on the subtleties of sex in images until they become more sexually experienced. Images alone don’t create promiscuity. The real problem is that girls see those images as their tickets to male attention and romance.

Diane Levin and Jean Kilbourne write in their book Sexy So Soon: “[S]ex in commercial culture has far more to do with trivializing and objectifying sex than with promoting it, more to do with consuming than with connecting. The problem is not that sex as portrayed in the media is sinful, but that it is synthetic and cynical.”12 In other words, our media shows sex as something artificial, unnatural, maybe even porn influenced. Think about some of today’s female singers, such as Ke$ha, Rihanna, and Beyoncé, who have expressed their sexuality by accentuating cleavage, wearing stripper heels, and pouting at the camera. How does that have anything to do with real sex or intimacy? Girls learn that male attention—and potentially then romance and love—comes from appearing artificially sexy.

And yet these singers, like most of those in the media outlets that exploit sexuality, are not trying to do anything other than appeal to our demands. Girls want direction for attracting men, and this is how to do it: girls need only learn how to appeal to boys’ sexual desire. Girls take notes on how to make themselves desirable, on how to move, dress, pout, and wear makeup. For the purpose of selling things, learning how to court the male desire for real companionship or intimacy isn’t nearly as provocative.

But while the media images encourage sexiness, institutions such as the National Abstinence Education Association, Focus Adolescent Services, and the National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy pressure girls to not be sexual at all. In fact, the institutions seem as obsessed with trying to control girls’ sexuality as the media does. Parents and schools often exert this antisexual pressure as well.

In today’s culture, abstinence and virginity connote morality for girls in a way that’s different from that for boys. That is, although we reference honor and strength and basic moral ideals when we teach boys about being good, we mostly reference virginity for girls. As Jessica Valenti notes in The Purity Myth, “While boys are taught that the things that make them men—good men—are universally accepted ethical ideals, women are led to believe that our moral compass lies somewhere between our legs.”13 Virginity is not just a sexual choice; it’s the most prominent way to frame who you are as a person.

Valenti also identifies the “desirable virgin,” the feminine ideal of our culture, who is both sexy and not sexual (we’ll explore more about the virgin myth in chapter 3).14 As most of us know, living up to such expectations is all but impossible, but it is particularly tricky for the adolescent girl who is dealing with new sexual curiosity and developmental challenges. On the one hand is abstinence-only education and on the other hand is the push to make themselves desirable: girls learn quickly that there is no happy medium.

The images and pressures are indeed so tremendous that it is sometimes hard to remember that beneath all of it there is a girl who has genuine sexual curiosity and desire, a girl who suddenly is receiving massive amounts of attention not for her intelligence or sense of humor, but for her body.

In Loose Girl, I wrote about how, at the age of eleven, walking on the sidewalk into the next town as I had every day that summer, an older man in a semitruck honked his horn and smiled at me, and I understood for the first time that I could get attention without having to do anything. And I understood that this was what it meant to be a girl; this is where we had power and meaning in the world.

Stephanie has a similar story. When she was seven, in the first grade, she had a boyfriend. Most all the girls and boys in her class had boyfriends and girlfriends. It was just something they said. It’s not like any of them did anything other than hold hands or kiss on the cheek. But for Stephanie, having a boyfriend felt intensely important. She explained to me that she knew even then that if a boy wanted to be with her, it meant something was important about her. Like in all the Disney movies she’d seen, the most handsome, valiant males choose the girl characters, and the girls’ destinies are fulfilled through this process. When her boyfriend decided he wanted to be another girl’s boyfriend instead, Stephanie was devastated. Her main focus became getting another boy to like her, and somehow she knew that to be liked—even at seven—she had to be physically attractive, maybe even sexy. Stephanie told me she feels like she never had a chance, that her narrative about boys making her worthwhile began so young that she has no idea who she might have been otherwise.

It is easy to see how genuine sexual desire gets submerged within each girl, even lost. In conversations with adolescent girls, researchers have found that girls will not speak spontaneously about their own desire; rather, they will only speak of their own desire in terms of relationships. In the educational psychologist Deborah Tolman’s research, she found that even when asked directly, many girls don’t quite know how to answer.15 They note that it isn’t something they discuss. They get angry. They giggle. They say they don’t have those kinds of feelings or that they don’t want them. Or some of the young women note that girls just don’t feel desire in that way, unable to claim an “I” voice on the subject. Those who will finally speak about their desire only do so when they feel safe enough to do so, when they can trust that their words will not be manipulated.

Sexual desire for anyone doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Indeed, desire is very much a socially constructed experience, and our society is not keen to include teenage girls in a discourse about sexual desire. We quickly divert such conversations into discussions of virginity and abstinence-only education, the perils of teenage pregnancy, or girls as sexual victims. Certainly all of these topics are valid, but nowhere do we have a means for girls to direct the narrative of their own sexual desire.

I can’t help but imagine a society in which girls are allowed this sort of direction. What would it mean for girls to look inward to their talents and strengths and uniqueness, rather than at billboards and television shows and magazines, to find out who they are sexually? What would it mean for girls if they could define their passion through internal avenues of desire? Imagine a girl able to express herself sexually with a boy, unconcerned about how her body looks or whether he thinks she’s sexy. Imagine a girl who trusts that when she does express herself in that way, boys will respect her as an equal partner and the rest of her community will celebrate her strength and passion rather than judge her as a whore.

If we are to break down all the reasons we aren’t there yet culturally, we must first look at why girls aren’t permitted to have this freedom. For a girl, sexual feeling itself becomes tied to being looked at. Without any cultural guidance about sexual desire, we can only ascertain that we must look a certain way to even have sexual feelings. Well-known feminist author Naomi Wolf notes: “Men take this core for granted in themselves: We see that, sanctioned by the culture, men’s sexuality simply is. They do not have to earn it with their appearance. We see that men’s desire precedes contact with women.”16

Women’s desire does not always come before that of a man’s desire for her. We know, in fact, that women’s sexual desire is often dependent on being desired. In a New York Times Magazine article about female desire, the psychologist Marta Meana determined that “women’s desire is not relational, it’s narcissistic. It is dominated by the yearnings of ‘self-love,’ by the wish to be the object of erotic admiration and sexual need.”17

In other words, a women’s physical arousal is in direct relation to how much she is wanted—gazed at, one might say—by another. It is difficult to imagine how such desire is not at least somewhat culturally created, how it is at least partially, as Wolf suggests in her quote, tied up with a sense of permission—it is safe to be a desiring woman now that someone else has suggested I am acceptable.

Charlene is a good example of this. She grew up in a tough neighborhood. She watched her single mother scramble to pay the bills. Her father was long gone. She had one sister who was four years younger, so she didn’t feel like she had anyone she could relate to. The first time she felt a boy look at her with longing in his eyes, she knew it was something to pay attention to. She spent the greater part of her teens “boy hunting,” she said. She wanted to feel that she was desired, because at home she felt so completely undesired. When she felt sexual desire, she told me, it was entirely about that fantasy. If some hot guy with status wanted her, she got turned on and couldn’t help herself from having sex with him. The feeling, she said, was intoxicating, because those were the only times her body felt alive with desire, which made her feel alive, period.

These false beliefs—“I’m not good enough, pretty enough, thin enough, quiet enough…”—are one of the defining features of girlhood. For loose girls, sex and sexual attention become the answer to these beliefs. They possess the potential to make us good enough, pretty enough, lovable enough. This is why promiscuous behavior for a loose girl doesn’t end in adolescence. It often grows into an addiction of sorts. We try and try again to make the sex mean something about us. But ultimately it only harms us further.

Often, too, teenage girls’ experience of desire is subverted and redirected into narratives about male attention. This might be partially due to hormones, but certainly it’s also a result of cultural expectation. Genuine sexual desire is lost inside the power of getting that attention. The influence of this, the heady control of getting a boy or man to look our way, to desire us, is perhaps the easiest way for girls to feel any kind of influence when it comes to their sexuality. In a culture where girls’ genuine sexual desire is shrouded in silence, where there is no language of ownership for girls’ own sexual feelings, it is easy to see how girls gravitate toward this kind of power.

Like Faith at the swimming pool, a girl’s sexual maturity must be something of a paradox. Look, but don’t look. Touch, but don’t touch. In this way, being a girl is invariably tied up with need and negation, and with how a girl must negotiate those opposing forces.

For boys, it is entirely different.

Chapter 2

BOY CRAZY

The Fantasy Girls Have about Boys

Everywhere I turned there was a new one. I can remember my boyfriend coming to see me [at college] for the first time, and I came rushing up from another boy’s dorm room having just had sex, only to then have sex with him.

Kelsey was always jealous of boys. In grade school she wanted to be Batman or Spider-Man during recess, but she had to be Batgirl or the girl being saved. She developed early, with breasts in the fourth grade. Both boys and girls teased her regularly. They called her “Chesty” instead of Kelsey, and most who used to be her friends turned on her because they didn’t want to be associated with her. She cried often, which didn’t help, and she begged her mother to move to a different school district.

In fifth grade, she began to develop crushes on boys. They were all boys she knew she could never have, but still, she made up elaborate fantasies of them pulling her aside and telling her they secretly loved her. She imagined them kissing her, how their lips might feel on hers. And she imagined them offering to take her away from her life, to live just the two of them on an island where it didn’t matter if kids went to school.

And in sixth grade, when one of the cashiers at the Burger King down the street from her house suggested she meet him in the bathroom, she did so willingly, feeling that finally someone might want her. He lifted her shirt and kneaded her breasts, and then he told her to jerk him off. He didn’t kiss her once. He didn’t even ask her name, but he wore a name tag: Greg. She said she will never forget his name. He was her first sexual experience, her first understanding that boys could do something for her, something no one else could. Even though Greg never asked her into the bathroom again, even though she felt rejected and confused by what had happened, the experience set her on a search she is still stuck inside—a search for boys’ attention. She has since given blow jobs in stairwells at school, had sex in boys’ parents’ cars parked in driveways. She has had anal sex with a friend’s nineteen-year-old brother. None of them has tried to have a relationship with her. None has fallen in love with her. None of her fantasies about what boys can do for her—save her, release her, love her—has come true. But at sixteen she can’t seem to stop. At sixteen, boys still have the only solution Kelsey can see to her feelings of being undesirable.

Kelsey’s story is painstakingly familiar. I too spent much of my life believing a boy could save me from my pain. I too felt irrepressibly drawn to boys. I too couldn’t help myself. There was something about them. Sometimes, still, I can feel it: boy crazy. Other girls feel the same way. Here are some quotes about their own stories from some of the girls I interviewed:

“I felt like a shell of a person that only came alive when a boy or a man noticed me. I felt like the whole world revolved around being noticed and wanted by a boy or a man.”

“My experiences with boys feel like obsession, like there’s nothing more appealing in the world.”

“I get completely gaga over boys.”

“Without a boy in my life I feel like I don’t exist.”

“What is it about boys?”

Yes, what is it about them? This is the question that drives this chapter. My sense is that whatever “it” is, the groundwork begins young.

Lately, my three-year-old son has been playing make-believe. He wraps a cape around his small shoulders and builds a castle out of his oversized blocks and imagines stories for himself. In all the stories, there is someone he has to save, and in every scenario, I’ve noticed, that someone is a female. I have no idea where he has learned this narrative. I try steadfastly, albeit unsuccessfully, as his mother to prune out any books or television shows or movies that involve such a relationship between boys and girls. I work hard to speak of boys and girls as equals. But the narrative of a girl needing a boy to save her, and a boy coming along to do just that, is so insipid in our culture that it slipped into his very young consciousness without my knowing.

In truth, it is easy to see how it happened. In even the most innocuous movies—beginning with the ones meant for children—if a boy looks at a girl, if he finds her attractive in any way, it becomes clear quite quickly that he is in fact in love with her. Not only is he in love with her; he has eyes for no one else. And if he loved her as a child, when they grow up, they will be reunited, usually in some way that involves him rescuing her, and he will still be in love with her all those years later. And then add to this that so many images of girls—in these movies and elsewhere—show them overly concerned with what boys think of them.

And that is just the media. Beneath that is the very real cultural truth that boys simply have more freedoms in our culture. Boys can take up physical space. Whereas girls must rein in their desires, sexual and otherwise, boys can allow their legs to fall open when they sit; they can yell out the car window at girls walking along the sidewalk; and when they chase girls for sex, they are acting like “typical” boys. For these reasons, boys become appealing to girls on yet another level. Heterosexual girls are drawn to boys physically and emotionally, but they’re also attracted to the self-determination and lack of restrictions that boys are allowed in our culture. Studies show, in fact, that girls who adopt the “feminine” role—sociability, empathy, and greater passivity—do not feel as good about themselves as girls who take on more “masculine” traits, such as independence, aggression, and assertiveness.1

So it makes sense that girls might find ways to latch on to boys. Boys have something we want: real freedom. Since there has been no way for girls to harness this freedom, they have learned—sort of smartly, I’d say—to harness boys, the owners of that freedom, instead. And this is where the “bad boy” comes in. We all know who the bad boys are. They are charming, generally unconcerned with us, disinterested in any sort of commitment. They are sexy as only things that we can’t truly have are sexy. And they are dangerous. Girls are taught early on to stay away from these boys, the ones who will give them freewheeling experiences, including—perhaps most especially—sexual desire.

Jackie lives in Los Angeles, where it’s very easy to find what Hollywood considers attractive men. The first time Jackie and I spoke, she asked, “Did you find that you always had to have extremely good-looking men?” She described the kinds of men she always sleeps with. They are B-list actors and models she meets in clubs. I had heard of at least half the men she named or had seen them on television or in an advertisement. She told me she has a crush on a well-known performer. My first reaction was to say that many people fantasize about celebrities, but she and this man had actually exchanged smiles and stares on numerous occasions in L.A. nightclubs. As our conversation continued, I began to understand that this was Jackie’s normal experience of men: Jackie was only pursuing men who were out of her league. When she expressed heartache that one of the guys hadn’t called her again after sex, it seemed obvious to me that it wasn’t because he thought she was unappealing or unlovable in any way, which is what she thought. In my mind, these men were unlikely to date “normal” people. They would have sex with noncelebrities, sure, but they weren’t going to have lasting relationships with them.

Jackie is an intensely smart woman, so I was fascinated by her inability to see the way she continually set herself up to feel bad about herself. It struck me that Jackie liked them “unavailable.” She liked the thrill of scoring someone so unattainable. It was part of the high. At the same time, though she wasn’t aware of it then, she chose unavailable men so when they left she could falsely reestablish her understanding of herself again and again: she isn’t good enough. She isn’t lovable.

Also, Jackie’s B-list celebrities give her an opportunity to express her sexuality in ways that wouldn’t matter as much with mere “mortals,” as she jokingly calls the rest of the men in the world. If the celebrity boys want her, then she can latch on to their desirability. She ups her status as a sexual person with such bad boys.

For a girl, sex is dangerous. It is a motorcycle ride; it is rushing carelessly along a highway, heading somewhere, hair wild in the wind. On that motorcycle is the man who takes her on the ride, her arms wrapped around a firm, protective chest. That kind of wild, carefree sex is everything a girl can’t have, unless she is willing to become a slut. Unless she wants to become potentially unmarriageable, unworthy of respect. Sex is that bad boy. Naomi Wolf in Promiscuities writes, “The demon lover’s tendency toward chaos and escape and risk and selfishness may be seen as a projection of inadmissible female longings onto the male—a way of safely handling and vicariously experiencing the release of women’s own wish sometimes to be ‘out of control.’”2 No wonder bad boys are so appealing to so many girls! No wonder they will do whatever they must to get inside that experience with such a boy! For her, sexual feeling is only allowed in the presence of a boy who can contain her, who will take responsibility for the wildness and loss of control. Boys become the stand-in for everything she can’t do herself, and she winds up playing out all her drama, discovery, and passion in her relationships with those boys.

A girl doesn’t need to feel sad or lost or hurt to become a loose girl. She simply needs to want freedom, to want the wingspan that will let her live her desires. This, I suspect, is why plenty of girls I interviewed suffered through so many of the same feelings but didn’t have loveless childhoods. At the core, loose girls are a cultural problem. Yes, difficulty at home can exacerbate looseness. Yes, abuse and molestation make the problem much, much worse. But the bottom line is that girls get attached to boys and male attention because our culture allows boys the sorts of freedoms girls want.

Fourteen-year-old Lourdes met her last boyfriend at an underage club. He was twenty-four, hanging out there with a few of his friends who seemed younger than him. She said there was no question that he was leering at all the teenage girls, but rather than being turned off, she found this provocative. She saw it as daring on his part. He danced with her and then offered to drive her home. After that she saw him every day, but she had to hide it from her parents because of his age. He picked her up from school and would take her back to his apartment that he shared with a few other guys, and they’d have sex. At home, Lourdes’s father drank and went into rages. Lourdes and her younger sister had to hide in their room with a chair against the doorknob until he had passed out. She’d made the mistake of getting in the way of his rages before, and she wound up whipped by his belt. Her mother, who was a devout Catholic (or, as Lourdes called her, “a religious freak”), never did anything to intervene. Instead, during her father’s rages, Lourdes’s mother cried in the kitchen and spoke to God in Spanish. “You know,” Lourdes said, “helpful shit like that.” Lourdes just wanted out of her house, but she also felt guilty because she didn’t want to leave her sister alone with her parents. She thought many times about getting pregnant. She knew for a fact that her father would have kicked her out (and her mother would have just cried and talked to God in Spanish).

Eventually, she and her boyfriend broke up. He moved on to some other young girl without even telling her. She was pretty upset, but she went right back to the club, hoping that some other guy would come along. She says that she has her sights set on someone saving her from her life, and who better to do that than an older guy?

Two-thirds of girls younger than age 18 choose sex partners who are close to their age, and a mere 7 percent choose partners who are six or more years older.3 But men older than high school age account for 77 percent of births among girls age 16–18 and for 51 percent of births among girls age 15 and younger. Men older than age 25 father twice as many births with teenage girls than do boys younger than 18.4 So, while teenage girls partnering with older men is not a significant trend, when it does happen, it seems that girls wind up with older men as the fathers of their children.

Why do some girls want older men? A few of the girls I interviewed told me they felt that teenage boys were immature and that they liked how the older men treated them, referring to dinners and gifts. One noted, “It doesn’t hurt that they have cars, too.” It does seem that girls who like older men gravitate to their money, but research also suggests that girls who choose men so far out of their age ranges also tend toward low self-esteem and depression.5 Many of these girls are looking to replace their abusive or difficult families with new ones. They often perceive the men as white knights who will save them from whatever pain they’re suffering at home.

Regardless of the girls’ claims, men who choose teenage girls tend to be immature and insecure, with egos matching those of teenage boys.6 Many have criminal histories, so they are not the safe havens girls make them out to be. Of course, partnering with a teenage girl under the age of consent is statutory rape, not to be taken lightly.

Grown men who choose adolescents as sex partners tend to have these immaturities, but they also simply learned about girls from our culture. They, like all boys, learn from media that girls aren’t worth more than their looks and their accessibility for sex; they absorb this message as completely as girls do. Boys erroneously learn, just as girls do, that boys are horny and girls aren’t, and that it is up to the girls to protect their morality by fending off boys’ advances. They learn that boys choose girls, not the other way around. And they learn that the more girls a boy can score, the more manly he is.

It is easy to see how these messages can lead boys to behave badly, to try to get girls in bed and dump them just as quickly, to not feel any sort of responsibility for their sexual behavior in the world. It is also easy to see how we don’t vilify or shame boys for their sexual behavior the way we do with girls. That double standard is still entirely alive and well. Although it might seem that boys get away with murder in this respect, the truth is that—just like girls—they get pigeonholed away from real intimacy. Our culture’s expectations regarding sex harm boys, too. Boys learn that they should want sex, pursue it, and be good at it. They don’t, however, learn about the emotional potentials that come along with their desire, and they don’t learn that most boys share a similar awkwardness and curiosity, along with the excitement and awe, when it comes to sex. In Real Boys: Rescuing Our Sons from the Myths of Boyhood, William Pollack argues that boys’ ravenous sexual appetites are more often than not a cover for their fear of sexual humiliation.7

Imagine, if you will, boys and girls exploring sexually and safely in a loving, kind way. Imagine they could learn about how to have relationships, could communicate about their needs, without cultural and parental shaming. Sad how much this vision seems like an impossible dream. Before we can look more closely at ways to rectify this, let’s examine the role of the girl more closely. After all, as boys are boxed into being owners of their sexual identity, girls are given very few options about who they can be when it comes to sex.

Chapter 3

THE UNHOLY TRINITY

The Virgin, the Slut, and the Empowered Girl

I am still desperate for male attention, and I feel unwanted, ugly, and needy. Sometimes, I don’t like aspects of my personality. Why am I so selfish? So loud? So unfocused?

THE VIRGIN

Winnie told me she was never “that girl” in high school. She was a virgin. She promised herself she would wait until she fell in love because, she knows now, her culture had promised her that this would get her what she wanted. She’d be loved. She’d be valued. She’d be good.

When she got to college, though, she decided one night she didn’t want to wait anymore. She wanted finally to be “put on a pedestal,” something she had ironically been promised she would get if she stayed a virgin. But what she really got as a virgin was invisibility. The girls around her who were putting out were the ones getting talked about and pursued. All this time had passed, and she had hung on to her virginity and still didn’t feel loved, or valued, or even necessarily good. What she felt was empty.

So one night she drank tequila and lost her virginity to a random guy. After that, as the weeks and months passed, she moved on to the next guy—and the next, and the next. Winnie says that she had underestimated the intensity of the high that she would get from the attention. She never had guessed how easily promiscuity would become a sort of addiction for her. Today, she says, she’s still a loose girl, and she’s so deep in it, she doesn’t have a clue how to get out: “I still haven’t been loved. I still give it away. I still feel empty when it’s over.”

While promoting Loose Girl, I was invited to appear on a morning show with three teens. They embodied the three sexual paths that girls can follow in our culture today: the virgin, the slut, and the empowered girl. In other words, girls can choose not to have sex; have sex but be shamed for it because it’s too much, or the wrong kind, or because it harms them; or have sex because they are trying to claim it as their own choice.

Believe it or not, the virgin was the girl who interested me most. The conviction behind her virginity drove her to tell fellow teen girls to retain their virginity. She was 100 percent sure that she was right. And she had proof! Most everyone in the audience lauded her. Her mother was so proud. Sex education—funded by abstinence-only programs—supported her. In fact those programs sent her to talk at other schools. The churches let her know she was doing the right thing. She was a good girl.

The virgin owns a mythic narrative that goes like this: She is more desirable to our culture in every way than the girl who has sex. She is lovable. She is girlfriend and wife material. She is prettier, cleaner, holier, and just all-around better than the girl who has sex. We say that virgins “respect their bodies.” (Although this is a concept that always has seemed misguided: Why does not sharing oneself intimately and physically with a partner mean respecting oneself? Why does respect equal denying one’s own physical pleasures?)

The virgin myth also assumes that girls have a much lower sex drive than boys, that they don’t want sex. It assumes, in fact, that girls are responsible for fending off boys’ out-of-control, aggressive libidos. (You can see how easily this notion leads to the deduction that girls can be responsible for their own rapes: “If you dress in sexy clothes, boys can’t control themselves,” or “If you let a boy kiss you or get sexually excited in any way, you shouldn’t be surprised when he can’t help himself, even as you say ‘no’”).

In this way, virgins are assigned a false strength. The virgin teen who was to be on television with me, as well as girls holding the title of Miss Teen America and other spokespeople for abstinence, often comment on how they believe they are stronger than those girls who “give in” to their sexual urges or need for attention. In other words, a girl’s strength comes from doing nothing, as opposed to from actually doing something in the world, such as being a powerful athlete or saying truths that are unpopular but necessary. This is especially troublesome because it also suggests that there is no possibility for healthy sexual exploration. In this scenario, all sexual activity equals giving away one’s power. There is no possibility that a girl can have sexual experiences and still be powerful. Having sexual experiences renders girls weak and helpless.

Most important, though, the virgin myth emphasizes the idea that a girl is only worth as much as she’s able to keep her legs closed. Forget compassion, honesty, integrity, or kindness. As Jessica Valenti notes in The Purity Myth, “For women especially, virginity has become the easy answer—the morality quick fix. You can be vapid, stupid, and unethical, but so long as you’ve never had sex, you’re a ‘good’ (i.e., ‘moral’) girl and therefore worthy of praise.”1 She notes that this view is just one more way that we value women most for their bodies and sexuality, and for what they do with those.

We even throw virgins parties. In the past decade, we’ve seen the growth of “purity balls.” At such events, begun as a Christian response to rising teen pregnancy and STD rates, adolescent girls pledge their virginities to their fathers until they will wed, and fathers vow to protect their daughters’ chastity. There is white cake, exchanged vows, and a first dance, just like at a real wedding. Regardless of the creepiness of twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls having commitment ceremonies with their fathers, the key point is that the balls don’t work. Out of a study of twelve thousand girls, those who had participated in purity balls had the same rate of STDs as those who didn’t pledge their virginity, and 88 percent break their pledges and have premarital sex.2

In so many ways, these sorts of ceremonies set girls up for failure. It might be easy for a twelve-year-old girl to say she won’t have sex before marriage, but three years later, she realizes how much she likes boys and sexual experiences. Or as her brain develops further, she begins to think, Wait a minute. How come I can’t have pleasurable physical interactions and boys can? (After all, where are the mother-son pledge balls? Good luck finding one.) Or, even more likely, she comes to know that her value as a girl is tied up with whether boys want to get with her, and to get boys’ attention, she will need to be sexy, and—well, combined with the fact that sex and attention feel good—you can see how easily those pledges become a distant, silly fantasy.

This is not to say that a girl choosing to stay a virgin isn’t a perfectly acceptable decision for a teen girl. But so is choosing to have sex. The girls are not to blame here. It’s the abstinence train, the coopting, once again, of a girl’s control over her own sexual choices.

That societal pressure to be abstinent has resulted in issues way more dangerous than a girl choosing to have sex: the pressure to exclude information about birth control in sex education and the refusal to supply condoms to sexually active teens. When girls don’t know enough about how to keep themselves safe, when they don’t have easy access to the very things that make them safe, then we’re complicit in the fact that they are unprotected from STDs and pregnancy. If we, the adults, are responsible for our teens’ physical safety, then we are failing them in this way.

Equally important, the abstinence train has denied us this discussion around teenage girls and sex, and it has indirectly contributed to why many girls—the loose girls—use sex as a means of self-harm. When we tell girls sex and sexual feelings are bad, when we tell them they are bad when they act sexually, they will believe us, and they will use it as a way to punish themselves on their own. If we make sex subversive, then we shouldn’t be surprised when girls use sex—something that should be, that is, perfectly natural—as though it were fraught with as many dangers as alcohol. And we shouldn’t be surprised when they wind up furious and hurt by the way our culture betrays girls in this way again and again.

THE SLUT

When Julia was twelve, her parents divorced and her mother moved them to a small town in another state so that her father would have no access to them. In her old school, Julia had a group of friends. But Julia didn’t know anyone at the new school, where the kids had been classmates since preschool. During the days, she walked through the halls, clutching her books to her chest, her head down. She had never thought before about her weight—she was just a little heavy—because she and her old friends hadn’t concerned themselves with that. But here, girls called her “fat.” Once, while she was at her locker, a boy from one of the older grades stuck his hand out and touched her breast through her shirt. Just like that. She stopped what she was doing, paralyzed. She couldn’t breathe, the heat from the place he touched spreading across her chest and into her neck and face.

At thirteen, she found a friend: Audrey. And Audrey didn’t care what the other girls thought. She was a year older. They met after school and smoked cigarettes in Audrey’s living room. Audrey’s parents didn’t care. Audrey introduced Julia to beer, too, and sexy clothes, and she introduced her to boys. They went to the movies and came on to the older local boys, boys already out of high school, boys who were eager to take Julia’s large breasts and ass into their hands. She was eager, too. Eager for their attention, for what felt like caring, maybe even like love. Later, when they left, often not even taking her phone number, she felt like garbage, like the nothing she believed she really was. But she went back again and again, chasing that feeling.

It didn’t take long for Julia to be labeled the school “slut.” Every school has one. The slut is so well known that she’s become an archetype—a product of a Jungian collective unconscious—as Emily White noted in her book Fast Girls.3 The slut is always the same: desperate, dirty, curvy, asking for it. She is all desire, all sex. She is as bad as a girl can get.

The narrative of the slut has been repeated so often that I almost don’t have to note it here. She has sex with lots of boys. She teases lots of boys. She wears sexy clothes. She will do anything boys want her to do. She gives blow jobs, hand jobs, rim jobs. She usually has big breasts. And everyone knows she is a slut. In fact, they are the ones who named her. White noted that when she interviewed girls, this slut myth, the belief in the slut as a real thing, was so powerful, so all-encompassing, that it overwhelmed any of the women’s stories.4 I had the same experience with the girls I interviewed. They called themselves sluts, “blowjob queens.” They joked about being amazing in bed, how they perfected their techniques.

They joke, but the truth beneath the myth is that these girls hurt. Virgin, slut, or (as we’ll soon see) empowered, all are limited by the outlines of their role, but none is as harmed by her title as the slut, for society heavily and thoroughly ostracizes the slut. Put any celebrity slut’s name into a Google search—Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton—and see the parents who rally against them and the endless blog writers who are disgusted by their behavior. Girls in middle and high schools exclude one another from their cliques with that label, reminding one another what is acceptable behavior or not. Parents don’t allow their daughters to dress in slutty clothing, fearing that doing so means that their daughters are indeed sluts. Even in horror movies—all the classics, such as Friday the 13th, Halloween, and A Nightmare on Elm Street—the promiscuous girls are always the first to die.

Milburn High School in New Jersey made headlines in 2009 when thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls were put on a “slut list.” Every year a group of senior girls created a slut list of incoming freshman girls, including degrading comments, such as, “I’m so desperate and hairy that I’ll give you drugs for free if you get with me.” More shocking to me was that this story made news. Ask your daughters: some equivalent humiliation of girls, because of their sexuality, takes place at plenty of schools throughout the nation. One of the girls who cowrote the list at Milburn High even said, “Really it’s all fun.”5

One of the more contemporary examples of highlighting the school slut is “sexting,” sending dirty electronic messages and/or revealing photos or videos through phones. Thirty percent of all teens have reported sending naked pictures of some sort through their phones, and 17 percent of recipients admitted to passing that photo along to others.6 Most any girl you talk with will tell you that she regrets sexting for that reason—she never meant for the message to get around (see chapter 8 for more on sexting).

Fourteen-year-old Fiona thought that she and Brian were girlfriend and boyfriend, or at least that he was her friend. They had been having sex. It wasn’t either of their first times. She decided one night to send him a picture of her naked torso. She wasn’t dumb. She had heard about what could happen to photos like that. But she honestly trusted Brian. At least that is what she said, crying, to her best friend, after the photo made its way through the school. In just one day, most everyone had seen the picture, and Brian acted like he didn’t even know her. She had never regretted anything more. Over the next few months, much of the school ostracized Fiona, calling her a slut. Boys approached her to ask for sexual favors, and when she tried to ignore them, they high-fived one another. That was a few years ago. Things have since settled down, but Fiona doesn’t think she’ll ever feel safe around these classmates again. Fiona asked me outright, “Why are so many kids so cruel when it comes to this stuff?”

Amanda, who is now in her twenties, has a slightly different story. She didn’t do anything back in high school, she feels, to earn the label of “slut.” She just had a lot of energy and verve, which she thinks, looking back, got misinterpreted for sexual energy. Unlike many girls she knew, she didn’t get quiet and submissive when she hit puberty. Her mother worked hard to keep that from happening. Her mother spoke loudly about what she thought. She gave Amanda books to read about puberty. She took her to festivals that celebrated girls and their power in the world. At the same time, though, Amanda’s mother didn’t have great boundaries when it came to this sort of education. She had sex with her boyfriends with the bedroom door open when Amanda was home. She had parties—where everyone shared their art and poetry and music—that sometimes turned into orgies. And, again, Amanda was home.

As a teenager, confused and aroused by all this activity around her, Amanda imitated her mother. She dressed like her mother did with low-cut tops and long, flowing skirts. She took off her shoes in class so she could be barefoot. She wore no makeup and let her hair dread. When she spoke, she did so loudly and with passion, just like her mother. And she did things that were shocking to her classmates, such as pulling a breast out of her shirt and shaking it at a boy or dancing provocatively on the school green. Her classmates didn’t understand her at all, and because there was some expression of sexuality in her oddness, they branded her a slut. When Amanda talks about it now, she gets teary and angry. She feels irreparably scarred by that time in her life. She’s furious still at her mother for being so inappropriate and narcissistic, and at her classmates for being so insensitive and cruel. She’s also furious at herself for not having learned the rules about womanhood the way everyone else seemed to at the time—don’t be different, don’t be loud, don’t have passion.

If nothing is more frightening than a woman’s desire, then a young girl’s desire is even more horrifying. We ostracize because we are jealous; the slut is the one getting all the male attention. Or we ostracize the slut because we want to protect our girls, because there is some sense that all sex-related behaviors for girls will lead to harm. Or we ostracize simply because we are afraid of what feels different and unfamiliar. Whatever the reason, when we banish the slut, more often than not it’s the punishment that harms her, not her behavior.

In fact, if she embraces her behavior, it can earn her a different label. Where for years no one wanted to be called a slut, more recently, being a slut can be a self-proclaimed badge of honor. Meet the “empowered” girl.

THE EMPOWERED GIRL

Seventeen-year-old Ramona wrote me this: “All my family knows about my sexual history since I got expelled from two schools. They have taken me to three shrinks, and I see one every week. They disapprove of my sex life, but now if they forbid me to go out, I’ll sneak out as I used to. In the city I live, many men from different countries come to visit and all my friends and I have a list of nationalities we kissed and had sex with, and I’m winning of course. I’ve had thirty-two different nationalities and want to have more. In four years I have had sex with fifty-six men. I know I’m taking risks and the number is terrible for my age, but I’m not the only one or the worst. I just like having sex.”

Something new has entered the culture of women. Lynn M. Phillips, in Flirting with Danger, calls this the “together woman discourse,” in which women are “sassy” and free in their sexual agency, but in actuality, that “freedom” is limited to a heterosexual stance, one that aims to attract men.7 In Female Chauvinist Pigs, Ariel Levy refers to it as “raunch culture,” a culture in which some women have co-opted what men think is sexy and made it supposedly empowering.8 She includes such examples as Girls Gone Wild, pole-dancing lessons, striptease marathons, and women who buy Playboy. Tied up with this is the idea that being a slut is a good thing. It means you’re strong, in control of your sexuality. The notion starts in the right direction—women can own their sexuality—but it’s almost as if, more often than not, women fall back into the familiar tire grooves of what men desire about women’s sexuality.

Certainly, this empowered-girl culture has invaded adolescence as well. Thirteen-year-old girls proudly extol their abilities to give blow jobs, which they do in the bathrooms at parties or at school. Middle and high schoolers have sex parties. Girls compete with one another to dress as slutty as possible. In Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love, and Lose at Both, Laura Sessions Stepp notes that, in our hookup culture, teenage girls have abandoned dating and courting altogether and are simply engaging in sexual acts with others.9 They don’t have to want to be boyfriend and girlfriend. They don’t have to even like each other.

This may sound empowered, but think about how it would be perceived if such a girl didn’t have a male partner, or at least didn’t attract one, or if she gave off the vibe that she needed a man. Would she be seen as empowered—or pathetic? Such sexual behavior smacks of the same intentions Levy identified in her interviews with women about raunch culture. If girls have no interest in boys beyond getting their attention and giving blow jobs, then what exactly are they getting out of the arrangement other than the reputation that comes along with it? If they don’t need boys’ sexual attention, why are they competing for their attention? How exactly is this empowering for them?

The month before Loose Girl hit the bookshelves, Marie Claire published an interview with me about the book. The interview noted what I’ve come to call my “number,” which was forty-something. I had slept with some forty-odd boys and men during my loose-girl years.10 Soon after, one of the Jezebel bloggers posted about the interview. She wrote that I was just another person who felt I earned the right to have a memoir when clearly I was just like any other woman. She noted that forty men was not very many at all and that plenty of women had many, many more men. How dare I try to make money off the fact that men didn’t want more than casual encounters with me, as though that were something I experienced and no one else did. And she made it clear that I could not be both a feminist and a person who had had sex mostly because I felt badly about myself.11

Two hundred fifty-six comments came next. Grown women said things like, “40 men? I’ve had that many men in a month. Where’s my book contract?” They did the math and determined that I had only slept with two men a year, which by no means gave me the right to publish a book about promiscuity. “How dare she call herself a slut!” one of the women wrote. “You want a slut? I’m a slut!”

Girls and women like Ramona, and like these commenters, carry pride about their sexual behavior, similar to the sort of studly pride we see in boys. A proportion of our culture, tired of the old double standards about sex, have begun to say, “We can have sex because we want to!” Put another way, “We can have sex like men! We can treat our sexuality like men treat theirs!”

Certainly, I agree with this motive, and oh, how I wish we could. But as Levy argues, empowerment in the form of stripping classes and posing for risqué spring-break videos means using the same degrading method a patriarchal society has used to control women to degrade oneself. I would argue that handing out blow jobs like candy could be defined the same way.

“Let’s not kid ourselves that this is liberation,” Erica Jong said to Ariel Levy. “The women who buy the idea that flaunting your breasts in sequins is power—I mean, I’m all for that stuff—but let’s not get so into the tits and ass that we don’t notice how far we haven’t come. Let’s not confuse that with real power.”12 That power would surely include some sense of ownership over our sexual identities; it would surely include girls’ understanding that sexual desire lives in them, not in boys’ attention to them. Lynn Phillips adds that this notion of empowerment “supports an illusion that young women’s supposed autonomy and entitlement somehow insulate them from the possibility of victimization,” which explains the anger at Jezebel over my sense that, for the most part, my experience with sex had sucked.13

I can’t assume anything about how Ramona really feels. Perhaps she truly does enjoy her conquests. But while I applaud the idea of a girl going out there and doing with sex whatever she damn well pleases, I don’t quite believe that such an achievement is uniformly possible. As Jong suggests, we have much too far to go. Our society is still much too steeped in a double standard about sex for me to believe that anyone, particularly anyone so young, can exist so entirely outside cultural expectations. Also, girls having sex with whomever they want, whenever they want, and without the desire for anything more, seems, like Levy noted, to be a little too close to men’s fantasies about girls and women. I’m not convinced that this should be the primary model we put forth for women’s sexual freedom.

REAL EMPOWERED GIRLS

Let’s imagine what empowerment might look like regarding females and sex. Girls and women who wanted casual sex, not love, would be accepted and respected. In fact, girls and women would want casual sex because it would be understood that wanting sex without strings is a perfectly honorable thing for a girl to want on the basis of where she is in her life. It makes sense for a teenager or young woman in her twenties, for instance, to not want the intensity and sometimes burden of a relationship because she wants to focus on other, more important things: personal exploration, travel, career building, and more. Likewise, if she wants to have sex only with someone she loves, then that’s honorable as well, just not more so than the other choice. An empowered girl wears what she wants—she can show off her breasts if she wants to, but she certainly doesn’t have to for her to be sexy. She doesn’t need to lift her shirt or participate in wet T-shirt contests to be sexually powerful. She doesn’t need to have a long list of conquests.

Empowerment has nothing to do with these things. Sexual power is always about a woman’s—and a girl’s—core sense of herself as a desiring, desirable being whom she is entirely in control of. She decides who touches her and when. She decides how much to share her body or not. And no one else has the right to dictate what that says about her, or to shame her, or to silence her. No one else gets to say, “I’m good at this, but because you do it differently, you aren’t.” That, my friends, is empowerment.

THE LOOSE GIRL

A loose girl is not empowered. She doesn’t secretly want to be a virgin. And she’s not just a slut, although she probably embodies some truths behind the slut myth. She falls between and beneath these archetypes, the ones our culture has told girls they can be as sexual creatures. The loose girl has so completely lost herself and her desire in her other wants that sex has become a way to control others, to try to make them want her. And because that authenticity in her relationship to her own desire is so skewed, she almost never gets what she really wants.

For many, many years, I knew that I had a relationship to boys in my life that I didn’t understand. I knew there was something about the way I felt about them, how they made me feel, something about how I had used them in my life, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Nothing in the world spoke directly to what I felt, to the particular way in which I struggled. Yet at the same time, almost every girl who came into my therapy office, almost every grown woman I knew, had those exact same feelings. We had spent our lives desperately pursuing boys or believing entirely that a boy would save us from whatever pain we felt. We searched each room, each party, each sidewalk, each store and bank and post office, for boys who might give us attention. We made the possibility of our sexiness, our attractiveness to males, a project. We could not work out at the gym without the idea that doing so would get us male attention and, therefore, meaning in the world. We could not try on clothes in a dressing room and not imagine what a boy would see. We cultivated our tastes in music, in politics, in religion, all with the idea that this would make us more pleasing to men. And more often than not, that need for attention had turned into sex, usually sex we wanted, but sometimes not.

More important, we lost our connection to our own desires. In fact, our natural sexual desires had morphed with our desire to be wanted, to be chosen, and—yes—to be loved. We gave up more desires than just sexual ones—traveling, friends, career paths, so many opportunities to be more whole.

Why did it take me so long to understand what had happened to me and to so many others? I read as much as I could, I talked to friends, and I listened to their stories. I wrote and wrote and wrote, trying to find what it was I wanted to say. In particular, I wrote one scene—a scene from when I was twelve and went into Manhattan with my two friends to meet boys.14 We got all the way there and had to leave, so we tried to get all the way back, but our bus took us only as far as a spot that was ten miles from my house. We went to wait in an all-night gas station, and the attendants there, who were probably in their early twenties, promised to take us home when they were done with their shifts, which would be at five in the morning. On the way home, the guy who drove us reached over and put his hand on my crotch. The first time I wrote that scene, I wrote about the shame and humiliation and hurt. Indeed, that was all true. But I also knew that there was something I was missing, something I wasn’t quite getting at. So I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote some more until one day I got to a new understanding, a truer one. Although the scene in that car was one beyond wrong, it was also true that I liked it. I liked the power I felt. I liked feeling wanted and chosen.

When I understood, when I admitted that truth, everything came clear. This was my dirty little secret, the same one so many girls and women shared with me. I had been after something all night. I had wanted this male attention, and now I was getting it. The dirty secret was that I liked it, even as I was ashamed and humiliated, even as I was a victim.

Truths like this one are terribly difficult to find. They are lost inside the noise of our culture that determines who girls are allowed to be. They sit in silence while we struggle to make sense of what we feel. The biggest problem is not that we are silent about teenage girls and sex. Rather, the problem is, as the cultural historian Michel Foucault noted, that we police people—perhaps girls especially—with endless rules about what they can talk about and about what they can claim from their sexuality.15

Josie, who is sixteen, identifies herself as a loose girl. When she was little, almost everyone she loved abandoned her. She can’t remember a time when she didn’t believe that if a guy touched her or wanted to have sex with her, she would be happy and fixed. In the past two years, since she lost her virginity, she has slept with so many guys that she’s lost count of how many. She doesn’t remember the names of half of them, and probably never knew most of them. Some were friends. She only actually dated one or two of them. Josie says: “I am lonely. There is something missing. Having sex and being in the heat of the moment is a high. And when I’m there and doing it, I don’t feel alone anymore.”

Guinevere slept with more than one hundred guys before she turned twenty-five. She had the looks and body to attract plenty of men, but, in her words, “I lacked the brains and confidence to use those things to get what I wanted.” What she wanted was to be found truly appealing, beyond just her looks. She wanted men to want to spend time with her. She says, “All those years I never realized that given a choice most men or boys will take what they can get whenever they want. I made it incredibly easy for them to get it.” She went on to explain the many ways she gave herself away. She didn’t make the connection, she told me, between how easily she gave herself away and how lonely and desperate she felt. She was nice to guys, good to them, gave them whatever they wanted. They laughed together; they seemed to like her. But after they had sex, the boys were gone. She constantly wondered what she did wrong. Was she not good enough in bed? Was she too loud? Not loud enough? Was there something wrong with her?

Guinevere’s confusion about what boys want is an extremely common feeling among loose girls. They get the clear message from media and peers that boys like sex, that boys like girls who are sexy. But then, again and again, the boys leave after sex. Loose girls almost always assume it’s about them—they are simply not lovable enough. There is something horribly wrong with them. They also know the other message that bears down through the schools and Christian organizations: boys don’t like girls who put out. So, loose girls shame themselves. The fact that they can’t help their neediness, their desperation to be loved, they believe, is surely why boys leave.

Many of the girls I spoke with who identified as loose girls shared with me the ways they acted out in their neediness. They called boys too much. They texted and emailed them constantly. They pushed them away with their desperation. When they tell me these stories, I can see their eyes move to the floor. I can hear their voices drop. They hesitate. The shame they feel about their neediness is much worse than any shame they might feel about their sexual behavior.

Cynthia told me that after the last guy had sex with her and never called again, she texted him five times before he finally wrote back, “Don’t contact me again, freak.” She spent the rest of the day in bed, unable to move. His words had confirmed for her exactly what she feared was true about her: there was something different about her, something different from every other girl, who seemed to be able to take or leave a guy, whereas once she got a boy’s attention, she could think of nothing else but how to make him love her.

Cynthia’s dirty little secret is not sex. Like that of all loose girls, her dirtiest secret is her need.

Loose girls come from every walk of life imaginable. They are black, white, Hispanic, Asian, poor, rich, middle class—you name it. Many had great childhoods. Others did not. For some, we can track back to what happened with their parents—mothers and fathers—to get some sense of why they headed down the paths they did.

Chapter 4

BEST FRIENDS AND ROLE MODELS

Mothers and Loose Girls

My mother was my first teacher when it came to getting men to notice me.

Cicely’s family fit all the stereotypes of a normal, nuclear family. She lived with her younger brother, mother, and father in a middle-class home. Cicely’s mother had prided herself on making choices for her family that included sit-down meals every night, checking their homework, and always knowing where they would be and with whom. She and Cicely were extremely close, right up until Cicely turned fourteen. That’s when things took a turn. Cicely began to want to wear clothes her mother would not allow. She began to sneak out at night to meet boys, then come home with hickeys all over her neck. Her mother tried everything: reasoning with her, grounding her, sleeping in the living room so she would hear whether Cicely tried to escape through the front door. Nothing worked. Cicely, meanwhile, grew more and more resentful of her mother’s tactics. She felt increasingly isolated from her family, but got a sense of comfort from her friends, who understood her. Mostly, though, she got comfort from boys, who made her feel special in a way she had never felt before. When they didn’t call or liked one of her friends instead of her, she felt devastated, but that initial rush, that feeling that maybe this boy would love her, was worth it all.

Cicely’s story is probably familiar to many mothers with teenage girls. Their daughters are precious, lively, compassionate kids. Their mothers know how to reach them. They enjoy their time together. And then all of a sudden something switches. The daughter goes away. She stops communicating. When the mother tries to talk to her, wanting open discussion, the teen gets angry and stomps away. She yells, “You don’t understand!” and slams the door. But of course the mother understands. She understands better than anyone.

And yet, according to studies of mothers and adolescents, mothers understand less than they think. According to studies by James Jaccard, Patricia Dittus, and Vivian Gordon in Child Development, mothers tend to underestimate their daughters’ sexual activity.1 Most all the girls I spoke with affirmed this pattern with their mothers. Plenty told me that their parents would freak out if they knew the extent of what they did with boys—threesomes and oral sex, for instance. They’ve hidden hickeys and lied about where they were going and who they were spending time with. One said, “My mother thinks I’m such an angel. She tells her friends how sweet and smart and together I am. It makes me want to puke. She has no idea who I really am.”

Much research supports that a healthy mother-daughter relationship is prohibitive of promiscuity among teens. Adolescents’ perceptions of their mother’s disapproval of premarital sex and their satisfaction with the mother-daughter relationship are significantly related to abstinence for teens, less frequent sexual intercourse, and more consistent use of contraception among sexually active youths.2

However, in a survey of one thousand fifteen- to twenty-twoyear-old girls and one thousand mothers of teen girls conducted by Seventeen and O Magazine through the research firm Harris Interactive, only 4 percent of girls claimed that their beliefs about sex were influenced by their mothers, and 40 percent said that talking to their moms about sex didn’t really affect their decisions.3

All these mixed messages for mothers don’t help the already-terrifying process of raising teenage girls. Lydia, a self-proclaimed loose girl, told me that her mother relayed those mixed messages in the home. She walked around naked saying, “We’re all girls here.” She encouraged her daughters to feel comfortable with their bodies. But she also told them they should not have sex or lead on boys, who would do anything to get into their pants.

“It was confusing,” Lydia said. “So ultimately I just did what I wanted.”

This sort of disconnect is reflected in the Seventeen and O survey, where 90 percent of mothers claimed that they’d spoken to their daughters about how to make the decision to have sex, but only 51 percent of the girls claimed to have had the same conversation.

A few things are at work in such numbers. One is that mothers are generally uncomfortable talking to their teens about sex. Following the dominant discourse about girls and sex, mothers talk about the issues involved—pregnancy, abortion, and STDs. Most adolescent girls claim that their mothers don’t talk to them about the aspects of sex that they deem more important—such as the emotions involved and the physical feelings. Generally, they feel like they’re receiving warnings and rules, and that the conversation is rarely much of a two-way street.4 One of the girls I interviewed told me that her mother would never even know all the things she wasn’t saying; the girl knows that there are certain topics her mother doesn’t want to hear about from her, and one of them is definitely her desire to be with boys sexually.

Mothers are uncomfortable partially because sex is such a taboo subject for teen girls. But they’ve also adopted the social standard that if you discuss sex and sexual desire with your daughter, she’ll fall down that slippery slope into promiscuity. As a result, many tell their daughters about abstinence. They let them know that sex before marriage is off-limits. Then they assume (or pray) that the girls will follow their advice.

Girls, too, often feel uncomfortable talking to their mothers about sex, particularly when they fear judgment, rigidity, or attempts to control. But even without those factors, talking about sex with any parent is burdened with embarrassment.

Certainly, this adds to the reasons that one of the more important topics missing from most conversations about sex is masturbation. Letting a girl know—from early on—that it is perfectly fine to touch herself in private is a great way to support her natural sexual feelings without needing a boy. Even the well-known sex therapist Laura Berman said in an O Magazine interview about talking to daughters about sex, “It’s important to talk to her about having a sense of control and pride over her body, and to let her know there are ways she can make herself feel good before she’s ready for sex, like self-stimulation.” The interviewer asked, “Seriously? Mothers should talk about masturbation?” Berman replied: “If you want to raise a sexually healthy daughter, yes. That may mean attending to your own sexual health. A lot of women grew up with the idea that masturbation is wrong or dirty.” Indeed.5

It’s not just the conservatives and abstinence advocates who wince at such a conversation. “That is private business,” one mother said to me. This head-in-the-sand approach, though, puts a wall up between teen girls and adults. As long as mothers don’t talk to their girls about sex, they are setting up a greater likelihood that their girls will use sex to self-harm.

Masturbation is a major taboo, and a long standing one at that. Some of the myths are familiar—you can go blind, you’ll grow hair on your palms, or your reproductive organs will fail. Others contain that common double standard—boys masturbate, but girls don’t, or girls who do masturbate are hypersexualized, exposed to images or experiences they shouldn’t have been.

But the real truth about masturbation is that it’s as natural and normal as it can get when it comes to sexual exploration. The larger percentage of the population masturbates, and they do so through old age.6 In fact, one study suggests that 20 percent of all senior citizens masturbate at least once a week.7 The joke goes that 98 percent of the population masturbates, and the other 2 percent are lying. Although statistics suggest that men masturbate more than women, I think we can all agree that this is due to both the stigma put on women for having desires and the likelihood of girls’ and women’s lower honesty in reporting masturbation occurrences, as women are traditionally not accepted for their sexual desires. If girls and women are expected be in love to have sex, then certainly admitting their solo sexual desire is too risky.

The Boy Scouts of America, the Christian Coalition, and the Roman Catholic Church are all vocally opposed to masturbation. Christine O’Donnell, who ran for the Delaware Senate in 2010 (and lost), spoke on MTV in the 1990s about how masturbation was a sin because it was equivalent to committing adultery.8 In 1994, Dr. Joycelyn Elders, the U.S. surgeon general, was forced to resign from her position because she suggested that masturbation should be a part of sex education. Conservatives and moderates were outraged to the point that Elders left her post.

Meanwhile, when we look beyond opinion and stigma, research suggests that masturbation is an essential part of sexual development, and girls’ hesitations about masturbation are correlated with having uneasiness about intercourse.9 The sex educator Sharon Thompson notes that one of the things masturbation teaches is that all those things we feel happen inside our own bodies.10 So many girls make all that sexual excitement about the other person. In reality, those feelings are their own creation and they could have those feelings without needing a boy around to feel them. Assuming that girls will develop more confidence about their sexual feelings if they do masturbate, they might also be more self-directed about their sexual behavior. They will likely know better what they want and what they don’t. And what better way for girls to acknowledge and attend to their sexual desires without putting themselves in the way of STDs and pregnancy?

So how should mothers address sexual behavior with their girls? Lynn Ponton, author of The Sex Lives of Teenagers, created a comprehensive list of considerations, including starting early, before adolescence; being conscious of talking to your children about sex and sexual feeling without mentioning your own; continuing the conversation and communication long beyond a singular talk; and recognizing that your work as a parent is to guide and suggest but not to direct.11

If daughters are going to have sex, and we know from the statistics that many will, then mothers should make condoms available to their daughters. We know that adolescents use condoms more than adults do, which means they are willing to use condoms.12 Therefore, parents have a responsibility to keep their children as safe as they can by providing condoms in case their teenagers are choosing to have sex. And parents need to talk with them about condoms early. A study conducted by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention determined that mothers who discussed condom use with their teenage daughters before first intercourse had daughters who were three times more likely to use condoms than those whose mothers discussed condom use with them after first intercourse.13

Another very important issue arises when it comes to mothers and daughters regarding sexual behavior. Many mothers are still dealing with unresolved feelings surrounding their own promiscuity. They either continue to act in loose-girl ways, or they feel anger or pain or resentment about those feelings themselves (see chapter 9 for more about the grown-up loose girl). We know that modeling is one of the primary ways children learn. It doesn’t matter what mothers say to their daughters if they don’t walk their talk.

Children—perhaps especially teenagers—are hyperaware of hypocrisy. Communication to teens about sex—from media, from parents, from educational institutions—is loaded with mixed messages. Teenagers look perhaps most critically at their parents for hypocrisy and will quickly dismiss a mother’s admonishments if she isn’t following the same advice. And if a mom is acting out sexually, needing too much attention from men, or even focusing too much on romance, girls pick up those messages more than anything else that might be said.

This is not to say that all loose girls have loose-girl mothers, but having a loose-girl mother generally means that the mother is somewhat oblivious, which won’t help her daughter’s emotional health when it comes to sex. Research shows that parents who are insecurely attached—meaning that important bonds were disrupted when they were children—tend to parent in ways that pass on that insecurity to their daughters.14

Janet and Shawna are a mother and daughter who have lived on their own since Janet and her ex-husband Greg divorced. Janet always told Shawna that she didn’t want her to give herself away to just any boy, but when Janet began to date, Shawna felt like she was seeing her mother in a different light. She dressed in sexy outfits. She changed her hairstyle. Once Shawna saw her mother French kissing a date in the kitchen. His hand was squeezing her behind. Shawna felt sick but also slightly aroused. She was happy for her mother, but it also frightened her. She felt like she didn’t know her mother at all.

Janet and Shawna’s situation is a common one for many teenage girls. Janet isn’t necessarily doing anything wrong, but without any discussion, Shawna sees her mother’s behavior as hypocritical. There are layers to every story, too, that are harder to see. In that brief anecdote, for instance, you don’t see that Janet also had a history of needing men’s attention. When she married, that need went into a sort of remission, but suddenly free she found herself craving attention again. In this cycle, Janet will find it hard to be there fully for Shawna. But if Janet can build awareness about her own behavior, she can discuss her tendencies with Shawna. They can talk about how women are made to feel in their culture and how hard it is to fight the current. She can promise Shawna that she will work on this issue in her own life and that Shawna can come to her with any feelings about the process, even unpleasant ones. In other words, Janet doesn’t have to be perfect. No parent can be. But she can take responsibility for herself and be honest, the two most important things a parent can do.

Hannah has a very different story. Her parents divorced when Hannah was ten, and a few years later, her mother met Chris at a singles’ dance. Hannah’s mother immediately began to transform, and not in a positive way. Whatever Chris liked, her mother did. For instance, Chris liked high heels, so Hannah’s mother went out and bought a few pairs and she wore them all the time. Hannah didn’t like Chris one bit. He insulted her father, whom he’d never met. And he insulted Hannah, too. When Hannah would say something back to him—something like, “Excuse me?”—her mother told her to stop it, to not act fresh with Chris.

Every day, Hannah felt like she had to hold herself still, not talk, not express any of her feelings. If she did try to talk to her mother, Chris would show up and give her mother a why-do-you-let-herget-away-with-it expression. Soon after, her mother would warn her to knock it off. It got so bad, in fact, that Hannah started having occasional panic attacks. Her mother found Hannah shaking uncontrollably in the bathroom one time, and she still did nothing. One time, Hannah said point-blank to her mother, “You choose him over me,” and her mother didn’t deny it. Now, Hannah says, she tries not to think about it too much. Instead, she fantasizes about having a boyfriend. She told me, “I think of having a boyfriend’s arms to wrap me up tight, kiss my hair, hold my hand, and cuddle with. I find myself now looking at any guy, imagining that. I don’t find many guys at my school attractive, and the ones that are have personalities that ruin it, or they’re into smoking pot, or I just have no way of approaching them. Now whenever I think I like a guy, I don’t know if it’s just because I’m desperate like my mom or if my crush is genuine. I just want to feel good and have someone there to love me like that. And it doesn’t help the way my mom is acting, and what she says makes me think I can’t be happy if I don’t have a man.”

Hannah’s mother has tons of work of her own to do before she can be a positive influence on Hannah when it comes to romance. Like Janet, she needs to examine her own issues with men and the ways she has turned to men to fill something in her that she can’t fill on her own. Clearly, Hannah’s mother has put her own desperation for love above her care for her daughter, something I too commonly hear from teenagers. Unless Hannah’s mother puts her daughter’s feelings first, Hannah will continue to feel confused about her own impulses when it comes to romance. Hannah has difficulty separating her identity from her mother’s, which is typical of a mother-daughter relationship, but particularly one where the mother has no boundaries around her behavior.

Every once in a while, I hear positive stories, too. I know a fourteen-year-old girl named Nel who recently started dating, and one evening she came home with a hickey on her neck. Her mother saw it, let her daughter know she saw it, and told her that she was fine with that hickey. Her concern, she let Nel know, was that Nel was making choices she wanted to make. She only wanted to be sure that Nel felt comfortable with what was happening and that she wouldn’t do something she didn’t really want to do. At first Nel rolled her eyes and said, “I know, Mom!” But about an hour later, Nel came back to her mother and said that she did realize that sometimes boys wanted to do more than she felt ready for, and sometimes even she wanted to do more than she was sure she was ready for. Nel and her mother wound up having a long, open discussion about how boys are always considered the horny, sexual aggressors, but really there were things girls wanted to do, too. But girls are very aware that if they let boys know they want those things, they quickly get labeled “sluts.” Nel and her mother agreed that this was unfair, and together they discussed ways Nel could work her way around this double standard while still staying true to herself, such as by thinking through her sexual behavior before acting, and perhaps even talking to her mother about it first.

Sometimes the media gets it right also. One mother-daughter sex talk that received lots of attention for being honest, realistic, and all-around positive came from the NBC drama Friday Night Lights. On the show, the character Tami, Julie’s mother, treats Julie with respect, asking her open-ended questions about her feelings and experiences. She also shares her own honest feelings. Here is an excerpt:

Tami: “And you know, just ’cause you’re having sex this one time doesn’t mean that you have to all the time, and you know if it ever feels like he’s taking you for granted, or you’re not enjoying it you can stop anytime…and if you ever break up with Matt it’s not like you have sex with the next boy necessarily.” (She tears up.)

Julie: “Why are you crying?”

Tami: “Because I wanted you to wait…but that’s just because I want to protect you because I love you, and I want to make sure nothing bad ever happens to you. And I always want you to always be able to talk to me even if it’s about something so hard like this.”

Julie: “I didn’t want to disappoint you.” (Tami shakes her head and hugs Julie.)15

A conversation like this one, and like the one Nel and her mother had, is a great example of mothers encouraging and supporting open dialogue about sex while respecting their daughters’ thoughts and feelings. In both examples, too, the mothers take responsibilities for their feelings about their daughters’ sexual behavior rather than projecting those feelings on the girls. This is a big difference from the kinds of conversations I hear about too often—one in which a mother simply tells her daughter that she should not have sex until she is married, or alternatively, one in which the mother is trying to be her daughter’s best friend. When a mother shares too much of her own past experiences with sex, or when she encourages her daughter’s sexual feelings as a way of validating her own, she crosses a boundary, one that can feel violating to a girl.

So a balance such as the ones Nel’s mother and Julie’s mother managed to find—where they remained their daughters’ mothers, guiding them and providing safety for the girls while also supporting their daughters’ feelings and sexual discovery—is a difficult balance indeed. Mothers have a unique responsibility here, one they must take very seriously as they navigate their ways through the treacherous field of a teenage girl’s sexual discovery.

This has been a long-standing stumbling block. My mother’s generation had mothers that tended toward silence. They simply didn’t speak about sex to their daughters. One day, the daughter’s period arrived, the mother took her to get Kotex, and that was it. They were told to not have sex before marriage. The end. Some of the mothers of my generation tried to do things differently, but many went too far the other way, offering too much about sex, breaking boundaries, wanting to share like friends. The mothers of today have still been mostly left out in the cold with this subject, mainly because mothers are women, which means no one has told them that their desire was normal when they were growing up, that it is a necessary part of the equation when it comes to sexual development. Mothers so often feel helpless in the face of this task of guiding their daughters safely through the wild, roaring rapids of adolescent sexuality. They try to tell their daughters what they need to know. They warn them. But such tactics don’t work with adolescents, who need to know that their knowledge and beliefs are respected. The most important thing a mother can do, really, is to just listen.

Fathers have their own set of challenges.

Chapter 5

DADDY ISSUES

How Fathers Matter

I’ve spent my life trying to replace my dad who had nothing to give me, who never even tried.

Sarah, now in her late twenties, has slept with seventeen or eighteen guys, all in about five years. Three-quarters of them were one-night stands, and she can’t remember all the names or what order they came in. One was a professor in the college she attended. Three or four of the guys were actual relationships that lasted a year or more. Sarah didn’t have sex until she was twenty-one which is later than the average for girls (which is seventeen). In high school she was into sports and schoolwork and not so much into boys. She did have a boyfriend her senior year—but she believes she messed that up when she started looking to her best friend, a girl, for emotional fulfillment instead of him. All of this sounds perfectly normal.

But then, Sarah’s best friend had sex with Sarah’s father. From then on, everything changed. She said, “I like to blame my father and my shitty genes for my promiscuity, but I know this is just an excuse.” True, but her father’s behavior was also a reason. Sarah has more recently been in therapy because, twelve years after the incident between her friend and father, she still finds that her depression is uncontrollable.

Breanna had a military dad, and his job required him to travel overseas for the majority of her childhood. When she was nine years old, he left again for a one-year tour of duty overseas. A friend’s father was known for taking the neighborhood children on camping trips, with and without their parents, and Breanna’s mother thought it was a nice gesture, especially since her father was gone. It was on that camping trip that she says she learned about her body and her friend’s father’s body when he molested her. Her father returned several months later only to tell her mother that he wanted a divorce. The two events, both terrible disappointments and betrayals for Breanna, led her down a desperate path to feel loved by a man.

Stories like Breanna’s, and to some extent Sarah’s, are the stories we expect when looking for narratives behind loose-girl behavior. We expect loose girls to have problems with their fathers. Why? Well, the assumption is that a girl who seeks attention in men has daddy issues.

A number of readers have asked me whether I’ve found that the majority of girls who contact me have absent fathers (I haven’t). Google the words girls, promiscuity, and reasons, though, and you will find many articles and blogs noting that the reason girls are promiscuous is that their fathers were absent or otherwise unavailable. Fathers don’t give girls what they need. They pull away when a girl hits puberty, perhaps frightened of the girl’s emergent sexuality or put off by their sudden attitudes. Or they left long ago, a shadow in the girl’s life. We assume that girls look for that elusive father figure in other men.

As one preacher writes in his blog:

They will become teen girls and start looking outside the home for what they cannot find inside the home. They will turn to peer boys to meet their unmet need for affection, attention and love…These girls are often abused by boyfriends. This changes their life. And more than 90 percent of all teen girls who get pregnant, report that they did not have a close, loving relationship with their father.1

I searched and searched for the source of his statistic that 90 percent of teen girls who get pregnant didn’t have loving relationships with their fathers, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. This type of lack of evidence crops up repeatedly in discussions of daddy-daughter issues. I don’t doubt that it can be a part of the picture, but I fear we tend toward giving fathers too much responsibility for their daughters’ sexual lives.

A communications professor wrote in an article on AskMen.com that girls with “daddy issues” exhibit sexual aggressiveness, excessive flirting, and clinginess.2 Here lies the issue that we’ve discussed in previous chapters: cultural assumptions weigh down the terms he uses. Girls who want sex are “aggressive,” and girls who want more than sex are “clingy.” Would we say that about boys? But what’s key here is that he provided no real evidence that girls with daddy issues possess these traits. It’s just another cultural assumption.

A psychologist who devotes much of her career to actively preventing same-sex marriage writes on her own website (syndicated on a Catholic organization’s website):

When a girl doesn’t have a father to fill that role she’s more likely to become promiscuous in a misguided attempt to satisfy her inborn hunger for male attention and validation.3

Again, the author provides no source material as evidence, and her comment is entirely presumptuous. Yet another psychologist writes:

Perhaps the arena in which the most painful process of learning how to deal with the early lack of a father is played out is in that of relationships. If a girl has not been assured of her value as a woman by that early relationship with the father, she finds it difficult to relate to men precisely because she may often unconsciously seek to find that recognition in the eyes of the beloved… and this may lead her down an early path of promiscuity…4

Keep looking, and you will find the same sentiment again and again. The actress Megan Fox said that “girls are awful” because they all have daddy issues.5 And, still, where is the evidence?

The truth is, the idea that promiscuous girls have daddy issues comes directly from Sigmund Freud. He put forth the Oedipal complex, which theorizes that boys unconsciously want to kill their fathers and marry their mothers. Carl Jung then coined the Electra complex, which is the psychosexual theory that girls develop a sexual attachment to their fathers. They carry this attachment into adulthood, always searching to replace their fathers with other men.

The Electra complex has made its way into plenty of literature—most notably in Sylvia Plath’s poem “Daddy.” We see it in self-help books and movies and television shows. In the second season of Tough Love, for example, the matchmaker Steve Ward had the women explore their daddy issues by writing letters to their fathers. The message here is that until the women resolve their issues with their fathers, they won’t be able to have healthy relationships with men. Almost all the “slutty” girls on television have absentee fathers—Serena on Gossip Girl, Tyra on Friday Night Lights, Rayanne on My So-Called Life. Girls are abandoned by their fathers and look to replace them with men.

When we finally look more closely at the research, we find that one of the largest predictors of teenage pregnancy and early intercourse is indeed a single-parent home, and most of those homes, of course, are fatherless. (Single-parent households are also correlated with all sorts of risky behavior for children, including alcohol and drug use.)6 There is also some evidence that fatherless households, or households with marital strife, particularly when the father withdraws, are correlated with earlier puberty, but only in higher-income households.7 The assumption is that the presence of fathers provides a sort of protection against growing up too quickly, and without that presence, girls might be hardwired to go out and find themselves a protective mate, although that doesn’t account for why this seems to only hold true in higher-income families.

A 2003 study was able to find evidence of increased early sexual behavior and teen pregnancy in a group of 242 U.S. teen girls without fathers living at home, but not other behavioral problems, which suggested a causal relationship between absent fathers and sexual behavior. In the same study, 520 New Zealand girls did not show this individualized behavior increase; rather, many behavioral problems increased.8 But in a study that came out the same year, published in Child Development, researchers found that boys and girls living in two-parent homes with irritable, impulsive fathers had more behavioral problems than those living with just their mothers.9 So, although there does seem to be some evidence that fatherless girls will become more sexual, there’s also the suggestion that those with “bad” fathers wind up with behavioral problems.

I certainly don’t want to suggest that fathers don’t ever influence their daughters regarding sex and relationships, because they likely do. Exactly how, though, is more of a mystery. There are plenty of studies that reveal some sort of correlation between sexual behavior and absent fathers. The problem is that most of what we find seems informed by cultural ideals, which makes this sort of research hard to wade through. For instance, many studies claim that girls are more likely to be promiscuous, but then those studies don’t define promiscuity. Do they simply mean that girls seek out more sex? Or do they mean that girls seek more sex that will make them feel bad? None of these studies distinguish the two. They say girls are sexually active, as though that by itself means something negative to be avoided.

Likewise, it’s consistently not clear whether the teenage girls in such studies engage in riskier behaviors because there is a father missing or simply because one of their primary caregivers is missing. One study, performed by a researcher who was concerned with the ways prior research was often used to argue against same-sex marriage, looked more closely at the dynamics in a range of families and found that the gender of parents in child-parent relationships has minor significance when it comes to children’s psychological adjustment and social success.

Because of these various biases, we can’t assume that absent fathers by themselves lead to loose-girl behavior. To say so oversimplifies a complex, culturally cued issue. Certainly, I’ve found this in my own interviews with various girls. Loose girls—girls who act out sexually in ways that are self-harming—come from single mothers, single fathers, intact families, happy homes, and even experiences of sexual abuse and incest. Whatever type of home you can imagine, loose girls grow up there. All it takes is for a girl to have some sense that she isn’t good enough, isn’t lovable, isn’t right. And that is too easy for a girl to feel when every image reflected to her reminds her that she will never be as pretty as she should, when every message she’s given about who she must be to be worthwhile is confusing, ambiguous, and contradictory to the others.

Still, fathers matter to girls, and perhaps it goes without saying that when fathers are absent or abusive or otherwise not present and loving, girls will probably feel they aren’t good enough, aren’t lovable, and so on. Put a different way, a girl’s relationship with her parents—whomever and how many of them there are—matters. And if there’s a father in the picture, that father can do things to better ensure that his daughter won’t engage in self-harming promiscuity.

Chantal lives in a single-father household, which is how I spent my adolescent years as well. She was close with her father, who was concerned that Chantal would miss having a mother in her life. He did everything with her and her younger brother. He took them camping, to baseball games, to festivals and on road trips. He didn’t date, which upset Chantal. She wanted him to find a partner, to have someone he could share with. When I pressed her, she admitted what she really wanted was for him to stop sharing with her. He spent too much time with her, she said, and she wished he would focus on someone else. There wasn’t anything inappropriate going on; he just didn’t seem to have much of a life beyond his kids and his work, and that frustrated her. “So many of my friends complain that their dads are never around,” she said. “I’d love it if my dad were never around. He’s a loser.”

Chantal is seventeen and has had sex with fourteen guys. When I asked what it is she wants, she said, “Something different. I just want some way out.” She began to cry. “I’m scared that I’ll never get away from him. It’s like he needs me or something. It’s gross.”

Chantal’s relationship with her father—though close and loving—suffocates her. Her story is an example of how the Electra complex isn’t solely responsible for girls using sex to fill something inside. It’s also an example of how ineffectual a father can sometimes be when he is simply trying to love his daughter. In Chantal’s case, she felt her father was too close. As she said, it felt “gross.”

In the single-father household I grew up in, my father often commented on women in my presence in ways that taught me what made girls and women desirable. He noted when women on television were pretty. He told me my friend had a cute body. He said he liked to take walks past cheerleader practice at the high school across the street from our home, and he encouraged me to try out for cheerleading, too. He also touched his girlfriend’s ass in front of me or made sexual noises when he looked at her body.

My father was the main man I turned to in order to understand the male species. I looked to him for a sense of what men liked in women. My father’s immense inappropriateness showed me that men liked girls who were pretty and sexy. He also let me know that men preferred girls who didn’t make waves, who didn’t need too much. Meanwhile, I needed so much that he wasn’t giving me. Because my mother was gone, I needed him to give me emotional attention. I needed him to care about my feelings, to guide me down a positive path. I needed him to listen—really listen—to what I had to say, to not demean my feelings, and to show interest in what I did.

Fathers don’t need to be physically absent to abandon their daughters. There are many ways to leave. Many fathers worry about how to negotiate boundaries—particularly regarding physical contact—with their sexually blossoming daughters, but they often set up bigger boundaries than necessary. Some physically withdraw, unwilling to provide affection anymore. Others become more controlling with their daughters. Both reactions set a girl up to feel left out, misunderstood, and treated unfairly.

Many fathers also make the mistake of stepping away from their daughters because their daughters pull away from them first or because they suddenly don’t understand who this angry, easily hurt girl is. For many fathers—my own included—girls are overwhelming creatures, so different from boys. Many fathers don’t know how to handle them.

My sister’s room and my room were down a long hallway, and I remember my father racing past that hallway. It seemed to us like he didn’t want to know what was down that hall. He was terrified of us. We exasperated him. Two teenage girls! He had grown up with brothers and didn’t have a clue as to how to deal with our outbursts, our needs, and our sadness.

In these situations, though, fathers must find ways to do the opposite. They need to actively engage their daughters, to ask them about their interests, their hopes, and their feelings. They must find ways to push past the discomfort and awkwardness that can at times accompany such interactions. Daughters need their fathers. They need every possible person who might love them—who might care about how they feel or might care what happens to them—to actively show them that they do.

Fathers are likewise in an excellent position to teach their girls about the various ways our culture degrades and disrespects females. They can clarify that they will not treat women that way and that they won’t stand for people treating their daughters that way either. They can address how girls are expected to look good rather than do good. They can encourage them to get involved in something that isn’t about what boys want from them, and they can support their daughters’ talents in sports, arts, and intellectual pursuits.

At the same time, they can be understanding that many of their daughters will want to be attractive to boys, will concern themselves with “typical” girl interests, such as clothes and makeup. They can both be careful to not judge those interests and make clear that what makes their daughters special in the world is who they are, not what they look like. This is a hard one, because every last message girls get from mainstream culture suggests the opposite. Every last message tells girls that they are the sum of their physical parts, that they can tell whether they matter in the world by whether boys like them. Fathers are in a unique position to show them that men can feel otherwise, that girls can be wholly loved simply by being themselves.

An odd response to this effort, though, is the purity ball, which we explored briefly in chapter 3. Purity balls are Christian ceremonies in which girls pledge their virginity to their fathers and fathers vow to protect their daughters’ chastity. Girls wear white gowns, fathers wear tuxes, and they slow dance after their vows. But the reasoning behind the creation of these ceremonies might not be what you expect. In a TLC special about them, Randy Wilson of Generation of Light, the Christian organization that founded purity balls, noted that all girls have the same questions: “Am I beautiful? Am I worth pursuing?” He said that fathers needed to answer this question for them so they didn’t go out into the world to find out from someone else.10 While I can get behind the idea that fathers need to be an active part of their daughter’s self-esteem, this idea that girls need to feel beautiful—and therefore worth pursuing—distresses me. If fathers focus on their daughter’s appearance, just like the rest of the world is already doing, they miss out on the chance to teach their daughters that they are worth pursuing for much better reasons.

Worse, the purity balls drop all the control over who a girl can be as a sexual creature into fathers’ laps—into men’s laps. The message is this: “Men know what’s best for you. Your father decides who you can be sexually.” It would make much more sense to me to have mothers and daughters in such ceremonies, where mothers pledge to share their wisdom and guidance regarding sex, and where daughters vow to communicate with their mothers about their sexual exploration.

Janice’s story is a good example that shows how purity balls, and the intention behind them, miss the mark on what girls need from their fathers. Her father died from cancer when she was eleven, just as she was in the throes of puberty. She has many positive memories of him comforting her when she was scared, playing games with her, and reading to her at bedtime. Janice’s mother was devastated after his death, and Janice remembers those first few years as grief stricken and painful. Her mother was a mess, barely capable of taking care of Janice and her younger brother. But over time, the grief softened, and their household felt less dreary. That is when Janice began to find boys. Her mother started dating again just as Janice did, too, and her mother fell immediately for a man whom Janice didn’t get along with. Soon, he became her stepfather, which only made Janice feel lonelier. He was nothing like her father, and Janice didn’t understand why her mother would choose him. Janice started hooking up with boys, which was not really satisfying but gave her something to look forward to. She experienced a sort of high, she told me, when a boy turned his eyes to her body and she knew she had some sort of control over him. She loved the feeling of connection, of her body pressed against someone else’s, the sense of safety, of solidity. A boy’s presence felt like the opposite of having lost her dad. Janice did not want a relationship with any of them. She only wanted those brief moments of connection.

The problem was that she felt awful afterward. Every time they went their separate ways, Janice felt the familiar pain of abandonment. In other words, she craved a momentary sense of intimacy, much like the intimacy she was now missing from her father, but she didn’t want the long-term responsibility of a relationship with some boy. Add to this that the boys at her school began to talk, and soon she became known as a girl who would put out.

In college, Janice finally had a chance to start over, but the pain she held in her heart about her father never went away. She felt desperately confused. She still had never had a boyfriend, and she wasn’t sure she could ever trust a boy to not leave her, especially after the way they treated her in high school.

Janice’s story is an example of how complicated father issues can be. They are rarely straightforward. For Janice, so many issues were at play. The first, of course, is that she lost her father and was left to struggle with her grief in a way for which no one was to blame. Then Janice faced cultural expectations at her high school about her sexual behavior. Over time, this too affected who she would wind up as in relation to boys. Finally, there is the fact that her mother remarried a man with whom Janice felt no connection. Those three wounds entangled themselves inside Janice’s experience of herself as a sexual person and as a person who could have a relationship.

Would a purity ball have saved Janice? The question is outrageous enough to reveal how impotent such a solution is for most people. Most girls don’t live the fairy-tale lives such a ceremony promises. They lose people, their parents divorce, they are sexually abused, they are made fun of and excluded. When they grow up, men rarely arrive on white horses, like they did for Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. Men rarely show up at the father’s door and offer to take over caring for the father’s daughter. And why would we want that for our girls anyway? Why aim to treat our girls like helpless princesses when they can instead relish their competence as surgeons, welders, artists, scientists, and teachers? When they can do something worthwhile in the world, not just look good on someone’s arm?

Such an approach has the power to keep our daughters safe from all sorts of self-harming behavior, not just promiscuity. In the next chapter, we look at these other means of self-harm.

Chapter 6

LOOSE GIRLS IN CONTEXT

Risks and Losses

When we broke up, I slept with guy after guy to fill the emptiness that I felt. I started cutting and became addicted to drugs. I became known as either “That Girl That Cuts” or “That Slut.”

In this chapter, we look at the prevalence of depression and other mood disorders that coexist with promiscuous behavior. We also discuss some of the other ways girls harm themselves in conjunction with promiscuity, such as alcohol, drugs, cutting, and eating disorders. How do these behaviors interact with promiscuity, and in what ways are they part and parcel of the same thing? We then examine the question of whether loose-girl behavior can be considered an addiction. And finally, we devote a few words to homosexuality in relation to promiscuity.

THE LOOSE GIRL, MENTAL ILLNESS, AND RISKY BEHAVIORS

Seventeen-year-old Gigi has slept with twenty-two boys. She knows her number because she keeps a careful log of every one, noting what they looked like, what she found most attractive about them, and how they dumped her. Many, she said, just never contacted her again. All times, she was drunk. She hated how she felt each time, but she kept going back for more. Then she would lie in bed, numb, unable to move herself for hours. She also cut herself, which she believed helped with the numbness. Some days she didn’t leave her apartment and just moved between the bed, where she lay staring at the ceiling, and the bathroom, where she used a razor to cut.

She had a boyfriend once. It was a yearlong relationship that ended badly. The first four months or so were OK, but soon after, things started going sour. They had fights that always ended with her screaming for him to stay. A few times she held his legs, like a child might. She threw things at him sometimes, once narrowly missing his head with a television remote. When he left for good, she tried to kill herself by taking a handful of Advil PM pills, but she called her friend soon after, terrified she might really die. Her friend took her to the hospital, where they pumped her stomach. That was when a social worker came to see her; soon after she was diagnosed as having borderline personality disorder.

One might say that Gigi is a loose girl. She was promiscuous and always felt terrible afterward. She used boys to fill her emptiness. Gigi is indeed a loose girl for these reasons. But her case is more complicated than that. She has a personality disorder, which means that she needs to work on much more than her behavior around guys and sex to feel better about herself. Indeed, personality disorders are notoriously difficult to treat because they are defined by enduring and persistent abnormal behaviors and thoughts. People with personality-disorder diagnoses often deal with the conditions for life.

Janet was diagnosed with bipolar disorder as an adult, which is a mood disorder, considered more treatable than personality disorders. But when Janet was a teen, few people had even heard of such a thing. She was a heavy drinker and pot smoker from a young age. She knows now that those things were a way to self-medicate, to stop the fast-moving, obsessive thoughts that plagued her day and night. She had a lot of sex, too, usually with strangers, and she berated herself for it later. Sex drive can increase a great deal while manic. The problem comes later, when the person—usually a female—realizes she wants more than just sex in her life. Because men are trained to think of women who are easy to sleep with as not relationship material, the sexual behavior rarely turns into more than a night or two.

Add this rejection to the shame people often feel after manic episodes. For women, promiscuity connected to mental disorders is particularly hard. The shame that comes with having a mental health disorder in the first place multiplies the shame that many girls feel about having and wanting sex, and the ways in which they get punished for it through rejection or derogatory labels (“slut” and “whore,” for instance). This sort of shame is pretty prolific, of course, when it comes to young women and promiscuous behavior. A culture that finds sexual behavior among young women unconscionable will only further punish girls who have sex because of an unresolved pain.

Gigi’s and Janet’s loose-girl behavior does not stand on its own; for them both, it’s affected by all of the issues that arise from having a personality disorder and a mood disorder. For most loose girls, it’s the same: their promiscuity does not exist in a vacuum. Promiscuity is commonly associated with almost every disorder you can imagine—bulimia, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, conduct disorder, borderline personality disorder, and bipolar disorder, to name just a few. Promiscuity in teenagers is also typically associated with adolescent depression. Sexually active girls are more than three times more likely to be depressed than girls who are not sexually active. They are also three times more likely to commit suicide.1

Behaviors can compound these conditions. In middle adolescence, we see the highest levels of coexisting behaviors with promiscuity, such as substance use, alcohol use, and arrests.2 We know, too, that those adolescents engaged in more promiscuity also tend toward more risky sexual behaviors, such as not using condoms.3 Likewise, with other types of risky behavior, we are likely to find negative behaviors around sex.

Teens fourteen and older are twice as likely to have sex under the influence of alcohol or drugs. Older teens who drink alcohol are seven times more likely to have sexual intercourse and are twice as likely to have four or more partners. Drug-using older teens are five times as likely to have sex and three times as likely to have four or more partners.4 A Washington University School of Medicine study found that alcohol dependence and conduct disorder contribute to having a higher number of sex partners among older teens.5 And a relatively notorious study that came out of a U.K. university noted that women who drank were 40 percent likelier to have abortions—notorious because pro-choice parties were dismayed by the researchers’ choice to point to abortions rather than something less politically charged, such as sexual activity.6 The other criticism leveled at this and the previous study was the lack of attention to the stigmas applied to drunkenness among women and how that relates to abortions or sexual intercourse. There is a long history of the alcoholic woman as an acceptable target of sexual aggression, with more than one court proceeding leading to the “blame the victim” status given to women who drink and then become victims of rape.7

Eighteen-year-old Niesha told me she only has sex when she’s drunk or high. For her, all the activities together are what she’s after. She likes the whole experience, the sense that she can get pulled out of her life, which currently has very little direction. Her parents made her move out the day she turned eighteen, and so she lives with a couple of friends in a tiny apartment. They all work in chain restaurants during the day, and at night they party. They invite some of the guys they work with, who bring fifths of liquor, cocaine, and pharmaceuticals, and they party until four or five in the morning. Invariably, one of the guys winds up in Niesha’s bed. It’s been a rotating cycle; she sleeps with whichever one gets there first. The next day she is always late for work, with a pit in her stomach about what happened the night before.

When I talked to her, she asked me whether I thought she had a drug and alcohol problem. I told her it sounded as though she were using a number of substances and situations to try to soothe something inside.

Of course, adolescence is a time of risk taking. Most adolescents use these years to experiment with their own boundaries, with what they can handle, and with identity. Promiscuity is, in many ways, a perfectly normal part of that experimentation. But as with substance use, because sexual behavior is stigmatized, many teens turn it into self-destructive behavior. When we see other types of self-harming behaviors in teenagers, we tend to also see sex used in negative ways. This is important, because it describes the difference between normative sex—normal sexual exploration—and sex used to harm oneself.8

In almost every email I receive from readers, girls ask me why they can know their behavior hurts them, and yet can’t seem to stop. They know they are having sex for the wrong reasons. They know they need something from it that they won’t actually get, that they are setting themselves up to feel even worse. There are many answers to why loose girls have trouble stopping the behavior, but an important one to consider is that the behavior is an addiction.

ADDICTION AND THE LOOSE GIRL

I’ve gotten some flak for using the word addiction attached to the idea of loose-girl behavior. While promoting Loose Girl, I gave a number of readings from the book with follow-up question-and-answer periods. Inevitably, there was one person in the audience who was unhappy with the fact that I’d suggested that being a loose girl was an addiction. One man said, “I almost died from my addiction. Did you?” Of course, I could have said defensively that I could have almost died from HIV or some STD. I could have died when, as a young girl, I put myself in danger by going off with strange men. But this isn’t really the point. That man in the audience was angry because he had surely seen a number of issues showing up lately as addictions: sex addiction, love addiction, relationship addiction. And perhaps he felt that calling these issues addictions took away from his own struggles with chemical addictions.

But these issues are rightfully addiction, too—they are not chemical addictions, no, but process addictions, which is an addiction to an activity as opposed to an addiction to something that is ingested. Process addictions include spending money, gambling, Internet use, and—you guessed it—sex and love. A person with a process addiction is after psychological gratification and will indulge in their “drug” of choice enough that he or she build up a sort of dependency. The danger of process addictions occurs when the activity gets in the way of one’s daily life functioning or leads a person to harm his or her body, as with eating disorders. Sex and love addictions are example of pseudorelationship addictions, a type of process addiction, which are so integrated into our society, often considered the norm, that it is tricky to decipher what is truly an experience of addiction and what is simply a bad relationship.

Perhaps it helps to define addiction. Craig Nakken, author of The Addictive Personality, defines addiction as an attempt to control the uncontrollable cycles we all experience in our lives.9 We all experience loss and heartache. We all don’t get what we want plenty of times in our lives. But when a person uses a particular object, event, or another person to try to control how that feels, to produce a desired mood change, and when that person has to use this thing to feel better, that is addiction.

Those mood changes can also be thought of as intoxication. So when a sex addict experiences an uplifted mood while in a sex shop, that is a sex addict acting out her addiction. Or when a boy looks at a loose girl and smiles, and she winds up forgetting all the other plans she had for that evening so she can focus on making that boy hers, that is the loose girl acting out her addiction. The point that crosses this behavior over to addiction is the loose girl’s inability to attend to anything else in the face of feeding her desire. When her life has become unmanageable, to use the language of the twelve-step programs, when she has lost something that ultimately matters more to her, such as a long-term, loving relationship, a chance to have children, a career, she has entered into a phase we can frame as addiction. Or, perhaps put best, when she keeps doing it even though she really, really wants to stop, she has entered the world of addiction.

One way that loose girls are different from, say, girls who are just moving through a phase, or from girls who really want sex and are only troubled because it’s not accepted by society, is that loose girls know that what they are doing hurts them, but they can’t seem to stop. This is why I classify the behavior as addiction. This is where it is different from healthy sexual behavior. Loose girls don’t have sex for the right reasons, or at the least for reasons that will benefit them. They have sex to maintain the addiction, which is the same reason smokers keep smoking long after they want to quit or that pot smokers keep waking and baking long after they’ve decided their drug use isn’t working for them anymore.

Beth wrote to me after coming out of rehab for heroin use. She said her addictions to men and heroin are remarkably similar. If a man rejects her, she turns to heroin to get that good feeling back, and she has spent many months homeless and on the streets as a result. If she is off heroin, she man hunts to get the feeling back again. The pain she feels, she said, is so deep and awful that she cannot stay away from one or the other. She had two years of sobriety from both, after which she felt like she’d really done important work to move on.

She met a man she thought was different. But it turned out he was just like the others in her pattern. He was unavailable, unable to give her what she needed. He treated her like he cared for her, slept with her willingly, but said he wasn’t interested in more than friendship. So she wound up on the streets again for seven months. She slept with five random guys, feeling deep pain about the guy who sent her on a bender. She wants so badly to break free, to stop turning to things that hurt to try to get away from hurt. She recognizes the irony. She sees how irrational her behavior is. She knows, too, that she should never talk to that guy again, erase his number, stop answering his texts, but she can’t. She feels trapped in the cycles she’s built for herself because her only other option is terrible despair.

The object of a person’s addiction—the heroin, the drink, the boy, the porn—is always a stand-in for a real relationship. It becomes, in fact, an addict’s primary relationship, meaning that the addict finds it much more difficult to have successful romantic relationships. The main point here is that, while those with pseudorelationship addictions desperately want some sort of real relationship, they actively avoid intimacy through their addictions. In general, too, like any other addicts, they head further into their addictions because of the shame and pain their addictions cause them. Every time they prove to themselves that they can’t have love, they act out further, digging themselves even further into their inability to have love.

Also, it’s important to acknowledge what is beneath the addiction, which is always the kind of tremendous pain and despair we saw in Beth’s story. So many addictions are attempts to escape anguish. The more the addict escapes it by pursuing his addiction, the more tremendous and unmanageable that pain seems to be. With chemical addictions, that sense becomes reality because the addict literally changes the brain’s ability to feel pleasure. With process addictions, that sense of terror about one’s pain is largely a result of anxiety. When a person avoids the thing causing her anxiety, the avoidance becomes evidence that the thing is worthy of feeling anxiety about. It’s a sort of circular reasoning we do when it comes to anxiety. In reality, the thing causing the anxiety is rarely as horrible and terrifying as our anxiety makes us believe it is. So, while the pain behind addiction is very real, it is usually not as insurmountable as we feel it is. It might be initially, because it’s been unattended to for so long and because it’s a new thing to feel it, but over time we desensitize to its false strength.

It is very human, this desire to categorize and label and understand. We’ve seen a fascination with process addictions in our media over the last decade or so. David Duchovny was one of the first celebrities to admit his sex addiction after playing the role of a sex addict on the television show Californication. Russell Brand admits to being a sex addict. Tiger Woods went to a treatment center for sex addiction after revealing his long list of female sex partners while married. Dr. Drew Pinsky produced and starred in Celebrity Sex Rehab, which followed a number of celebrities through their rehab for sex addiction (and one for love addiction). Sex and love addicts are also prone to voyeurism and exhibitionism. Although one can imagine feeling tremendous shame while shooting up on-screen, if you’re a sex addict, you probably don’t mind acting sexy in front of a camera.

This fascination has at times made me hesitant to commit the loose-girl syndrome to an addiction model. It is important to determine what really is addiction and what is shame with respect to behavior that is simply culturally unacceptable. As with everything surrounding teenage girls and sex, the lines are blurry. Our society is so firmly opposed to any teenage sexual behavior, particularly from girls, that it would be easy to say that all sexual behavior is negative and should be treated as addiction. But teenage promiscuity isn’t always the result of severe pain or low self-esteem. Statistically, that is more often the case, but as with any statistics, it is important to acknowledge that there is a percentage of girls who develop low self-esteem because of how society judges and punishes them for wanting and having sex.

That said, addiction is often a very real part of loose-girl behavior. The feelings and bad behaviors have lots in common with other process addictions, such as sex and love addictions, but they are distinctly their own thing. We can define the loose-girl affliction as needing male attention to feel worthwhile. Sex addicts are obsessed with sex. They think about it constantly, need more and more sex to reach the same high, and are dysfunctional in their lives because of it. Love and relationship addicts are obsessed with getting love, with having relationships, and they spend a great deal of time ritualizing how to get them and how to keep them. If a relationship is threatened, they focus obsessively and act compulsively to keep the relationship or get it back, and they experience unbelievable despair when a relationship ends. All these addictions include being trapped in a cycle of pursuit and pain. All of them have a great deal of fantasy tied to them, and those fantasies get in the way of being able to have any kind of real intimacy with another person.

Pseudorelationship addictions are also about power and control. Kelly McDaniel, a love, sex, and relationship addict therapist, writes, “Women who become addicted to relationships and sex are escaping not only painful feelings, but the painful cultural inheritance that places them in an inferior position to men. Sexual power can turn the tables.”10 Young women learn to use sex to try to control their relationships, to try to make men like them. Sexual attention is easy to get when you’re a girl, so girls often use it to try to make things go where they want, to try to maintain the good feeling that comes from being wanted. One can see how easily that can slip toward sex again and again—how gratifying it feels to a girl to have a boy’s attention on her and no one else—even if the addiction is not to the sex. Taken further, one can see how the girl who winds up having sex again and again with random boys feels awful and used.

Perhaps some of this sounds familiar to you. Perhaps you, too, try to heal something inside with a relationship or with a man. Throughout the book, I’ve noted that it is almost impossible to be a girl in our culture and not feel that way. Everywhere we look, we’re told that everything we could ever want, every wish we want fulfilled, will come with a man’s love. If we follow this, then almost everyone has the potential to become a love addict. Or perhaps, too, you think about sex constantly, or you use sex to get something else. Since girls aren’t permitted in our culture to have sex without wanting love, and since girls want sex just as much as boys do, perhaps you might potentially fit the bill for sex addiction.

My story in Loose Girl has been called the story of a sex addict and love addict. When Marie Claire published an interview with me, they titled the piece “Confessions of a Sex Addict,” which was followed by that Jezebel blogger who wrote that I wasn’t a sex addict; I was just a typical girl. I absolutely agree. I wouldn’t define myself as a sex addict, and I would categorize myself as a typical girl. And if we follow the definition for sex and love addiction, almost every woman has behavior that has at times crossed into love addiction or sex addiction. It is how we try to have control in a world where girls are not allowed control over their sexual identities, their desires. It is how we have power—false as it is—in a world where girls aren’t given much power.

For this reason, focusing on the label “addict” doesn’t always make sense, nor does unpacking which addiction you have—especially since so many of them overlap. Most love addicts are also loose girls. Most sex addicts are also love addicts. Most loose girls are also relationship addicts. It’s not terribly useful to try to narrow down which ones you are. More useful is to examine the addict aspect of your condition, to see yourself as a person with an addictive personality, and to simply note how easily you keep those addictions alive (see the appendix for addiction criteria).

Of course, it might be useful to get diagnoses for some conditions, especially those for which there are empirically tested treatments. If we have well-researched solutions, by all means, let’s use them. But it is also my opinion, after counseling many girls with relationship issues, that most process addictions—including the loose-girl condition—should be treated not as disorders but as culturally cued issues, as should the addictions we developed as a result, which we must wrestle with as we aim for more fulfillment in our lives. We must work with them personally, and we must work with them culturally, meaning that we must work on ourselves, and we must do what we can to transform the culture that sets us all up to be addicts.

LOOSE GIRLS AND SEXUAL ABUSE

Sex abuse and molestation are commonly associated with promiscuity. The assumption is that when children’s formative experiences with sex are some sort of violation, they will be unable to have a normal relationship to sex in the future. This makes perfect sense until we address the question of what makes for a “normal” relationship to sex, particularly when we’re discussing teenage girls. Is the fact that they are having any type of sex somehow abnormal? I can’t help but notice, for instance, as I read through various studies about adolescent boys, that sexual activity is almost never listed as a “problem.”

In a meta-analysis (a study of studies) performed in 2001, researchers found a significant correlation between sexual promiscuity and childhood sexual abuse.11 But when we look more closely at the data, we see again that promiscuity is undefined. What does this mean to the various authors of the studies? Does it mean simply sexual activity, which tells us nothing at all? Or does it mean sexual activity that makes the subjects feel like garbage? And do they feel like garbage because of the sexual abuse they suffered?

Many advocates for sexual abuse survivors have argued that this assumption that victims inevitably become promiscuous is offensive. Sexual abuse is a situation in which a person’s autonomy is taken away from him or her, and when we make assumptions about the effects of this, we take away autonomy once again. Heather Corinna, owner of the blog Scarleteen: Sex Ed for the Real World, notes that she can’t imagine that there is any group of people more conscious of having sex when they want it versus when they don’t than sex abuse survivors. Think about it. When you’ve had an experience that was clearly unwanted, then you are more prepared to recognize it when it approaches again. She additionally writes:

Sometimes survivors do have sex that is compulsive or reactive. We also want to be sure to recognize that sometimes that’s about trying to relive the experience to process it or change the script or other unknown unconscious motivations which can be about processing and healing. In other words, even in some cases where it is or appears troubling to an outsider, it may just be where someone is at in their own process, and outsiders should carefully consider the judgments they may make about that, or any way they may pathologize behavior that may not be pathological. Hopefully, people can also start to garner an awareness that judging a rape survivor’s sexual behavior can put even more baggage on a person than it can to non-survivors.12

So, while statistics tell one story, beneath the statistics are the more personal stories, the ones that deserve our attention and that might be more accurate than studies. The point here is not that some of those who’ve experienced abuse don’t act out promiscuously; it’s that some do and some don’t, and we don’t always know what’s behind people’s reasons for having sex. Danger always lies in making quick assumptions about people’s sexual behavior, especially when those people are female.

HOMOSEXUALITY AND THE LOOSE GIRL

I realize it’s odd to segue into homosexuality here, since being gay is not a mental illness, a self-harming behavior, or a transgression. But in examining the various associations with promiscuity, we must take a look at homosexuality. For years, the gay community has been stereotyped as promiscuous. This association came about mainly in the 1980s, when HIV/AIDS swept through the political and social landscape. Gay men are the ones most associated with promiscuity, and then bisexuals and transgendered people. Many assume that gay women are quick to commit, thus downplaying promiscuity. But homosexual people are just as likely as heterosexuals to want monogamy, or to use sex to feel loved, or to feel shame about sexual desire. The statistics bear out this truth. According to a survey administered in San Francisco, 58 percent of gay men and 81 percent of lesbians are in long-term relationships.13 Another survey of 156 male couples showed that the average length of relationship was 8.9 years.

Miriam, nineteen years old, has slept with five men and more than fifty women. She grew up as one of eight kids, a middle child, and felt lost in a sea of children at home, no more visible than any of her siblings. Eventually, she grew up and left home. She moved in with a girlfriend who brought people home as “gifts” for them to share. At first, Miriam said, she couldn’t believe her luck, but over time she started feeling bad about herself. She needed every woman who came through the house to want her more than they wanted Miriam’s girlfriend, which also made her feel bad. Eventually, she started an affair with one of the women. She knew she was hurting her girlfriend, but she didn’t know how to stop herself. The other woman made her feel so special, like there was no one like her, which was of course the opposite of how she’d felt growing up. When I asked Miriam if she considered herself a loose girl, she said she absolutely did. Just because she liked girls, she said, didn’t change that she had those same feelings, that craving to have someone make her matter.

LOOSE GIRLS IN CONTEXT: A CONCLUSION

Promiscuity is bred among all sorts of mental illness, substance use, histories of sexual abuse, and sexual orientations. It is listed as a symptom of various problems teens may run into. And yet almost no studies have isolated it to learn about how to treat it. Many girls and women who have approached me for help have noted that they’ve had plenty of therapy in their lives, often for depression, anxiety, or adjustment disorders—a term therapists use when a person comes to therapy for basic life-adjustment issues, such as divorce, empty nest, job loss, etc. But even with all that counseling, they have felt like no one could ever help them or even adequately address their loose-girl issues.

Some of the problem is due to the relationship between the client and therapist. Sexual behavior tends to be underreported because of the sense that talking about sexuality is taboo, particularly across generational differences. If clients bring up transgressive sexual behaviors at all, counselors often assume that the best approach is to get their clients to stop the behavior. Even more likely is that the promiscuity as a separate issue doesn’t get attended to: we assume that if we treat the more general issue—substance abuse, depression—then the promiscuity will resolve itself as well. But unfortunately, girls who learn to act out sexually tend to keep doing so until they address the core issues surrounding those actions; usually those issues include a tremendous amount of shame and neediness. And that point—that shame and neediness sit at the heart of loose-girl behavior—is probably the most important one a counselor to a loose girl can know.

Next we look at how losing one’s virginity ties in to loose-girl behavior and how loose girls experience continual violations throughout their sexual lives.

Chapter 7

SAYING YES, SAYING NO

Consensual Sex and Rape

I lost my virginity at age fourteen. Really, it was rape. After that I pretty much gave sex out to whoever asked.

YES—LOSING VIRGINITIES

Sandy, who is fourteen, told me she doesn’t plan to have intercourse until she is in love. “That’s really the only way to do it,” she said. “Right? Because otherwise you just feel bad about it.” I asked her what she meant by “feeling bad.”

“I mean, everyone will think you’re a slut and no one will want to be your boyfriend.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little extreme?” I asked. “Why would people react that way?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It’s just the way it is.”

Every girl learns early “The First Time” narrative. There is only one acceptable way to lose your virginity. You fall in love, the two of you decide you want to share your love in a deeper way, you do it, and he loves you forever. Usually, too, this happens on your wedding night. You “save yourself” for him so you can be special and pure, so you can be clean and worthy of him. Girls are taught that their virginity is a gift, one that they should give only to the “right person.”

Of course, most girls don’t have this experience. As I noted in the introduction, the statistics tell us that half of adolescents and a quarter of early adolescents have had sex, and most have had experiences that are much more complicated.1 Many—two-thirds of adolescent girls, in fact—regret their first times. Many decide to just “get it over with.”2 Many speak of their first time as “disappointing,” because the myth around losing one’s virginity, of how special and meaningful it’s supposed to be, rarely matches the reality. Many wind up date-raped or lose their inhibitions via alcohol.

Because it is so socially unacceptable for a girl to want sex outside marriage, she will often create fantasies around losing her virginity, such as believing that she is in love or that her relationship with a boy matters much more than it actually does. According to a series of surveys by the Kaiser Family Foundation and Seventeen magazine, 50 percent of girls ages 15–17 believed that they would marry their first sexual partner.3 While boys get the luxury of just trying their damndest to get laid for the first time (laden with their own cultural pressures about losing virginity, of course), girls have to devise rituals around it. They must be in love, or they must do it after a romantic night at the prom. They have to wait for the timing, the mood, the meaning, and the guy to be just right. Some girls tire of this eventually. If things don’t line up the way they planned, they wind up just getting it over with. The truth about the first time is that 23.4 percent of first sex experiences are one-night stands, and about two-thirds of U.S. teenagers who’ve had sex wish they’d waited longer. At the same time, 26 percent of teens think it’s embarrassing to admit they’re virgins, and more than half believe that their peers think that having sex by fifteen is socially acceptable. Most believe that their friends have already done it, even when they haven’t.4

So why do girls lose their virginity? Most do so because they are simply curious; they want to know what it’s like, and they want to know if they will change in some essential way. So much hoopla surrounds girls and sex that one can see how they would believe that they might be changed. But often that belief leads to disappointment or deflation.

Lola lost her virginity because, she said, she wanted to. She was dating a guy a grade older than her, and her friends were dating his friends. Her friends had already started having sex, so she wanted to, too. Her biggest fear was that her boyfriend would decide he could just find someone else who would have sex with him if she didn’t. So, one night at his house while his parents were downstairs, they had sex.

She made him light a candle first—some small part of the romance she figured she needed to not judge herself later. It was, in fact, a detail she always included when she told friends her story about losing it, hoping they wouldn’t judge her, too. It was quick, she told me. He used a condom. She didn’t feel much pain or see any blood, which had happened to a few of her friends. Then it was done. Afterward, she went to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror thinking, You’re not a virgin, you’re not a virgin, you’re not a virgin. But she didn’t feel any different. Lola had it easy in some ways. She knew she wanted to lose her virginity, and she just happened to be seeing someone who—even though she may not have been in love with him, and he with her—was kind to her and responsible enough to put on a condom.

Lola’s story is probably no more typical than a different sort of first time, one where the girl is date-raped, or pressured into it, or drunk. Alcohol is a common gateway to lost virginity, and although some wake up the next day upset with themselves that they got drunk and went all the way, others have confessed to me that they got drunk for exactly that reason.

Nikki told me she got drunk one night because she wanted to lose her virginity. Later on, she wound up puking in the bushes outside her friend’s house, but she said there was no other way she could do it without her peers thinking she was a slut. She didn’t have a boyfriend, but there was a guy she found attractive, a guy she knew wouldn’t go out with her but would definitely have sex with her if she said that’s what she wanted. So, she did exactly that. She got drunk enough to go right up to him and say, “I want you.” They went upstairs to a bedroom, and she lost her virginity to him. The next day, her friends felt sorry for her that she been taken advantage of. They supported her as a victim. I was the only one, she said, who knew the truth.

In chapter 1, we examined the idea that girls tend to associate sexual desire with being desired. A curious twist to the disallowance of desire is that in our culture, girls are permitted to want sex if love accompanies it. They cannot want sex without it, lest they be sluts. I’ve heard often from girls that their initial masturbatory experiences involved stories about boys wanting them—her hand on her crotch was a boy’s hand, a boy who tenderly loved her as he also enlivened her sexual arousal—whereas boys’ stories of first masturbations usually include images, something they saw, or something they might do to someone else.

Because of this need for real love to be involved, sex among teenage girls often “just happens.” They get drunk and black out. They dissociate from their bodies. Alcohol is an easy out, a way not to take responsibility for one’s actions, sexual or not, boy or girl. People say, “I was drinking—I didn’t know what was happening,” or “I have no control over myself when I’m drunk, so if I did it, it was the alcohol, not me, making the choice.” Alcohol has long been a regular gateway drug to sex. Often, boys take advantage of drunk girls, thinking that the drunkenness gives them license.

But many girls, like Nikki, admit that they get drunk to loosen up sexually. They get drunk because a drunk girl doesn’t know what she was doing and therefore can’t be a slut. In my interviews, many let me know that they used alcohol often as a sort of lubrication, as a way to open themselves more easily for boys’ passes. One noted, “If I could blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol [referring to a Jamie Foxx song] I could get away with anything I secretly really wanted with a guy.”

Jessica told me that when she was as young as twelve, she started drinking because she was unhappy with herself. It was a way to be someone else, she said. Someone who could hang out with friends and not constantly compare herself to them, who could be around boys she liked and not feel fat or ugly or unappealing. Pretty quickly, too, she learned she could be flirtatious and open with boys in a way that got her attention, which turned quickly to sex. She liked the attention and the sex. She liked finally feeling like she could attract boys, like she was comfortable in her skin. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the way she was treated the next week in school. Everyone knew. She was called a “whore” and a “slut.” Friends started excluding her. At first, she became depressed. She drank more. She had more sex, just trying to feel better. One morning, a friend who hadn’t deserted her said, “Jess, you’ve got to stop drinking. It makes you do stuff with boys, and that’s why everyone’s being so mean to you.” Her statement was like a lightbulb for Jessica: “It was the alcohol. She could say it was the alcohol.”

And sure enough, the next time someone made a mean comment about her being a slut, she laughed and said, “I’ve got to stop drinking! I have no idea what I’m doing when I do. Cuervo is making me a slut.” The girl, who had once been her friend, laughed too, and over time they were friends again. Jessica learned the powerful lesson that it is OK to be sexually active with boys if you’re too drunk to have chosen to do so.

Sometimes, too, girls find ways to dissociate without alcohol. A young woman told me about her first time with a stranger twice her age, a man she met on the Internet. “He came over one night and he popped my cherry. I was so scared, but big girls, mature girls can’t be scared, so I blacked out. I completely blacked out.” Another said, “I can’t even remember the things I do with boys. It’s like the time disappears. Is that weird?”

Maybe girls want to have sex. Maybe they want to lose their virginities. Maybe they even just want to be sexual beings. But without a culturally acceptable avenue to act in such a way, they often feel they have to be blank—not there—in the process.

Drunk, they can avoid the emotions that come along with the cultural weight of having sex for the first time, and they only have to feel bad about it the next day, when it is too late and the deed is done. Girls rarely feel in charge of their own desire when it comes to sex, and certainly this starts with their first time. It’s easy to see why girls might revert to choices they later regret, and it’s easy to see why they often don’t know what it would even mean to feel “ready.”

Some may wonder, then, whether I think there is an age or developmental passage at which point I think a girl is officially “ready.” But the answer to whether a girl is ready to have sex is entirely individual. Judith Levine, in Harmful to Minors, shares one of my favorite stories: a thirteen-year-old girl asks her mother how she would know when she was ready. Her mother replied, “When you want it so much that you feel you can’t not have it.” She went on to note that sex changes the way you feel about the other person, and that once you do it with that person, you can’t undo it or unfeel what you felt.5 This mother honored her daughter as a sexual being. She told her to listen to her own desire but also to recognize that there are emotional consequences to sex. If only all teenage girls could receive the same advice about losing their virginities, my guess is that a lot more girls would feel in control of their sexual lives.

NO—THE MANY FACES OF VIOLATION

Jennae was raped during Hurricane Katrina. While the rest of the country was terrified about the children and the dogs and the levees and the homes and all the people lost, Jennae experienced her own, very personal devastation. It was easy, sure, because no one was looking. It was easy because everyone’s eyes were glued to the television, or making plans to get out, or gathering in the Superdome. It was easy because Jennae just lay there, unsure what else to do. No one was around. She didn’t think anyone would care. She had already been called a slut at school. She had already had sex with seven guys, the fourth being her boyfriend’s best friend, who she hadn’t really wanted to have sex with, but he came into her bed one night, and she didn’t know how to say no. That was a violation, too, of course, but Jennae would say it wasn’t. Or she wasn’t sure. Because every guy she slept with she sort of wanted to, or she liked the attention, and a few she really wanted to, so she wasn’t sure how to separate the two—rape and not rape, violation and not violation.

But this time, it was surely rape, because she is almost sure she said not to. She’s almost sure she tried to push him off. She can’t be sure. They all run together sometimes—the one she really liked, the one she didn’t know if she liked but thought she could, the one she definitely didn’t want to have sex with. They had all led up to this moment for Jennae. The boy had come by because she hadn’t evacuated with her family because she had been fighting with them, and she had said she could handle things herself. He wasn’t violent, but he was intentional, forceful. He didn’t even try to kiss her. He was from her school. He knew she was a slut. And with her panties off, she saw that she couldn’t really handle herself. She knew in that moment, her head to the side so she wouldn’t see his face, that she wouldn’t handle anything again.

Jennae’s story is heartbreaking, and not just because she was raped. It’s heartbreaking because violation for her, like so many other girls, was a thing without clear outlines. The sex she had with boys before her rapist was also violating—maybe. The lines remain unclear because how she felt regarding sex, her intention, what she wanted and didn’t want, have all long been blurry. Jennae is typical in this way. Like any other girl, she received all the confusing messages about sex. She had normal sexual desire. She got something from sexual attention that was both easy to get and hard to get elsewhere.

Danita told me about how she came to be a loose girl. A neighbor boy molested her when she was eight, and ever since then, she has felt unable to connect in the ways she wants with a boy. She said, “I like sex. Who doesn’t like sex? But it’s like every time I try to be close with a guy, I feel like he wants to push me where I don’t want to go. I don’t want to tell them I was raped. It’s, I don’t know, a turn-off for most guys. So usually I just go along with things, even when I’m not that into it.” When Danita met someone she really liked and got into a relationship with him, she stopped wanting to have sex. She didn’t want him to touch her, which confused her. She said, “After all those times I had sex, I couldn’t understand why I would suddenly feel sickened by sex with someone I wanted to be with.”

These experiences of having sex when you only sort of want to, or even don’t want to, is one of the defining qualities of loose-girl behavior. We have sex because we want something from it that has nothing to do with the sex itself—in Danita’s case, it’s the assurance that the guy will still want her, that he won’t go away. It’s so hard to say no when you feel like a boy’s desire for you means so much about you, when you believe it will make you worthwhile. Add to this the fact that boys’ sexual aggression is generally considered a normal part of their sexual development—boys will be boys, and they can’t help themselves. The end result is usually a sense of violation, much like the violation a person feels after rape. Once Danita got comfortable and safe with a man, her body finally reacted to that violation. She shut down.

Beatrice asked me outright how to say no. She felt like she needed a script—a polite set of lines she could follow each time—so she would stop having sex with men she didn’t want to have sex with simply because they wanted her to. We came up with a few responses she could feel comfortable with, including white lies about why she couldn’t: “I have to get up early tomorrow,” “I’m not feeling well,” “I have a boyfriend.” Some may judge her for the white lies. People may think Beatrice should simply say, “I don’t want to” and leave it at that. Of course she should be able to do that, but she didn’t feel ready. Saying “I don’t want to” meant they wouldn’t try again. It meant she would have to let go of the idea that their wanting her mattered in a larger way. She wasn’t at a stage in her recovery where she could do that yet.

The law defines rape as forcible sexual relations with a person against that person’s will. Seems simple enough. But nothing about sex—and particularly sex among minors—is simple. Thirty-three percent of sexually active teens aged 15–17 report that sexual activity moved too fast in their relationships. Twenty-four percent have engaged in sexual activity that they didn’t really want to do.6 And in a study published in the Journal of Sex Research, of all the times committed couples aged 18–24 had sex, only one in five of those times did the coupling include desire.7 In other words, women had consensual sex much more often than they actually desired the sex. In an essay titled “The Not-Rape Epidemic,” Latoya Peterson notes all the ways she and her friends have been “not raped” in their lives and how that has harmed them. For example, how many times do girls walk down the street and get catcalled by grown men? How many times do girls have sex because they want to be liked, or approved of, or loved? How many times do girls lie about their ages to men and then wind up having sex with them?8 As we begin to think more deeply about the complications regarding teenage sexual behavior, the language of rape clearly becomes inadequate.

I certainly experienced this ambiguity myself. I wanted to have sex, sort of. But the desire I had for sex was so completely submerged beneath my desire for attention and love that I couldn’t be sure if that were true. Every time I had sex, I had no sexual agency, no sense of my own sexual desire. Instead, my neediness controlled my sexual choices. In this way, I had no sexual self, no self that wanted to have sex for sex’s sake. If there was no clear sexual self, then how could I consent to anything? I had absolutely no connection, no consciousness or awareness about the part of me that might want in an unadulterated way to have sex.

In truth, few girls have access to that sexual self. The sexual self is buried deeply beneath all the ways we have worked culturally to keep girls from having a sexual consciousness. Lee Jacobs Riggs writes in an essay:

I let him touch me, never saying no, never saying yes, never probing too much into what his on-and-off girlfriend knew or thought about it. At the same time, I reclaimed the word “slut,” told my friends it was good, I wanted it. I excelled at giving blowjobs because I had wanted to excel at something.

Who knows what I wanted. I know that I had a need to assert myself as a sexual person to a world that had tried to erase that part of me that I felt so significantly. I know that I didn’t want him, but I did want something.9

I heard the same sentiment from many of the girls I interviewed. They too had acquaintance rape experiences—they thought. They too hadn’t necessarily wanted to have sex with most of the boys they had had sex with—they thought. The uncertainty I heard again and again is suggestive that many girls—all girls, not just loose girls—don’t have access to a part of themselves that might know what it wants regarding sex. If you don’t know what you want, how can you articulate clearly what it is?

The age-of-consent law, which is the state-by-state determined age by which point a girl is allowed to consent, was established to protect young girls, but it’s easy to see how it furthers the notion that until a girl reaches the age of consent—usually sixteen or seventeen—no consent is acknowledged. Before that age, she is the victim of statutory rape. So, for example, a girl who is fourteen may date a boy who is seventeen. Their relationship might include all the typical excitement and feelings of love and drama found in teenage relationships. But if they have sex, mutually consented to in their minds, the boy can be convicted of statutory rape, and the girl can be left with confusion about this idea that she’s been “raped.” If she understands, as most girls do, that rape means she was forced against her will, how will she reconcile her feelings about her boyfriend and this “fact”?

The law puts forth that same denial about teenage girls having sexual desire. The problem with that, of course, is that teenagers have sex. You can tell them not to all you want, but they have the same biological urge you and I do, maybe stronger, and they don’t have the developmental perspective to control their impulses as well as we do. Then add to that the girl who believes that if she says no to her boyfriend, he’ll find someone else who will have sex with him, and add to that the girl who wants a boy’s attention and knows this is how to get it.

Consent laws have a solid purpose to protect girls when they are truly victims, but legally designating an entire group of people as unable to consent to sex is maybe not the best way to protect girls from having sex that adults don’t want them to have (I should note here that an example of a girl truly being a victim, in my opinion, would be when the male counterpart is twenty or older, and the female is fifteen or younger; in such a situation there is undoubtedly a power differential at play). The Netherlands has a great example of how to use such a law to protect rather than silence. There, sexual intercourse between people aged 12–16 is legal, but victims who were coerced or forced and need the law’s protection can opt to use the statutory consent age of sixteen to prove that a violation occurred. Also, parents can overrule the wishes of a sixteen-year-old, but only if they make a convincing argument to child protective services.10 An example of this might be if a fourteen-year-old girl were in a verbally abusive relationship with a seventeen–year-old boy, but she was too blinded by her feelings for the boy, or too scared, to see that. Her parents could then employ the consent age of sixteen to press charges against the boyfriend if they can prove the verbal abuse. This law views young people as capable, thinking, self-contained people who can reasonably make decisions for themselves. So, while teenage girls in the Netherlands start having intercourse much earlier, the country also sees some of the lowest teen pregnancy birth and abortion rates (approximately one in one thousand births) and STD rates in the Western world, which gives evidence of their increased levels of contraceptive use.

If we compare a girl from the Netherlands and the United States, we can see how this might happen. A fourteen-year-old girl from the Netherlands may make a mutual decision with her boyfriend to have sex using contraception. A fourteen-year-old girl from the United States may want to have sex with her boyfriend but knows she’s not allowed, so she sneaks it, too uninformed to use protection because no one taught her about sex, thinking her too young. She puts herself at risk of pregnancy, and she likely winds up feeling ashamed.

If we are going to teach girls to say no, we also need to teach them how to say yes. As Riggs writes, she never said no, but she also never said yes. As long as we don’t even give girls the option of saying yes, as long as we don’t believe we can trust them with their own sexual feelings, we are setting them up, to some extent, to be raped. Look at it this way: if a girl can’t separate sexual desire from desperation, if a girl wants attention from a boy because she’s told she should and then experiences that wanting as sexual desire because she has no other discourse for sexual desire, then she will not know what she wants. She will not be able to consent or not consent, because she wants something; it might be sex, if sex will get her the love she’s after or the attention she hopes for, but it might not be. So she goes ahead and has sex, but later she feels awful because she realizes she didn’t want sex or didn’t get what she wanted from the sex.

As we have discussed, girls are trained to have boys pursue them. Or, more accurately, they are trained to want to be pursued. But when they are pursued, they are told they can only say no.

Sue-Lin explained to me that, since she was about twelve, grown men have stopped her on the street and outright asked her to date them. She believes they think it’s OK to ask her so blatantly because she’s Asian. “Men tend to believe we Asian girls are submissive and here to please them,” she said, noting a common, racist stereotype. She usually just ignored them and kept walking or said she had somewhere to be. Once, though, when she was fifteen, one of those men followed her—she hadn’t noticed—and violently raped her in an alley near her apartment building. She knew the second she saw him that he was angry she had denied him, that she’d had the gall to refuse his pursuit. Sue-Lin’s story reveals a twisted result of a culture that can’t tolerate a girl having the wherewithal to say no—or yes.

Jill Filipovic explores this connection between gender norms and rape in an essay. She writes, “The message is simple: Women are ‘naturally’ passive until you give them a little bit of power—then all hell breaks loose and they have to be reined in by any means necessary. Rape and other assaults on women’s bodies…serve as unique punishments for women who step out of line.”11

Once women are raped, their punishment doesn’t end there. A common stereotype about rape is that girls who get raped wind up becoming loose girls. They compulsively pursue sex. In other words, women who have been raped are presumed to be unable to have normal, consensual experiences. Though certainly this might be true for some, it is also not true for others. The important point here is that it is one more way victims of rape are denied ownership over their sexuality—first by the rapist, then by the cultural assumptions about them.

Are victims of sexual molestation promiscuous? The answer is yes, and also no. One out of four females experiences sexual abuse by the time she reaches eighteen, and that includes only reported cases.12 We’ve known for a long time that sexual abuse is related to higher rates of depression, anxiety, increased sexual inappropriateness, drug use, and alcohol, but more recently, researchers have looked more closely at these findings and discovered that there is a distinction between those who pursue sex after the abuse and those who avoid it.13 Some victims use indiscriminate sexual behavior to cope with the pain, others have learned that saying no doesn’t matter, and others develop sexual interest too early in a manner that ultimately confuses them. Characteristics of the person who was victimized also affect whether that person becomes sexually precocious or whether she avoids sex altogether, both as ways of coping with the abuse. But family support helps protect against promiscuity among those who’ve been sexually abused. (Interestingly, family context had less effect on those who didn’t report a history of abuse.) Studies have shown that when mothers believed their daughters and took proactive measures to help protect them, girls tended to experience less negative effects.

One of the more interesting findings is that sexual abuse victims are more likely to use drugs and alcohol in relation to their sexual activity,14 surely as a way to cope with the sexual experiences, which also might explain their increased likelihood of multiple partners.

Lena was raped during her first week at college in her dorm. She was drunk and underage, so she was too terrified to report it. Soon after, she fell into a depression and experienced enough suicidal ideation that she had to leave school. Her mother, desperate and at a loss, found her a psychologist with whom she spoke for the first time about being molested as a child by her youth pastor. It had gone on for two years, and the worst part for her was that she had liked it. She realized through her counseling sessions that she drank so she could have intimacy with people. Otherwise, the shame she felt was too powerful. And that the depression she experienced was from shoving that shame far down.

As we’ve seen, shame controls so much of girls’ sexual lives, from losing their virginity to being raped. It is the common denominator that interferes with healing and recovery, and the one that holds girls away from a sense of their own sexual identity.

Rapidly increasing technology keeps providing more opportunities for sexual behavior among and violation of girls. In the next chapter, we examine what happens to girls’ sexual identities online.

Chapter 8

BRAVE NEW WORLD

The Loose Girl Online

I have a Pavlov’s dog–reaction to the sound of a text coming in. I immediately think, “Could it be someone who wants me?”

Fifteen-year-old Johanna sends text after dirty text to boys. She has never actually had sex with a boy, but she knows the language that goes along with it. She tells boys what she wants to do to them, and she tells them what she wants them to do with her. Her favorite part is how the boys always beg her to say more. In real life, boys don’t give her that sort of attention, so she loves it. It is the one time she feels sexy and powerful.

On a regular night, she has about five boys she “sexts” with. A couple of times she has sent pictures of her breasts, and once she sent a photo of her entire naked body. She knows full well that pictures can really get you in trouble, though, because a friend of hers sent a photo to her boyfriend, and he proceeded to send it to half their grade’s boys. Recently, she’s also begun having cybersex: she goes online to a chat room to talk dirty with a random user. She loves the power, loves the sense that boys want her. Like many girls, she learned about cybersex at a slumber party. One of the girls knew of it—perhaps from an older sibling—so they found a site online, made up a character, and tried things out. They shrieked when they obtained the interest of someone and then collapsed in hysterics on the ground every time they came up with something new to say. But Johanna remembered that party a year later when she felt unwanted and ugly and had developed crushes that were never reciprocated, so she went back to the same site and got a rush from the power that came with having a random stranger want her, even if the random stranger could easily have been another teenage girl. Like role-playing in video games, cybersex is a way to try on a persona who girls can’t be in real life, not without serious repercussions.

Johanna is part of the 39 percent of teenagers who have sent racy messages via text and part of the 20 percent who has sent nude photos.1 The largely held assumption is that our teenagers are in a whole new world when it comes to sex, and regarding technology, that is absolutely true. The current generation is the first one to have so much immediate technology at their fingertips. Flirting looks different now. Bullying and rumors have a new weapon.

Parents and school officials are scared, and our often frantic concern about kids being exposed too early to sex through technology makes some sense. According to Child Trends Databank, the proportion of children with home access to computers has steadily increased to more than 90 percent as of 2009, and 93 percent use the Internet. According to a 2009 survey of eight- to eighteen-yearolds, 36 percent had a computer in their bedroom, and 71 percent of them also had a television in their bedroom.2 We know that porn is readily available to most Web viewers. One need only click the button that says “yes” to the question that reads, “Are you 18 years or older?”

As part of this fear, a number of states have criminalized the sending and sharing of nude photos, like the ones Johanna sends, hitting teenagers with child pornography and sex offender charges. As of this writing, at least twelve states have introduced legislation to prohibit or deter sexting. State laws range from minor dings on a juvenile record to child pornography convictions. Each state controls the severity of its laws about sexting, and school officials and parents of girls who’ve had their pictures distributed bring the most charges.3 The question is, What really happens to girls who use this sort of technology?

Media concerns itself, of course, with the sensationalized, fear-inducing stories, such as the one about Jesse Logan, the eighteen-year-old Ohio girl who hung herself after a nude photo of her had been disseminated throughout her school. The tragic story quickly segued into one about the necessity of criminalizing the kids who dispersed the photo and about holding the schools accountable. In a Today show interview with Jesse’s mother and the Internet expert Parry Aftab, Aftab noted that we need to enforce these laws “in order to keep our children alive.”4

Hope Witsell, a thirteen-year-old in Florida, killed herself after a topless photo of her was sent around her high school and the high school in a neighboring town. She sent the photo after pressure to do so from a boy she had a crush on.5 Really, though, the harm didn’t originate with the sexting, which is how Witsell’s and Logan’s cases were presented. It came from the girls’ peers, who bullied them. The photos were just tools of a much greater harm, which is rarely addressed as seriously: slut shaming.

In January 2009, six teenagers faced child pornography charges for taking photos of themselves and being in possession of the photos. Three fourteen- and fifteen-year-old girls from their high school in Pennsylvania had sent seminude photos to the three sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys. School officials seized the phones and reported them to the police, leading to the charges.6 In Florida, a sixteen-year-old girl and her seventeen-year-old boyfriend, Phillip Albert, were charged with possession of child pornography. Albert, who is now twenty, sent a nude photo of his ex-girlfriend to seventy people out of anger after a fight with her. He was sentenced with child pornography charges and required to go on the public sex offender’s list. He was kicked out of school, he struggles to find a job, and he can’t even live with his father because his father lives near a high school, something Phillip is no longer allowed to do.7

But is sexting really worthy of such extreme policing? There has been much hesitating and changing minds in the courts, which suggests that we might be overreacting, typical of people’s fears surrounding teenagers and sex.

Let’s take a look at the data. In the 2008 study “Enhancing Child Safety & Online Technologies,” by Harvard’s Berkman Center for Internet and Society, researchers found that risky behavior online was generally in cahoots with risky behavior offline. Those who engaged in sexual acts away from their phones and the Internet tended to do so on their phones and the Internet as well. Indeed, almost half of sexually active teens tend to be involved in sexting and cybersex as well.8

Turned around, though, the statistics change. Sexting and sexual Internet activity does not seem to lead to real-life sexual activity among those who don’t already engage in it. Regardless of all the increased access to sex online, teen sex rates haven’t skyrocketed. In fact, they’ve lowered some during the past decade.

In my mind, we are missing the point regarding what to panic about. The issue isn’t the “dicey mix of teenagers’ age-old sexual curiosity, notoriously bad judgment and modern love of electronic sharing,” as Riva Richmond called it in a New York Times article.9 One could argue, in fact, that sexting is not only safe but also keeps kids safer than if they were having real-life sex.

No, the issue is that many girls—you guessed it, loose girls—use sexting and cybersex to try to feel wanted, and just like when they use male attention and sex in similar ways in real life, they don’t get what they’re after. When I asked the girls I interviewed why they sexted, their answers all pointed to a desire for connection. Amelia said, “It makes what is basically impossible to me possible, which is a hot guy liking me and wanting me in all ways.”

“All ways?” I asked.

“Well, sexually, I guess,” she said.

Amelia uses sexting and cybersex to pick up boys she likes who she meets in school or online, but is too shy to speak to in person. She contacts them and is immediately flirtatious. Within one or two exchanges, she starts in on the dirty talk. She engages in this way with them obsessively, and if they stop responding, or reject her in any way, she feels crushed.

Mariah has regularly had cybersex since she was in the eighth grade. When she discovered sexting, she started doing that regularly, too. Like the majority of females who report having sexted, she initially felt pressured to do so by the boys with whom she was texting. Over time, though, she grew to like the easy attention. Sexting and cybersex have pretty straightforward scripts, too, which only made it easier for her.

In real life, Mariah is still a virgin. She says she doesn’t act the same way in person as she does via text and Internet, so boys don’t realize the things she knows about sex. I asked Mariah what she felt she knew about sex, and she said, “Just that boys like it when girls act like sluts.” Mariah doesn’t connect her sexting and cybersex behavior with her own sexual arousal: the two hold completely different purposes. One is to get male attention, and the other is something private and personal, unrelated to how she might act under a boy’s watch.

The danger here is not necessarily that girls are victims of predatory males. It’s that they are victims of very narrow definitions of sexual desirability, and in many ways, sexting is one more way girls wind up viewing sexual behavior as completely removed from their own desires. Girls believe that a girl’s desirability comes not from her personality or her coolness or how fun she is. It comes from her ability to fit into a male-defined stereotype of a sexually willing girl.

A recent national survey by the Girl Scouts Research Institute found that girls age 14–17 tend to describe themselves on social media sites as “fun,” “funny,” and “social,” and they downplay the idea that they might be smart or ambitious, or otherwise less appealing to boys and popular cliques.10

Pornography sets a similar standard. Readers may be surprised to hear that lots of adolescent girls watch porn. There are no reliable statistics for this, of course, because girls are hard-pressed to admit it, but anecdotally, in my work and interviews with women and girls, about half have admitted to watching porn, some of them even watching regularly, as teens.

As with sexting and cybersex, there is no solid scientific evidence that exposure to pornography leads to widespread or predictable negative psychological effects, so again, we need to be careful where we put our energy regarding concerns about such exposure. In my experience working with teenage girls, they watched pornography partially because it turned them on and was an exciting avenue for masturbation, and partially because they wanted to know how to have sex.

The problem here is that girls think they are learning about sex, but really they’re learning what men want. Shaved vaginas, asses in the air, facials—these are all male fantasies, not sex defined by females. Like Mariah noted, boys like girls who act like sluts. Porn just reinforces that. As Judith Levine writes, “In my opinion, the problem with sexual information on the Net is not that there is too much of it but that too little of it is any good”—and she wrote that in 2002.11

Almost a decade later, we can say that’s changed some. There are a number of excellent websites intended to provide real information about real sex to teenagers (see the appendix for a list of these), sites that give teenagers answers to real concerns, and that don’t exist for titillation.

And, then, there are the social sites—Facebook being the most influential. This is where hundreds of thousands of girls post pictures of themselves in bikinis or underwear to get attention from men. One guy wrote on the website Facebook Horror Stories, “Dear cute girls of Facebook, thank you for posting almost naked pictures of yourselves. I no longer need to look at porn since I have hundreds of photos of you in bikinis to whack off to. Thank you for inserting yourself into my spank bank.”12 This guy has caught on to the wave of loose girls looking for attention. Facebook has become an easy way for a loose girl to act out.

Cate has a bunch of photos of herself in her underwear in her album on Facebook. Every time she posts a new one, she told me, at least a couple guys who have been out of touch contact her again. It makes her feel good to know people think of her. I asked her what she thinks they contact her for. “I think that’s pretty obvious,” she said. “They just want to have sex with me. But it still makes me feel good.”

“Good, as in worthwhile?” I asked.

“Exactly,” she said.

Jennifer sends certain Facebook friends seminude photos when she feels like she’s lost their attention.

“It works like a charm,” she told me.

There are some real concerns about older men soliciting teenage girls via Facebook. A few cases have been reported, such as one about a thirty-four-year-old man in North Carolina who had a sexual relationship with a minor after getting to know her on Facebook, or the twenty-seven-year-old Pennsylvania man who changed his relationship status to “Engaged” to a fourteen-year-old girl (the joke in all the headlines was that there was no “statutory rape” relationship option).13

But while these men are clearly predatory, simply posting sexy photos to Facebook isn’t necessarily dangerous, at least not in that way. Just like with sexting, the harm is mostly related to what the poster is hoping to get from having those photos up, and then what she actually gets. She gets attention for her body, of course. But what does that attention really mean about her? Of course, it means nothing. Having a nice body—or even just having a female body, which is all a girl really needs to get some male attention—doesn’t take a girl very far in life.

Studies have made clear that most of what teenagers do on the Web can be considered positive. Most have a “full-time intimate community” they communicate with online—whether through instant messaging, Facebook, MySpace, or other sites—and they don’t do much more than that. When they do, they seek information or experiment with digital media production, such as figuring out how to accomplish something on their own. A study done by the MacArthur Foundation determined that, although it may look like kids are wasting their time online, they are actually building technological skills and literacy, something needed to succeed in our modern world.14

Researchers have also found that Internet and cell phone communication leads to greater self-disclosure, which builds closer, more intimate relationships with friends.15 This is another reason that websites providing real, frank information about sex—and an opportunity for questions—are so valuable. Where talking to parents is important, such a conversation can be embarrassing, for both parties. Even the most self-assured parents would be fooling themselves if they thought their teens were telling and asking them everything. We can think of resources online, and the self-disclosing conversations among peers, as bolsters to the support and education parents and schools can provide.

Parents will get nowhere, however, if their fears turn into what teenagers perceive as violations of privacy. Blocking their Internet usage, checking up on their computers, and wrangling passwords from their teens will only lead teenagers to tell even less, and the more open the lines of communication are between teenagers and adults concerning sex-related issues, the better.

Meanwhile, Johanna continues to send dirty texts, but she won’t send any more photos. She told me that at some point she realized it was degrading.

“More degrading than the words?” I emailed.

“Yeah.” She emailed back from her phone.

I asked her what she thought about other girls sending photos. “If a girl wants to do it, that’s up to her,” she said.

Her signature from the phone quoted her favorite band, Escape the Fate. “My heart’s on an auction.”

When I asked her what that meant to her, she said, “It sums me up.”

PART TWO

GAINING POWER

Chapter 9

GROWN-UP GIRL

The Adult Loose Girl

The loose girl is still in there. Sometimes in my dreams. Sometimes in my fantasies. Sometimes in catching the eye of the hot guy in line at the grocery store. I’m fifty-one years old and have been a recovering loose girl since I was thirty-four.

Laurie has been married for eighteen years now. She is in her fifties, with two teenage boys. She and her husband make a good living. They have a beautiful house in a great neighborhood, two cars, and annual travel to other countries. She buys herself a new wardrobe every year, and on each anniversary, her husband buys her a new piece of jewelry. By anyone’s standards, she is living the good life. But if you look more closely, you will find a woman who feels like she’s still seventeen. She dresses every morning with the thought of getting male attention. She works out, not for her health, but so that a man might still find her attractive. She worries about getting older, about wrinkles and sagging. She goes to a doctor to get some things done here and there—a little tuck or plumping or whitening—all with the thought that she wants men to want her. Her husband doesn’t know this, but she’s always looking for men—when she is at the grocery store, at the bank, getting lunch when she’s at work. She’s always got her eyes open for the possibility of men.

There is, in fact, one man she works with. It was inevitable, she guesses. They flirt heavily, and she thinks about him as she puts on her clothes in the morning, wondering what he’ll think. They smile from across the room. Something is going to happen. She knows it will. More, she wants it to. She doesn’t know why. She loves her husband. They have no more problems than any other married couple. For the most part, their relationship is great. But this craving she has—she can’t control it. She wants something to happen with the man at work. It’s all she thinks about.

Laurie’s story is like that of many other women who come to me. While we are worrying about our teen girls and their desperation around boys and sex, the women who used to be those girls are still there, too—grown-up loose girls, carrying the same pain, looking to get men’s attention instead of boys’. One woman wrote me and asked, “What happens to old sluts?” It’s an important question, one I intend to explore in this chapter.

A common goal for most women—and men, but more so women—is to get married. The marriage aspiration is reflected throughout our culture. In plenty of popular songs, such as Beyoncé’s “All the Single Ladies” in which she sings, “If you liked it then you should’ve put a ring on it,” pointing to her finger. Marriage is portrayed as what a girl deserves. If you want to be with me, in other words, you will need to marry me, because that’s what I deserve. Many Hollywood movies and television series end with the engagement ring. It is the finale, the greatest possible attainment, the thing every girl should want above all else. Marriage means that you are chosen and wanted by someone, which is a loose girl’s greatest desire.

I ended Loose Girl with my marriage, too, but I made a point of not closing the book that way. Instead, I showed a scene of myself in a bar, catching the eye of yet another boy. I didn’t do anything more than look that evening, but I wanted to make clear to my readers that just because I was married didn’t mean my struggle was over. I still spent too much time thinking about male attention. I still could easily let any situation where I felt wanted turn into another loose-girl event. The reaction to my ending was mixed. Bloggers wrote things like, “It seems to me she hasn’t changed at all.” Others liked the ambiguity. They felt this was more honest than suggesting I was all fixed by the end. Plenty interpreted the end to mean that they, too, could have real love some day, that they’d reach the “end” of something, which is a problem, I guess, with having to have an ending to the book. And plenty were irritated by the fact that I ended with a marriage. They wanted to see me changed in a way that didn’t have anything to do with boys or men.

I stick to my intentions about ending that way because I wanted to emphasize that many loose girls marry like I did, and yet it doesn’t mean anything, not really, about how we change. In many ways, I married to simply take myself out of the market. It’s not that the man I’d met was magical, that he somehow knew how to love me in a way others couldn’t. He was a good man, but he was still human with all the imperfections and difficulties that come along with that. He did not save me from myself. He didn’t transform me into someone else. I was still me: the loose girl. The work of having intimacy had only just begun.

Being a loose girl is a lifelong process. I will always have to watch myself carefully, and I will surely always struggle. I will always make mistakes here and there. Whenever life gets hard, whenever something makes me feel insignificant or unloved, whenever I feel abandoned in any way, I tend toward my old behavior. I start thinking about a guy. I start considering how a man might save me. I start to slip. The main difference now is that those thoughts don’t have the same power over me. I don’t believe the fantasy. I’m too aware of its lie and how I’ve hurt myself with it.

But many women are not in the same place. They still struggle heavily with those feelings, still believe the pull, and still enjoy the high just a little too much.

Sandra has been having an affair for seven months now. She also sometimes sleeps with other men. Her husband probably knows, but he turns a blind eye. His anger comes out with passive aggression and occasional verbal abuse. He tells her that she does things wrong or that she’s too slow or too fast. He has pretty much stopped having sex with her, too. She knows her marriage needs to end, but she’s scared that when she’s on her own, her behavior will only get worse, that she’ll feel out of control and will harm herself further.

This out-of-control feeling is typical among adult loose girls. They are ashamed that, at this point in their lives, when they should be making mature choices, they still act in these ways. But it feels like they can’t stop. Often, as adults loose girls will fall into love and/or sex addiction. They tend toward unavailable men who will distance themselves as the women approach and pursue. Loose girls often demand too much too soon. They want to know if the men are going to commit to them pronto. They want to know how the men are going to make them feel loved. They expect men to fill their emptiness, and in adulthood, the loose girls feel angry that they don’t. They call or email or text men too much, no longer feeling they have the luxury to wait. The pressure from society to settle down and marry is so immense that if a woman is single she often feels she is undesirable.

Or they remove themselves from men altogether. Gerri, who has been divorced for many years, told me that she hadn’t been with a man in two years. She’s been with more than a hundred men, and she just wants it to stop. She assumes she can’t have a normal relationship with a man, so she won’t go near any. She’d rather be alone than feel that out-of-control feeling that comes with her engagement with men.

The shame for grown-up loose girls is as bad as it is for teenagers, but it happens for an entirely different reason. Women should be married and monogamous (and heterosexual, for that matter). They should be concerned with their children, not with their own needs. They can have sex, unlike teenage girls, but they can’t want it. And they certainly can’t want it as much as or more than their partners. The stereotype of the married woman is that she is always warding off her husband’s advances. There is that old caricature of the wife who says, “Not tonight, dear. I have a headache,” and the underlying assumption that this is just an excuse for not wanting sex at all. There is that stereotype, too, of women sitting around together, complaining about their husbands’ wanting sex. The notion is found on sitcoms, where the horny husband is always trying to get his wife to have more sex. Women fulfill their “wifely duty” by having sex, as though it is just one more thing they have to do, along with filling the dishwasher and cleaning the toilets.

Because of this stereotype, women often opt to not be sexual. It is much easier to be a married woman who doesn’t desire sex. So, when you do desire sex, the shame and sense of being different, false as it is, can be a part of what keeps you in that loose-girl cycle, where you act out, feel ashamed, and then act out to try to feel better again.

Vivian, who is in her late thirties and has never married, fears her loose-girl behavior will keep her from ever finding a real relationship. She doesn’t think she wants children, but she does feel like a relationship would make her feel worthwhile. She looks around and feels as though everyone else knows how to have this, that there must be something terribly wrong with her, and—her greatest fear—that she is in fact unlovable. She has had a number of long-term relationships where the man she is with eventually distances himself from her because, she claims, she gets too needy. When I asked her what she meant by “needy,” she said she always wants more from him than he can give. She’s so desperate for any man to choose her, to prove to her that she’s worth loving, that she has no sense of wanting anything more specific from a man. In other words, she feels like she has no standards. Her only standard is that a man could love her and not leave. Tied up with this feeling is that she feels like she will sleep with anyone who will take her, in the hope that he will wind up loving her. I asked her if she actually wanted the sex itself. It took a while for her to answer: “I do want the sex,” she said. “But it’s not a straight answer, because I don’t even know how to feel sexual desire without also needing something more. So, yes, I want the sex. But it’s just because I want to feel close to a man.” I asked her what happened in most cases. “In most cases, they don’t stick around because I’m too needy. No one wants a needy girl.”

Vivian’s experience of sexual desire is similar to many teen girls’ experience. She can’t quite name her desire as pure sexual need. It’s too interwoven with other needs, and as a result, the shame she feels is not just for wanting sex but for wanting anything. Her want becomes “neediness,” because a wanting woman is unattractive. And Vivian notes that no one wants a “needy girl,” reinforcing the idea that neediness belongs to girls, not women. The grown-up loose girl is so much like the teenage version that it is nearly impossible to tell them apart.

As discussed in chapter 3, slut pride can also get in the way for loose girls. Strong women should be able to sleep around, but for so many women, the sense that they aren’t really strong, that they are in fact too needy, too ugly, too undesirable or unlovable, can get in the way. The slut-pride attitude gives women an avenue to act out their loose-girl behavior, which only makes them feel worse.

Many of them agree with the men who say they don’t want to get serious; they just want to have sex and nothing more. But they’re not telling the truth. When they reveal that they want more, and the men pull away, their neediness rises up, leading them to a further sense of shame (remember that a loose girl’s greatest shame is not the fact that she has a lot of sex; it’s that she feels as though her neediness makes her unlovable.) Grown-up loose girls struggle with the option of casual sex. They may want such a thing. They may, for instance, want sex but not a boyfriend after a marriage dissolves, but their constant need for male attention to translate into proof that they’re lovable and worthwhile gets in the way. In this way, loose girls wind up damned if they do and damned if they don’t.

Most loose girls claim that they want a close, intimate relationship with a man, but they feel incapable of having one, either because they can’t get one or because once they do, they screw it up by needing too much and/or cheating. This is a big irony that loose girls face: many claim that all they want is a relationship, one in which they are truly loved by a man. But many times loose girls grow restless after they’ve gotten that, and they wind up looking outside the committed relationship for something new. When their emptiness, their sense of being worthless, isn’t healed through the relationship, they head back out there, certain that it means they just didn’t find the right one yet. Many women who come to me note that they don’t understand why they do this, that they feel out of control, as though controlled by puppet strings, held by someone else. Indeed, they are being controlled by the addiction, by the pursuit of that high that comes when they feel like maybe this time they will get what they need to seal that void inside.

One of the biggest challenges grown-up loose girls face is recognizing that they have not lived in a vacuum. Like any other human, they have made mistakes. They learned negative patterns. They got themselves entangled in situations that they will never be free of. They have kids with the wrong people. They mess up their careers. The longer we live, after all, the more opportunities we have to love and lose. This is just a fact of life.

The media sets us all up to believe that somehow everyone else has perfect lives, everyone else gets their needs met all the time, but not us. Certainly, loose girls are guilty of this feeling. They assume that they are the only ones who can’t get loved. They are the only ones obsessed with men. They are the only ones who mess up all their relationships. In truth, of course, most of us are like that. Life is suffering. Happiness is fleeting. So, the key to being a grown-up loose girl is acceptance. We will always struggle with these feelings. We will always think first of which guy can make us feel better. And we will always wrestle with neediness when the person we love goes away. The next chapter explores this idea of acceptance in much greater detail.

For most of my life I wanted to be “mysterious.” This was one of my greatest aspirations. I just knew that if I were unreadable, if I were so taken up with my career or children or anything other than boys, if my needs weren’t telegraphed to other people, that boys and men would pursue me constantly and I’d never feel unloved again.

I had plenty of reason to believe this. Our culture is very supportive of what can be called “the rules girl,” coined by Ellen Fein’s and Sherrie Schneider’s The Rules books, meant to capture Mr. Right.1 A rules girl never calls a man back and never lets him know how interested she might be. She never looks nervous or uncertain. She needs nothing from men, and the second he stops fawning all over her, she goes away without shedding a tear (God forbid, or it might mess up her perfectly applied makeup).

The rules girl is, in other terms, the opposite of the loose girl. She is not needy, and she most certainly isn’t slutty. And, of course, men adore her. A perfect example of this can be found on the reality show The Hills. Kristin Cavallari gets whatever guy she wants. She’s beautiful and skinny, sure. So is Audrina, yet Justin Bobby keeps her at arm’s length for years. But when Kristin enters his life, he’s ready to commit. The same thing happened to Lauren Conrad back when The Hills was Laguna Beach. Lauren was in love with Stephen, who seemed to only have eyes for Kristin, even though everyone could see Kristin would break his heart and Lauren wouldn’t. What did Kristin have that Audrina and Lauren didn’t? She had the power that comes to a girl who doesn’t give a flying you-know-what about whether that boy lives or dies. That’s what she had.

The rules girl is held up in our culture as the girl you want—or want to be. In the books Why Men Love Bitches and Why Men Marry Bitches, the author Sherry Argov notes that men don’t want the nice girl. They want the one who doesn’t really have time for them. In Make Every Man Want You and the hundreds of titles along the same lines, the answer is all the same: they want the girl who is so caught up in her own life she could take or leave a guy. Recently, on Jersey Shore, Vinny fell hard for a girl because she stood him up. In Hollywood, the girl who isn’t impressed by the leading male, the one who can’t be bothered by him, is the one who wins him in the end. We loose girls—grown up now—get that message again and again: You still haven’t figured out how to be the kind of girl who gets loved.

To this day, when I feel particularly unlovable I go back to the wish that I could be something other than I am. Really, we all have those things we wish we could change, don’t we? There are some things we will be able to change and others we won’t, as the well-known serenity prayer reminds us. We have to come to terms with those things that are core parts of our personality because they aren’t changeable. It is good to acknowledge this. It is good for me to acknowledge, for instance, that I am never really distant, but that all men who would be with me will go through times of being a little distant. I can give men the space to love me, but I will be able to give only so much space. I share much about who I am. I don’t do well keeping my feelings silent and unattended to. When I think I’m not getting enough attention, I ask what’s going on. And so I will never be a rules girl, not without entirely denying who I am. And I’d rather like who I am than try to be someone else.

We know now that we live in a culture that has limited ideas about what we can be—men and women. Such a mind-set entirely belies the fact that humans are incredibly diverse. Add to this that many of us have been damaged along the way. We also live in a culture that has limited approaches to what love can look like: A man falls in love with a woman—usually a rules girl!—who also falls in love with him. Their every wish is fulfilled. Often they get married. And they live happily for the rest of their lives. Every romantic comedy, every Hollywood love story—The Notebook, Titanic, My Best Friend’s Wedding, and There’s Something about Mary are all popular examples—has this basic message inside it. Likewise, on television there is sitcom after sitcom in which the family is made up of husband and wife, and if it isn’t, then that is the reason the sitcom exists because how strange! Every love song on the radio, every advertisement to get you to buy something: it is all to make us desire the same thing—being in healthy love with the same person forever.

In truth, half of our marriages end in divorce. People have affairs—60 percent of men and 40 percent of women (but 70 percent of married women and 54 percent of married men did not know of their spouses’ extramarital activity).2 We have blended families. We have open marriages. We have polyamory. We also have miserable marriages, loveless ones, sexless ones, deeply passionate and jealous and abusive ones. There are many, many ways to have love.

Recognizing this fact can be helpful for adult loose girls. It allows them the possibility of reenvisioning not just what they want, but what they can do right now. Perhaps they will be able to have this mainstream vision of love—if that’s what they even want—but for now they can only have this other thing. If women give themselves the freedom to think outside the lines about what love can look like for them, they will be able to find some satisfaction.

Sami considers herself a loose girl. She spent most of her adolescence sleeping her way through her high school and the local bars, and in college she did more of the same. She did it because she was looking for someone to stay with her, but few of them did. In her twenties, she finally met someone who seemed to love her. Eventually they married, and Sami assumed that her life was complete. She had what she wanted. But as the years passed, she found herself anxious and unhappy. She sought counseling, which helped sometimes, but other times she just felt like wallowing in pointless pain. Her husband, frustrated with her unavailability, had an affair, and their marriage fell apart. For years afterward, Sami berated herself for how she ruined her marriage. She had everything she said she had ever wanted, and then she destroyed it all. She started another relationship, but about a year into it, she got those same edgy, anxious feelings. She felt miserable again. She went back into counseling again, but it only helped so much. Increasingly unhappy, she and her boyfriend broke up.

About five years later, she met another man and fell in love, but he lived in Europe, and she didn’t want to disrupt her career. She fretted for months, and then she realized she didn’t have to live with him. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she didn’t want to. Her family was furious. Her friends told her she obviously had intimacy issues, but she was happy living so far from him. Their relationship worked like this. Her friends were right: she did have intimacy issues. Terrible ones. But what could she do about it? It was who she was. And the more she tried to be someone else, the worse she felt. She had figured out a way to be happy in a relationship, unconventional as it was.

It is possible that over time Sami will grow out of this stage of her life or will become capable of a different kind of intimacy, if that’s her hope. But for now, she should be able to have love on her terms. What I’m really talking about here is humility. One of the greatest keys to emotional and psychological growth is humility. When we can look at ourselves honestly and without judgment, and can accept that this is our reflection, only then can there be the possibility of any change. People don’t like this. They tell me, “You mustn’t give up,” which is not at all how I see it. They say that I will have real love if I hand over my life to Jesus or if I try their newfangled therapy.

But acceptance is real love. There is no greater love. It provides more intimacy with oneself than anything else. The longer adult loose girls spend trying to be something else, trying to change themselves into something they aren’t, the longer they will feel ashamed of who they are. Meanwhile, loose girls can have love, too. It just may not look like it does for everyone else—at least not at first. If the old adage that you can’t be in love until you love yourself first is true, then loose girls have to learn to love themselves for not loving themselves. It is the first rule of acceptance, which is also the first step toward real intimacy for loose girls.

Chapter 10

THE BEGINNING OF CHANGE

I’m still here, I move around to try to get a new me, but I still remain the same. And now I’m moving again, this time with a real hope to make it work, to change things, to rip off this part of me.

When my husband and I got engaged, I threw myself into wedding planning. I needed to believe that my life was about to change—not just that I would be a wife, settled down, but that I would somehow stop feeling that old desperation that had continually gotten me into trouble with men. I figured that by taking my game piece off the table, that part of me would evaporate. Someone loved me. He loved me enough to marry me. What’s more, he was wonderful—kind, attentive, available. I no longer needed to spend my time searching for what I didn’t quite get yet was pure fantasy. I no longer needed to try to fill my emptiness. It would be filled now through my marriage.

A few months after the wedding, though, I found myself out again at a bar. There was a guy there. Beautiful—big eyes and full lips. He brushed his hair back from his face with his hand. He turned his eyes to me, and it was as though the entire world went away. There was no husband, no marriage. No friends at my table. No noise. There was me and there was this guy, a guy who would surely penetrate my pain, who would show me through his attention to me that I was worthwhile.

Later that night, having left alone, dodging that boy’s advances, I sat in the bedroom where my husband unknowingly slept and tried to calm myself. In truth, I was terrified. Would I ever be free of the grip of my addiction? Would I be able to stay committed to this man I loved, who loved me? That evening I understood in a deeper manner that I would always be that girl. Marriage would not release me from her. Being loved by a man would not shake her loose. She and I were one. I would need to consider how to live my life with her.

That night was an important turning point for me as a loose girl. It was the beginning of my movement toward true intimacy—perhaps not intimacy as our culture defines it, where a man and a woman fall in love and ride off into the sunset and all is forever right with the world—but movement toward intimacy, which is the greatest achievement for a loose girl.

Perhaps you have a daughter who you want to protect. Perhaps she has already begun heading down this path. Perhaps you are a therapist who regularly hears stories just like these from your clients. Or maybe you are the girl you see in these pages. You are the one seeking change. This chapter is indeed about change. Readers write me daily: “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to change.” To talk about change for a loose girl, we must first talk about not changing, because the bottom line is that it remains highly unlikely that you will stop feeling that urge to seek male attention when you are feeling low. As noted in the previous chapter, and like with any addiction, the first step is acceptance. Here, we examine the idea of acceptance more closely.

LOVING YOURSELF

Most of the women who spoke to me have been told at one time or another that they must love themselves before someone else will love them. Friends tell them. Therapists tell them. Their parents tell them, too. For a loose girl, though, it isn’t that simple. For most of us, loving ourselves is too complicated. We’ve screwed up too many times. We’ve pushed too many people away with our addictions. We’ve gotten pregnant, had abortions, put ourselves in situations where we were mistreated again and again. We are too miserable when we’re alone. Other people can love themselves first, but not us. When I asked a few of the women what they thought of when they heard “love yourself,” they grew silent. Mandy said she’d never really thought about what that would even entail. Carla said she guessed she was supposed to take spa days, or lavender baths, or have a candlelit dinner for one. We laughed, hearing how ridiculous that was.

Loving yourself is a lifelong process of acceptance for who you are. It is a process of acknowledging the ways you’ve screwed up, harmed yourself, done irreparable damage to relationships, and still seeing that you are a worthwhile human being. You won’t get there by taking a bath. Loving yourself is part of an endless movement toward intimacy. The women I interviewed who felt they were more in control of their loose girl than in the past all said something similar about accepting themselves as they were.

“You have to learn to be happy with who you are and the way God created you.”

“I don’t think anyone ever recovers from this, only manages.”

“I consider myself in the process of heading towards recovery.”

“I still have a difficult time being vulnerable and intimate but at least I am aware of it.”

Before we can have intimacy with anyone else, we must find a way to accept ourselves. But girls who have sex are not treated kindly in American culture. You are a slut. You don’t care about yourself. You don’t care about having real love. Otherwise, you wouldn’t stand before the mirror before you go out, trying to determine which skirt best shows off your legs. Or, if you aren’t a slut, you are the empowered girl discussed in chapter 3; you have sex because, by God, you can do whatever you want to do. You can go out in the evening and collect boys like fireflies in a jar. You don’t have to want love.

All these assumptions made about you sink into your sense of self. It is nearly impossible to keep out the voices of a culture that will not let girls define their sexual identity. And then, too, there are parents and friends and ex-boyfriends and boys at school—all of them make assumptions about who we are as sexual beings. Inevitably, we feel judged, defensive, hurt, and misunderstood.

So, before you can begin to have intimacy with yourself and others, before you can make choices for yourself that aren’t self-destructive, you must first embrace the part of you that needs. This is a hard one. Just hearing that feels wrong. Girls aren’t supposed to need. Our neediness is ugly. It pushes boys away. It’s the reason we are unlovable. These are the lies we believe—that girls should not crave anything. We shouldn’t have intense desires. Open any book called How to Make a Man Love You or some version of that title, and the number one rule is don’t be needy. Boys hate that, they all say.

Mandy, twenty-three years old, explains that her neediness feels like “an open sore.” She says, “Every time I start to like a boy it’s like I can’t control myself. I can’t act cool anymore. I call too much. I say too much. I know I make myself unattractive, and I hate it. Sometimes I wish I could just rip my neediness out of my body.” Mandy isn’t alone with this feeling. I hear this sense of repulsion regularly from girls when they talk about their neediness. I felt that way, too. The shame I had from my need in my teens and twenties was so intense, in fact, that it threw me back into yet another boy’s bed again and again. Shame about one’s need is one of the defining features of the loose girl.

However, when a girl acts needy with a boy, if she, like Mandy says, calls him again and again and he doesn’t call her back, leaves messages saying, “Why haven’t you called? Don’t you like me anymore?” then what she is really doing is trying to control him with her need. We girls do all sorts of things like this, don’t we? Some of us send too many emails and texts. Some hang on him in public, afraid he’ll look at someone else. Some break into his Facebook account to see if he’s talking with other girls. This kind of behavior among girls is almost considered normal.

A few weeks ago at a nail salon, I heard a woman breezily say to her friend, “I figured he was cheating on me again, so I broke into his email account to see if I was crazy.” (Honey, once you’ve broken into his email account, there’s nothing more to see about whether you’ve crossed over into crazy.) “Women,” the guys all say, rolling their eyes. And sure enough, girls call each other to talk about these actions, to get support for them. “Of course you had to break into his account! He was acting weird!” “Of course you called him again! He still hasn’t called you back! What does he expect you to do?”

But this isn’t normal behavior. When we engage in these sorts of behaviors, we have moved so far away from ourselves, from caring about ourselves, from being a friend to ourselves, that we are so completely out of control that we may as well be drinking until we puke or shooting our arms full of drugs. When a girl relentlessly pursues a guy to find out what he’s thinking, she is demanding that he make her feel better, that he feed a part of her that has nothing to do with him by calling her back and saying, “Of course I like you.” When she breaks into his accounts, she is suggesting that he can’t have a will of his own, that there is no way he would love her if she doesn’t control him into doing so. Who in their right mind likes that? Who finds that attractive? Nobody wants to be made responsible for another person’s feelings. You don’t have to be a boy to feel that way. Girls don’t want to have a boy’s desperation dumped on them either. The problem here is not the neediness itself. It’s making other people responsible for your needs. It’s acting on no one’s behalf, not even your own. It is acting without any compassion for him and his needs, or for you and your own.

Beneath all that chasing and pursuing and desperation, of course, there is a little girl, a girl who feels abandoned every time you don’t give her attention and try to make someone else—a boy—take care of her. There is a little girl who doesn’t believe for a moment that anyone would love her if she didn’t try to force them into it. Some of the women I spoke with had had experiences in therapy where the therapist had tried to help them find this girl and take care of her. Twenty-seven-year-old Carla described how useless that was:

The therapist had me close my eyes and try to visualize the part of me that felt needy as a small child. I did it too. She was in there, like in my stomach, or maybe my womb. She was probably about six or seven. The therapist had me like kiss her and hug her and stuff, and even though I did it, the whole time I was thinking how ridiculous it was. I mean, I could love this part of me all I want, but as a woman I was still going to want a man to love me.

Carla’s story exemplifies how many of the therapeutic approaches to help us stop needing male attention probably won’t help. There are lots of exceptions, of course. Some women will find success with twelve-step programs or with the sort of visualization that Carla described. But most of us don’t, because unlike most addictions, part of what we are after is perfectly healthy—love, attention, and sex. Not only is it perfectly healthy, but it’s also necessary to a satisfying life.

So, before anything else, girls like us have to accept that that part of us that desperately wants attention, that desperately wants to be loved, is never going away. That time is past. Way back when, my mother didn’t love me enough, caught up in her own narcissism. Mandy’s father left when she was two years old, and she can count the amount of times she’s seen him since on one hand. Carla’s parents were so busy with their own unhappiness that they didn’t care to see hers. The other girls and women I spoke to had mothers who tried to kill themselves, fathers who ignored them, fathers who bullied and were sexually inappropriate or outright molested. Others were raped or simply became caught up in the cultural pressure to be sexy and to put out so that guys would find them worthwhile.

We all have our stories. They are ours to keep, a part of what makes us who we are. We will never be rid of them. Never. When you can swallow that fact, when you can acknowledge that you will always feel that ache, that it will resurface every once in a while, and that it is only yours and that no one else has the capacity to make it feel better, then you are ready to move toward real change.

SHARING OUR STORIES

Leigh knows she will always be a loose girl, and in some ways, that was the truth that helped her feel like she could move forward with her life. She spent her teens and most of her twenties trying desperately to get male attention, trying to turn every glance from a man into a relationship. By the time she met Chris, the man she’d wind up marrying, she knew she had to find a way to stop relying so much on men to make her feel worthwhile. She came to me at that point, wanting to hear how she could not screw up her relationship with Chris. When I told her the first step was to acknowledge that she would always feel the way she feels, that she would always have the propensity to seek out other men, she grew angry. She said, “How does that help me?” But over time, she saw that it was true. To change her behavior, she had to stop beating herself up for her feelings. She had to recognize that she had those feelings again and again to know that she need not act on them. Just because she felt the desire didn’t mean she had to act on it.

The other process that helped Leigh was finding a group of women who struggled like she did. Many psychologists understand that stories can heal. Sharing stories—telling your own and listening to those of others—is a therapeutic process. Much has been written about using narrative in psychotherapy—psychodynamic and cognitive-behavioral therapies—as a way to help clients integrate their histories, their multiple selves, and as a way to make better choices. When we tell our stories, we are forced both to claim ourselves (“I did this”) and to claim our responsibilities to other people, such as our families and communities. When we tell our stories, and when our audience demands vulnerability from us, we can no longer get away with behavior like breaking into Facebook accounts. Suddenly, it is just us and our feelings and the question of what we will do with them.

I would argue that the group experience of knowing that you’re not alone—particularly for issues such as promiscuity, where girls carry so much shame—is useful as well. So many of us have these stories, and yet so few feel safe sharing them. After Loose Girl came out, I set up a system on my website where girls could simply submit their loose girl stories and read others’ in the hope that knowing so many of us are out there would be healing.

EXAMINING THE THINGS WE TELL OURSELVES

Any girl or woman I’ve worked with who is still in the throes of loose-girl behavior, still pursuing male attention at any cost, even as it makes her feel like garbage, believes in the fantasy she has about men. With each of these women I’ve asked the same question: “What do you believe he will do for you?” Their answers are almost all the same:

“He will love me the way no one ever has before.”
“He will make me happy.”
“He will save me.”

A huge part of being a loose girl is believing in a fantasy, and that fantasy is of course not factual. We have been handed the lie about men by our media and culture. A boy will make you worth something. A boy’s loving you means you matter in the world. We’ve bought the idea entirely. But beneath the fantasy is the blatant lie. It isn’t true. Not even close. No man’s attention to a girl means anything. In fact, more often than not it just means he has an opportunity to use her for sex, which, in the typical cultural irony for a girl, makes her matter less. Perhaps more important, whatever fantasy you or your daughter or your client or student carries around is based on some lack that can’t possibly be filled by another person, and most certainly not some random boy. That emptiness is very real, but the fantasy that someone will fill it is not.

Often, when it comes into their awareness that they have these beliefs, the girls and women I work with are surprised. I encourage them to write those beliefs down on one side of a piece of paper, and then to make a list on the other side of what those men actually wind up doing for them. This is important, because even if men do provide some positives in these women’s lives, they do not do this impossible task of filling their emptiness, of taking away or saving them from their pain.

Larissa believed that every boy that gave her attention, or who she developed a crush on, would be “the one.” When I pressed her about what she meant by “the one,” she admitted he would be the one who would love her so much that all her pain would go away and she’d always be happy. Larissa grew up with parents she described as “distant,” whom she was never able to feel loved by. After she wrote down this belief, we discussed what she really did get from these boys. She determined that she got some affection and some sense that she was pretty and desirable, but little else. She said she never even felt like they were her friends. I didn’t expect this to change everything for Larissa right away, but it was a task I suggested she repeat with each encounter or crush. The more she paid attention to her fantasy about boys, the easier time she would have unraveling why it felt so terrible when it didn’t work out, and let’s face it—it was never going to work out as long as those were her expectations.

Deb provides another example. She had a boyfriend, but she cheated on him constantly. When I asked her what she wanted from him, she told me that she wanted him to make her feel whole. These sorts of answers are so common. We hear them everywhere. They are spread across our media, in every teen drama and romantic comedy. A boy will complete you. It’s yet another line delivered that rarely does any good for teen girls. Clearly, though, she didn’t feel whole. She slept with other boys because she felt desperate and uncared for, and she secretly hoped one of these other boys would give her that sense of wholeness. Deb and I stayed in touch, and though she hadn’t stopped searching for that sense of wholeness, she could see how she had reached that point and needed to make a change.

Along with the fantasy about boys are the core beliefs—called core schemas in cognitive therapy—we have about ourselves. So often, we come to believe some essential lie about ourselves: I am not lovable. I am not special. I am worthless. I don’t matter. These lies come about through various channels, such as growing up with parental abuse or neglect or addiction, or with a trauma such as rape. Or they come about because of situations with boys, or because of our personality type, or simply because of how our culture makes us feel as girls.

Paula, for instance, developed the core belief “I am not special” right after she went through puberty. She developed crushes on boys, but those boys kept choosing other girls to date. When one finally did choose her as his girlfriend, he decided he liked someone else after about a month. This is ordinary dating behavior among adolescents, but Paula felt as though it meant she were different from other girls, that she wasn’t special.

Combine those sorts of core beliefs with the fantasy of what a boy can provide, and it’s easy to see why a girl might get hung up on getting with boys. She can easily come to believe that a boy will save her from these terrible things she believes about herself. He can make them untrue. I encouraged Paula to notice when she had that thought about not being special, and then we worked together to examine the thought process that led her to that false belief. Over time, she began to recognize that there was little logic to it. Having this sort of awareness so young—fourteen years old—Paula has the potential to avoid heading down a loose-girl path.

MAKING NEW HABITS

Deb was in the perfect mind space for changing her behavior, for creating new habits. One of the dangers of loose-girl self-harming sexual activity is that your brain develops habits. In the same way that one might develop a psychological dependence on a glass of wine in the evening, or a few hits of marijuana to sleep, girls (and boys) can develop a psychological dependence on promiscuity (as with other process addictions). Deb, for instance, knew she was making bad choices. She knew she had a false fantasy, and she hardly believed in it anymore. But just knowing is sometimes not enough. Often the behavior is entrenched enough that we have to do things differently, too.

It’s important to note that often the predictable pattern feels good. Something about that drama and pain, something about getting to feel the feelings we usually tamp down, feels good. Think about any other sort of addictive pattern. Imagine you were a heroin addict. Imagine the ritualized process of calling your dealer, driving into that seedy part of town. The haggard people on the streets. Your heart beats wildly in your chest. You know that you will get that feeling again. Then after doing that drug, imagine how it feels to come down and feel desperate for more, how familiar it is. The process is almost comforting, even as you start to sweat and feel sick. You know it by heart. This is the same for the loose girl. She gets pleasure from the process, even as it feels like hell. Those familiar neurons fire, those same sections of the brain light up, the various neurochemicals begin their work. The loose girl must acknowledge this buzz as part of her necessary awareness.

In most therapies for substance abuse, the addict is told to commit to staying away from his or her triggers, and that absolutely applies to the loose girl. If she usually messes around with boys at parties and regrets it later, she should stay away from parties. If she gives blow jobs in the school stairwell, she should stay away from the stairwell. Not forever. Just until new habits can take hold.

There are a number of established studies about how behavior changes, and they all point to the idea that there is a limited period of time in which a habit should change. The best documented is the work of Prochaska, Norcross, and DiClemente, who determined through research that habits form after just about twenty-one days. They also established the “stages of change” approach, which recognizes that people are in precontemplation, contemplation, or preparation, all before reaching action and maintenance; it’s important to know where one is among these stages before trying to change.1

Thus far, I’ve been encouraging the contemplation stage, where you build awareness about your issue and begin to believe you might want change. Put another way, I’ve been encouraging readers to move out of precontemplation and into contemplation. Assessing what your triggers are, such as parties, is part of the preparation. When you are ready to commit, you can move out of preparation and into action, which I discuss shortly. Maintenance comes with the gradual rewards that arrive, although they don’t arrive quickly. First, lots of challenges come, including the opportunity to relapse, which commonly happens and is no reason to give up. Finally, environmental controls are established, and often the person who changes does some sort of work in the world—perhaps as a therapist or writer or teacher—to help others with change, too.

Something I appreciate about the stages-of-change model is that it acknowledges that not everyone is ready to change. I would take this a step further and say that we should never judge where a person is. Not one of us knows what it’s like to be anyone else, what resources a person has internally and externally. When you aren’t ready to change something in your life, you aren’t ready. That’s all there is to it. You can try to force it. You can beat yourself up about it. But it will happen when it happens. The human psyche is not readable that way, and thank goodness. We are multifaceted and complicated, and that humanness is beautiful enough to keep me in love with my work. Be patient with yourself. Accept where you are.

This is a good place to note the myths about change, and in particular about change for a loose girl. The first myth is that change is simple. Of course, some have an easy time changing, but we hate those people (kidding!). Most don’t have an easy time. Most, in fact, have tried many things. Change for a person who is deeply entrenched in a habit, who is acting addictively, is not easy.

A closely related myth is that willpower leads to change. Willpower is necessary, of course, to reach a place at which you will commit to change. But it is only a small piece of change. For a loose girl, she needs willpower to not go to that party where the boys are, especially when she’s feeling down on herself. But the willpower isn’t enough. She needs to engage in a circuit of efforts, including social support, acceptance of herself, and self-awareness about her fantasies. She needs to be willing to sit through some pretty painful feelings that come when she doesn’t relieve her anxiety with male attention.

The other important myth here is the magic bullet. Our society can probably be blamed for much of the origins of the magic bullet. We do not cater to patience or discomfort. Technology has practically removed the word slow from our vocabulary. Everything is immediate gratification. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending how you look at it—personal change won’t ever be fast. If it is, then I guarantee you it isn’t real. There is nothing—no pill you can take, no shot you can get, no new-age therapy you can do—that will take away your shame or your pain or your propensity to act out with boys. I often remind my clients—and myself—that this is a lifelong process. It is more than possible that you will never be fully free of it. Embrace that.

CREATING RULES

So, action. The first action is to remove your triggers. You can think of this like rules. Here are some examples:

“I may not go to the bar until further notice.”
“I must remove Dylan’s phone number from my phone and never contact him again.”
“I may not text a boy back until he has texted me twice first.”

Rules are terribly useful. You can write them on sticky notes or in your phone. Refer to them often. Pull them out whenever you need. Addicts in general, and loose girls in particular, need rules because we often live our lives out of control. In fact, loose-girl behavior can be a failed way to try to get control.

EMBRACING DISTRACTIONS

Along with rules, loose girls need a list of distractions they can turn to when necessary. Examples of distractions are exercise, calling a particular friend who won’t judge you, chopping firewood, knitting, cooking, or playing piano. It seems simple, but it really is a necessary part of the process, because when a loose girl doesn’t go out boy hunting or doesn’t text the guy she knows will grant her a booty call and then ignore her afterward, even with all her awareness about her patterns, she will experience anxiety. And distractions will help her cope.

FEELING THE FEELINGS

Let’s go back to Larissa’s story. Every time Larissa reached out to a boy, she did so out of anxiety. Her anxiety about her pain, about her unhappiness, was the real trigger that led her to seek out another boy. Her anxiety rose up, and without thinking, she sought out the next guy to quell it. This anxiety is one of the greatest challenges. There’s a reason girls keep pursuing what makes them feel like crap soon after. That reason, in a momentary sense, is anxiety. One thing we know about anxiety is that it is very treatable with behavioral methods. Anxiety is simply a resistance to feeling. It’s fear of feeling. In that way, it is irrational fear. Anxiety generally won’t kill you. So one of the best ways to treat anxiety is to extinguish the fear feelings that go along with it, and the way to do that is to simply feel the feelings. No doubt, anxiety is scary, but when you let yourself feel the terrible fear, when you feel that awful pain you’ve been avoiding for years, you find you live through it. You may be debilitated for a bit. You may have to stay in bed for a weekend and cry. You may have to yowl and scream. That is OK. You will still live through it. And you can tell yourself this all the way through: “This is just the pain I never let myself feel. It feels this bad because I’ve avoided it for so long. I’m going to come out the other side.”

The next time, it won’t be quite as bad, and the next time a little less. Over time, it may always be painful, but you’ll feel it, you’ll cry or whatever it is you do to move through it, and then you’ll carry on. It is painful, just like the behavior with boys was painful, but at least this pain is in your control, and you aren’t demanding anything from others in the process.

OTHER PROGRAMS

There are other approaches to treatment out there. Some loose girls have connected to the approach found in Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous (SLAA), since there is plenty of overlap between the loose girl’s experience and someone who identifies as a sex or love addict.2 Others try alternative approaches, such as therapies that address posttraumatic stress disorder, or obsessive-compulsive disorder, or anxiety disorders in general. It is important to find what you respond to. The main thing to remember is that change is ongoing. Your pain will always be your pain. No one—really, no one—will save you. It is just a decision, and when you are ready, when your daughter is ready, when your client is ready, you, she, will do this.

At the end of a chapter about change for the loose girl, we must restate where the chapter started. You will always be this girl. You will never go through a struggle in life without finding yourself up against these thoughts or desires. You will not magically become someone new. Change is a journey, with no clear end point.

Chapter 11

WAVES

Protecting against Loose-Girl Behavior

Jo is a single mother and former loose girl who has been doing her best to work though her own issues with male attention as she raises her teenage daughter. “I’m so worried,” she told me, “that I won’t be able to help her. I try to behave in ways that will show her a woman can make good choices. But sometimes it feels like a failed effort.” When I asked her what she meant she spoke about all the magazines, the television shows, her daughter’s friends, and the boys. “I feel helpless in a world that has already determined what will happen to my daughter. She’ll think everything she needs comes from some guy, and she’ll never believe in herself enough to be everything I know she can be.” After a few moments, she added, “I don’t mean that. I sound so pessimistic.”

Beyond the loose girl, beyond the shame, the behavior, the question of right or wrong, beyond all the dirty little secrets, is the culture that created this dilemma for girls. In so many ways, Jo is right. Her daughter doesn’t have a fighting chance against the cultural wave explored in chapter 1.

Parents ask me often, “How can I protect my girls?” Colleagues in psychology and education wonder, “Is it even possible to prevent what happens to girls regarding sex?” This chapter explores this idea of prevention, how we can work to overhaul the culture to do so.

When I asked Jo what she is doing, she said she’s doing the opposite of what her parents did. Her parents told Jo not to have sex. That was it. Just don’t do it. Jo recognizes that telling her daughter to stay away from boys, or to not have sex, would be useless. She said, “I don’t want to do that to her. She should have sex! Oh God, I’m sure parents all over the world would judge me for that one. I think she should be able to have sex. I just don’t want it to become her whole life, like it did for me.”

For decades, the push has been along the same lines as what Jo’s parents told her. And the results have been consistent: nothing has changed. The large majority of those who pledge abstinence at thirteen lose their virginities by sixteen and are just as likely to engage in oral and anal sex as those who didn’t pledge, according to a study sponsored by the National Institutes of Health.1 With limited guidance and plenty of shame about contraception, they wind up with STDs and pregnancies. They get married too young, to the wrong person, because they just want to have sex already and not be judged as bad. Many become what we can now define as loose girls, young women who use sex and male attention to fill emptiness and need, who wind up disappointed and ashamed, unsure how to change their behavior, and terribly judged.

Jocelyn M. Elders, in her foreword to Judith Levine’s book Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Children from Sex, wrote:

We lead the Western world in virtually every sexual problem: teenage pregnancy, abortion, rape, incest, child abuse, sexually transmitted disease, HIV/AIDS, and many more. Yet when the Surgeon General issues a call to action on sexual health urging comprehensive sex education, abstinence, and other measures to promote responsible sexual behavior, and advocates that we break our “conspiracy of silence about sexuality,” we want to fire the Surgeon General.2

We are caught in an odd rigidity on this issue, one that is burdened with false, fear-inducing dangers about what it is to be a girl, when meanwhile the biggest danger of being a girl is how impossible it is to wade through the fear-inducing propaganda to find the truth.

When the child psychologist G. Stanley Hall coined the term adolescence, sexuality came to be seen as more of a test than a natural progression. It became a danger to traverse, a danger that adolescents must not allow to take over their lives to avoid future problems, such as impulsivity. Like Freud’s theories about sexual stages, this was simply another theory, certainly not evidenced by research. This isn’t to say Hall’s notion of adolescence hasn’t been immensely useful. Obviously, it has. My comment is only to point out that our panic about girls having sex is based on a man-made philosophy, not empirically supported research, and is therefore worthy of questioning.

It is important to note these odd biases, because they are so hugely in the way of us making any headway on the very real cultural issues attached to girls and sexuality. We must begin to change our minds about how to transform the culture when it comes to teen girls and sex.

Jacquie went to school in the Midwest, among cornfields and wheat. Her experience of sex education involved anatomical drawings of the reproductive sex organs (but not the clitoris, she told me when I asked) and a whole lot of information about how to protect herself from boys. The boys were in another classroom, getting their own education. When I asked what the boys learned about, she said that she didn’t know but suspected they weren’t being taught to protect themselves from girls. She’s right. Most sex education for boys is limited to anatomy, birth-control options, and wet dreams.

While she was being taught how to say no, she regularly wondered how to say yes. Was that even possible for a girl? She was itching to experiment. For one, she was horny, like any healthy adolescent girl. For another, she was curious. Incidentally, she told me, she gained nothing from her sex-ed curriculum and wound up pregnant at sixteen. She had an abortion, and her born-again Christian mother kicked her out of the house. She has been unable to have a healthy relationship with almost anyone since. She told me, “Sometimes I think I’m not cut out to love and be loved. Is that possible, that some people are just too fucked up to get loved?”

Jacquie is a strong—and awfully sad—example of how sex education fails girls. It sets up the same lie girls are sold everywhere: boys are horny; you are not. Boys get what they want; you get to be there for their purposes. So be careful. And always the underlying message is there for girls: don’t act on your sexual urges or you will be immoral and unworthy. In essence, we set our kids up for failure when it comes to sex.

Clearly, the just-say-no approach doesn’t work. When we continue to take this approach, we bang our heads against the wall of increasing teen pregnancy, STDs, and exceeding confusion and desperation about what sex means. Abstinence education fails girls. The statistics bear this fact out. There is no difference statistically between those who pledge abstinence and those who don’t. In the 1990s, there was a slight drop in teen pregnancies and STDs, which, not surprisingly, abstinence advocates jumped all over as evidence that abstinence works. But both the Alan Guttmacher Institute and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention determined through closer research that the drop was due to increased contraceptive use and increased engagement in sex other than vaginal intercourse.3 Unprotected vaginal intercourse had declined, not intercourse and sex itself.

Judith Levine writes, “Abstinence education is not practical. It is ideological.”4 And still, we cling to it. This is likely because conservatives see teenagers having any sexual relations as the problem. But as we’ve explored in this book, the harm is not in the sex but in the circumstances in which sex can happen, such as girls having sex solely because they want to feel cared for, or girls having sex without protection because they want to please the boy more than they want to protect themselves.

Good sex—when a girl wants to have the sex, both physically and emotionally, and when she does what she needs to protect herself physically—cannot be a bad thing, and certainly not any worse than it is for a boy. We all know that teen boys and girls are sexually desirous creatures. They want sex! And they will have it. Holding fast to the idea that sex is bad for teens has no useful purpose except to harm teenagers by shaming them—particularly girls—when they do have sex.

In 2000, the National Campaign to Prevent Teen Pregnancy took a poll and found that almost three-quarters of girls who had had sex regretted it, where about half the boys did.5 It shouldn’t surprise us to learn that a spokesperson for the campaign said that the results showed that teens were taking a more cautious attitude toward sex. But if we look at the numbers through a different lens, we can see that the statistics translate more into shame than caution—and of course girls carry the larger burden of that shame. A handful of young women approached me after reading Loose Girl to say that they related because they had premarital sex and wished they hadn’t, evidence that in too many girls’ minds, any sex before marriage makes them disgraceful. I’ve asked a few of those girls why they thought that made them disgraceful, and they all answered that they shouldn’t even have wanted to have had sex.

Missing from sex-education curricula is really anything that might help a teenager know what to do with her sexual feelings. Sure, she can identify the ovaries on the diagram, but she knows nothing about her desire, or a boy’s desire, or how to protect herself physically and emotionally during sexual acts.

One listen to Loveline, the late-night call-in radio show with Dr. Drew Pinsky, reveals the intense lack of sexual self-knowledge among teens. And most of it is attached to shame. By example, three times in two weeks various girls called in to find out whether there was something wrong with them because their vaginas got very wet when they were excited. Dr. Drew had to reassure all of them that each person has different amounts of secretion when sexually aroused. Go to any of the teen sex Q&A websites and you’ll see questions about whether anal sex can get you pregnant or about whether something is wrong when a girl orgasms just thinking about a sexual fantasy.

Included here are ideas for sex education that might truly help girls (and boys!) understand what sex is about, what is happening in their bodies, and how to make decisions about both.

TRUE SEX EDUCATION

1. Talk about Desire

How would you answer this question from your daughter: “How will I know when I’m ready to have sex?” The answer is, of course, individual to each girl, but very few mothers, educators, and therapists think to include some attention to a girl’s sexual desire as part of their answer. The bottom line about girls and healthy sexuality is that this must be part of how we talk to girls about sex. Usually, we hand down to them the same useless, often harmful myths. We tell them that sex will get in the way of their happiness and growth. We tell them they must be in love. We tell them that good sex happens only when you are in love. None of those aphorisms is true—not one. Sex and sexual feelings are essential to our happiness. Sex does not make sense only when you are in love. And sex with someone you aren’t in love with can be just as good as sex with someone you do love. Add desire—the acknowledgment that girls have sexual desire—into the answer, and everything can change. Everything becomes more—true.

For one, we can encourage girls to learn to trust their bodies and what their bodies tell them. We can also tell them that just because they want it sexually doesn’t mean it will be worth it or any good. We can tell them that sex with someone who wants you to enjoy yourself is a hundred times better than sex with someone who doesn’t care about your experience, and sex with someone you love and who cares about your experience might be even better.

2. Talk about Outercourse

Another assumption we make as a culture is that to fulfill sexual feelings, people must have intercourse. This is absolutely untrue. Sex therapists use the term outercourse to describe the numerous acts that create sensual and sexual pleasure but do not include penetration. Think hand jobs. Think second and third base. Think phone sex. For teens who are experiencing that hormone rush but aren’t ready to expose themselves to possible pregnancies and STDs, outercourse is perfect.

More than that, outercourse allows a teenager to explore and test intimacy, which is essential for building the self-confidence girls need to be both powerful and self-protected in the world of relationships. One sex therapist notes that communication is enhanced during outercourse. Because the sexual sensations can be less intense, there is more opportunity for closeness, for talking, and for full consent from both parties. And, let’s face it, the likelihood of a girl having an orgasm via outercourse is much better than during intercourse. Boys benefit too. Boys receive plenty of cultural pressure to have as much sex as they can, even when they aren’t ready to do so emotionally, so outercourse is a more gentle introduction into the world of sexual feelings and intimacy. In case I need to clarify, I believe it makes sense to include outercourse in sex education.

3. Talk about Masturbation

It also makes sense to include masturbation in a sex-education curriculum as a healthy, satisfying way to fulfill sexual desire, especially since a greater proportion of girls between fourteen and seventeen years old report solo masturbation than any other sexual activity. Adolescents have sexual desire. More so, they are in the process of learning about their sexual desire. What better way for adolescents to learn than to explore on their own? Likewise, what better way to help them explore their sexual desire without putting themselves at risk for STDs, pregnancy, and all the emotional ramifications of sex with other people? I’m not the surgeon general and won’t get asked to resign for saying so. But conservatives would be outraged. Why? Because they are stuck in the old, rigid ways of thinking about teenagers—particularly teenage girls—and of believing that any teenage sex is inexplicably, unfoundedly immoral. They are determined to hold on to their beloved abstinence education, which has done not one thing for the state of sexual behavior in our culture, except encourage extremely detrimental shame.

4. Talk about Emotions

In our cultural landscape, sex and sexual feelings are too often removed from emotions, and yet for most people, they are intricately entwined. When we don’t talk about the ways teenagers might feel about having sex or sexual activity, we ignore an essential part of sex education, one that can make all the difference when kids decide to engage in those activities. They need to examine their expectations about sexual activity—what they hope for when they engage in this way. Such a discussion also provides space for teens to discuss how peers and their parents receive their behaviors and whether they are prepared for the repercussions of various sexual acts.

FIGHTING THE WAVES

We live in a culture in which the determinations of who a girl must be are like tidal waves crashing, one after another. Try to recover from one, thinness, and another wave, breast size, comes quickly after to knock you down once more. When parents ask me how to fight the waves, I tell them they can’t. But they can do a few things to move the odds a little more in their daughters’ favor.

If girls can believe that their bodies and minds exist for something other than boys’ gazes and preoccupation, they might have a chance. Maybe they will become interested in sports, art, theater, history, math, writing, singing, guitar—anything, really, other than boys.

A girl’s sexual self is tightly tied to a girl’s body image. We know, for instance, that overweight girls are more likely to be sexually active than those who are not overweight.6 Most marketing for teen girls focuses on what they look like and whether boys will like them. They must be thin, Caucasian or with Caucasian features, and flawless. Nothing else will do. Girls’ bodies are so commoditized that it is extremely difficult for a girl to understand her body as fine just the way it is. When girls look in the mirror, it is not really to see themselves but to assess themselves, and inevitably to decide that what they see is not good enough. Girls are continual victims of themselves. For being so self-conscious, their lack of awareness about this is disturbing.

Lauren Greenfield captures this in her collection of photographs titled Girl Culture.7 In most every photo a girl is on stage in some way. She is being looked at—not seen, but assessed, evaluated. Many of the photos include mirrors inside which the girls examine themselves. As Joan Jacobs Brumberg, author of The Body Project, says in the introduction of Greenfield’s collection, “Ultimately, Greenfield’s work makes the ironic point that in spite of how much American women and girls look at themselves, we are not a self-reflective society.”

Part of how we help girls battle the waves and own their identities is by having them do something other than sitting in front of the mirror, by encouraging them to be subjects instead of objects. Sports are an excellent way to encourage a girl to use her body in such a way that she understands it has more purpose in the world than just to be looked at. Girls in sports often focus on making their bodies strong rather than thin, because they can see that strength has more purpose for their goals—to succeed as an athlete—than being skinny. On teams they work together, as a unified group, for a goal that doesn’t involve boys. Of course, some girl-heavy sports, such as cheerleading, can be more about what a girl looks like than how she feels. There is nothing wrong, of course, with wanting to look good, and parents should not try to encourage their daughters away from an interest in their looks or clothes. The key is to support their sense of selves, whatever that may be.

Sports work well to protect a girl’s body image, but really, anything that can keep a girl’s attention that isn’t a boy, anything that can build a sense of self-efficacy, of confidence, is prohibitive of a girl focusing every thought on boys. This might include the arts, or music, or academics. When a girl has something that makes her feel worthwhile in the world—something other than a boy’s attention—she has the opportunity to defy the cultural pressure to think only about how to make herself attractive to boys.

This is what happened to me. My interest in writing grew, I got some encouragement, and I came to have a sense of myself as a writer, not just a potential girlfriend.

Of course, this is easier said than done. Remember the strength of those waves. They are powerful, withstanding. Feminism and human rights work have barely touched them. The waves have even grown bigger. They’ve taken on more ways—the Internet, the cell phone—to pound girls with their messages. It is so very necessary to be continually aware of that tidal-wave culture.

One of the activities I like to do with girls is to have them find at least five images in their daily lives that give them a message about their sexual identities. The girls come back to me with many more than five images. They have magazines and phrases scribbled down from bathroom stalls. They have television shows and older men checking them out from their cars. They’ve got billboards and bus boards and posters. One had porn magazines she found in her brother’s closet. They come back angry. Some come back nonplussed, perhaps desensitized to our hypersexualized culture. Then we discuss what the messages mean and who the girls want to be in the world. They tell me their truths about the boys they like and what they’ve done and how it made them feel—the good stuff and the bad. And I listen, which is all they want.

If parents could do this for their girls, if they support their girls as they question the culture they live in, they will help them to be a little stronger against those waves. My hope is that with this kind of support, mothers like Jo, who we met at the beginning of this chapter, will have daughters who are much more powerful in the world than their mothers felt they were as teens.

Recently, I received an email from a woman who didn’t want me to know her name. She described her years of loose-girl behavior and how no one knows. She wrote, “I’ve spent my whole life hiding from the world, from myself. At this point I don’t know who I am or what I want. I’m lost…I wish we could talk honestly about ourselves, but loose girls can’t do that. The shame is eating me alive.” This brave woman’s pain is not that she had sex. Her pain comes from feeling silenced, from living an unnecessarily unspeakable life.

My hope is that this book begins some movement toward cracking that silence, toward the conversations we need to have with one another, and toward the transformation we need in our culture to change the direction teen girls have been herded into for so long. We must have these conversations. We must speak honestly. We must be louder.

Mostly, we have to tell our stories, because in our stories lie salvation for other girls and women. It seems so cliché—stories save lives. But that’s true. It was a story that laid the foundation for my own healing. I was a senior in high school, seventeen years old, and I took an elective English class called Minority Voices. We read stories about teenage girls who felt lonely, exiled, confused about who they were, and my whole world broke open: I wasn’t alone. There were others out there who felt what I felt. There were others expressing what I couldn’t yet express. This changed everything for me. Not yet, not in a tangible way. I was still going to hurt myself again and again. I was still going to let every crush I had, every boy who looked my way, consume my brain. I was still going to choose boys over self-enhancement. But those stories were there, in the back of my mind. They lingered. They made me want to write. And eventually, I found a way to write my own story, hoping a girl would one day read it and see herself, would keep my story in the back of her mind, and would one day tell her story, too—all these stories in a round, all these stories breaking the silence.

PART THREE

RESOURCES

APPENDIX

FOR SCHOOL ADMINISTRATORS

Discussion Questions

 
  1. What sorts of things do you think students learn about sex at school? In particular, what do girls learn?
  2. How are sex-related issues currently addressed in your school? What needs to be addressed in a more effective way, and what needs addressing at all?
  3. If abstinence is in your school’s sex education curriculum, is it aimed primarily at girls? What is the message connected to abstinence at your school?
  4. Are cultural messages and cultural expectations exposed inside your school’s sex-education curriculum?
  5. Are school counselors trained in how to deal with sex and relationship issues among the students?

SUGGESTED SEX-EDUCATION EXERCISES

Girls Will Be Girls

 
  1. Students should find examples of expectations for girls in their culture. They will likely find them in commercials, ads, magazine articles, and other media.
  2. Next, students write up sentences: According to [the ad, the article], I need to be ______________ to get/have ______________.
  3. Have students work in groups to design their own ad campaign to support girls’ self-esteem. Point to some of the ad campaigns already in existence—one example is Nike, or the Dove Real Beauty Campaign.
  4. Have students design hypothetical organizations that they feel girls could use, such as ones that encourage girls in sports or science.
  5. Students then should start over but go through the exact same process for boys.

Ms. X

Students write questions for a teen sex-advice column. They can be real questions they have or questions they would expect to see in such a column. Put the questions into a hat and have them each choose one. Then, they work in twos to answer each question as though they were Ms. X. Finally, discuss their Ms. X answers as a class, encouraging them to pay attention to the question, What about girls’ desire?

SUGGESTED TRAINING CURRICULUM FOR SCHOOL COUNSELORS DEALING WITH SEX AND RELATIONSHIP ISSUES

 
  1. Discuss what counselors see from girls versus boys regarding sex and relationships.
  2. Explore examples of what girls versus boys are taught via the prevailing culture (use magazine ads, round-ups of television shows, and so on).
  3. Discuss in small groups adults’ own assumptions about teenage girls’ sexual desires and desires about relationships. Open this up to the larger group to share discoveries.
  4. Share worksheets for dealing with loose-girl feelings and handling loose-girl behavior.
  5. Hand out two or three cases of loose-girl behavior from a student and have counselors role-play how they would respond to the student and address the behavior.

FOR PARENTS AND CARETAKERS

Tips for Talking about Sex with Your Teenage Girls

 
  1. Use simple, straightforward language. Know that your adolescent is intelligent, probably savvy, and well aware when someone is being dishonest or circumspect. Respect your teen as emotionally intelligent. Trust that she knows what she wants. You are only there to help her safely get what she wants.
  2. Don’t assume heterosexuality. Actually, don’t assume anything about your teen when it comes to sex.
  3. Avoid “the talk”—a onetime conversation—and instead continue to be available for open communication about sex with your teen. This means being open to questions, asking her questions when you feel concerned, and talking regularly about the cultural messages in media that your teen sees and absorbs each day.
  4. Learn about warning signs for as many issues as you can. In particular, know how to identify depression, anxiety, sex abuse, and self-harming sexual behavior. If you see enough signs to feel concerned, step in immediately. The sooner you acknowledge issues and get help, the better chance she will have.
  5. Talk about safe sex—both physically and emotionally. Educate your teen about contraception. Take her to a gynecologist. But also talk about the fact that sex can create feelings you don’t expect.
  6. Talk minimally about your own experiences. Always consider before sharing a story whether the story will truly help her. In general, err on the side of silence when it comes to your own sexual experiences. It’s a rare instance that your daughter needs to know anything about your past sex life.
  7. Model self-care. Make yourself as conscious as you can of your sexual and relational behavior. Do your own therapy. Spend some time examining yourself. How much do you need, chase, and respond to male attention? How careful are you with your sex-related choices? What is your relationship with your partner? In other words, what are you teaching your daughter about intimacy? Do you have the sort of relationship you wish for your daughter? How do you treat the females in your world? What are you showing to your daughter about how she should feel about herself as a female—about what makes her worthwhile?

FOR COUNSELORS AND THERAPISTS AND SELF-HELP FOR POTENTIAL LOOSE GIRLS

Loose-Girl Behavior Assessment

 
  1. Do you often use sex to get something—such as long-term love or a sense of worth—from your sex partner?
  2. Do you use other aspects of male attention to gain a sense of worth or desirability?
  3. Have you often avoided all else in your evening out, your work, your life, in pursuit of that attention?
  4. Do you feel that you are needy?
  5. Do you feel that your neediness makes you unlovable?
  6. Do you hold fantasies that romantic interests will “save” you from deep-seated pain?
  7. Have you more than a few times had sex with someone you didn’t want to have sex with simply because he wanted to?
  8. Do you need every romantic encounter you have—sexual or not—to turn into long-term love, as opposed to consciously thinking about and making choices about whether the person is someone with whom you’d actually want such a long-term relationship?
  9. Do you often feel dissatisfied in your romantic relationships?
  10. Have you given up adventures and self-betterment through travel, schooling, and so on, because you didn’t want to be away from a romantic interest or the possibility of male attention?

If you answered yes to at least half (five) of these questions, you likely have loose-girl behavior.

CRITERIA FOR SEX AND LOVE ADDICTION

Addiction experts have identified the following criteria. If you answer yes to all or most of these, you likely have addictive romantic behavior.

 
  1. Loss of time with family members, hobbies, and friends
  2. An experience of being “high” followed by secrecy and shame
  3. Negative consequences (which may include health problems and financial problems)
  4. Obsessive preoccupation with the relationship or sex
  5. Attempts to stop your behavior (or obsession) fail and bring considerable irritability and distress
  6. Your behavior becomes riskier and more intense

The Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous website has a forty-question self-assessment to determine whether you have the signs of sex and love addiction (www.slaafws.org/download/core-files/The_40_Questions_of_SLAA.pdf).

—From Kelly McDaniel, Ready to Heal: Women Facing Love, Sex, and Relationship Addiction (Carefree, AZ: Gentle Path Press, 2008), 31–32.

WORKSHEETS AND EXERCISES

The following provides cognitive-behavioral approaches to build awareness about and to treat loose-girl behavior.

Build Awareness

When a boy loves me, that means I am _______________.

When I don’t have a boy wanting me, I believe I am _______________.

When I am needy, I do _______________, and believe I am _______________.

Hold on to the first list set below, and after every encounter with a boy, rewrite a new list set based on what happened. Compare the lists to see what you want versus what you actually get.

When I engage sexually with a boy, I want most

1. for example, to believe I’m desirable

2.

3.

4.

5.

When I engage sexually with a boy, I actually get

1. for example, momentary physical attention

2.

3.

4.

5.

Tracking Triggers

Use the following chart to track events that trigger loose-girl behavior:

With your therapist, review what you might have done differently in each situation.

Tracking Self-Harming Thoughts

Use the following chart to track thoughts that trigger loose-girl behavior:

With your therapist, determine how your false beliefs set off loose-girl behavior and how you might better deal with those damaging thoughts.

RESOURCES

Sex and Relationship Websites for Teens

www.goaskalice.columbia.edu

Go Ask Alice! is the health-related Q&A Internet resource provided through Columbia University’s Health Services. It aims to provide “reliable, accurate, accessible, culturally competent information and a range of thoughtful perspectives so that they can make responsible decisions concerning their health and well-being.”

www.gURL.com

The site gURL.com is for teenage girls. It includes honest content about sexuality and sexual health, including advice from other teens and stores of information about various sex topics. The site has a membership option so girls can give their own advice and talk to one another on the “Shout Out” boards.

www.midwestteensexshow.com

The Midwest Teen Sex Show is a video show about teen sexuality. These guys are comedians, and they are hilarious, but they also provide accurate, thoughtful, and useful information to teenagers in an entertaining manner, all through episodes you can watch on the site.

www.plannedparenthood.org

Planned Parenthood is well known internationally as a frank, accessible provider of reproductive health care, women’s health information, and sex education. A section of the Planned Parenthood website is devoted to teen sexual health and information.

www.scarleteen.com

Scarleteen: Sex Ed for the Real World is a grassroots site working to provide sexuality education and support. Heather Corinna, the proprietor, regularly provides blogs about useful examinations of recent studies, news events, and more. There is also a message board and referral service, and the site provides teen outreach and staff training through the program CONNECT.

www.sexetc.org

Sex Etc.: Sex Education by Teens for Teens has a mission to “improve teen sexual health across the country.” The website is chock-full of useful information, from a glossary of sex terms to weekly live chats with experts and opportunities for teens to create their own profile and blog.

www.slaafws.org

Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous is similar to twelve-step programs such as Alcoholics Anonymous in that it is based in religion and service to God. The site lists meetings and numerous resources, including a “test” to determine whether you likely qualify as a sex and/or love addict. Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous does not provide services for minors. Some cities have meetings for adolescents, but they are not common.

www.whatcontraceptiveareyou.com.au/compare-contraception-options

Condoms are the only contraception that provides protection against both pregnancy and STDs. But this Australian website offers an interesting breakdown of the various other contraceptive devices available. The chart includes what each contraceptive is, how long it lasts, how it works, and what to consider. The site also has a survey to discover which type of contraception works best with your lifestyle.

SELECT BOOKS ABOUT SEX AND RELATIONSHIPS FOR TEENS

Michael J. Basso. The Underground Guide to Teenage Sexuality, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fairview Press, 2003).

This is a basic but informative, fact-based question-and-answer guide for boys and girls about sexual development.

Ruth Bell. Changing Bodies, Changing Lives: A Book for Teens on Sex and Relationships, 3rd ed. (New York: Three Rivers Press, 1998).

From the original Our Bodies, Ourselves, here is comprehensive information for boys and girls about sexuality, including quotes, poems, and writings from teenagers.

Kerry Cohen. Loose Girl: A Memoir of Promiscuity (New York: Hyperion, 2008).

The author’s memoir about her struggle with the need for male attention.

Heather Corinna. S.E.X.: The All-You-Need-To-Know Progressive Sexuality Guide to Get through High School and College, Illustrated ed. (New York: De Capo Press, 2007).

Corinna, owner of the website www.scarleteen.com, provides every possible aspect of sex education to her readers in a unique, upbeat, provocative style.

Kelly Huegel. GLBTQ: The Survival Guide for Queer and Questioning Teens (Minneapolis: Free Spirit Publishing, 2003).

This book covers everything there is to know for queer teens or teens who are questioning their sexual orientation.

SELECT BOOKS ABOUT TEENAGERS AND SEX FOR PARENTS

Ellen Bass and Kate Kaufman. Free Your Mind: The Book for Gay, Lesbian, and Bisexual Youth and Their Allies (New York: Harper Perennial, 1996).

This book is about sexual orientation and intended for youths, but it is also useful for adults who need to know.

Dominic Cappello and Pepper Schwartz. Ten Talks Parents Must Have with Their Children about Sex and Character (New York: Hyperion, 2000).

A detailed, layered book to prep parents for talking with their kids about sex. The best part of this book are the stories and correlating discussion questions included to read with your teens.

Debra Haffner. Beyond the Big Talk: Every Parent’s Guide to Raising Sexually Healthy Teens from Middle School to High School and Beyond (New York: Newmarket Press, 2002).

Haffner provides guidelines for sexual development and health, broken down by ages.

Logan Levkoff. Third Base Ain’t What It Used to Be: What Your Kids Are Learning About Sex Today—And How to Teach Them to Become Sexually Healthy Adults (New York: NAL Trade, 2007).

This book covers information about what teens face today when it comes to sex and sexual health.

Ronald Moglia and Jon Knowles. All about Sex: A Family Resource on Sex and Sexuality (New York: Three Rivers Press, 1997).

This book provides the latest information on every imaginable aspect of sexuality, including tantric sex, human reproduction, and sexual pleasure.

Lynn Ponton. The Sex Lives of Teenagers: Revealing the Secret World of Adolescent Boys and Girls (New York: Plume, 2001).

Ponton’s book examines a number of teen cases to demonstrate the various ways teenagers experience their sexuality.

Justin Richardson and Mark Schuster. Everything You Never Wanted Your Kids to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid They’d Ask): The Secrets to Surviving Your Child’s Sexual Development from Birth to the Teens (New York: Three Rivers Press, 2004).

This is a humorous, fun, and thorough guide to dealing with sexuality and your child, starting from toddlerhood.

Deborah M. Roffman. Sex and Sensibility: The Thinking Parent’s Guide to Talking Sense about Sex (New York: De Capo Press, 2001).

This is a more serious research-based but still readable guide to sex and your teens.

NOTES

INTRODUCTION

1.  Courtney L. Martin, Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters: The Frightening New Normalcy of Hating Your Body (New York: Free Press, 2007).

2.  “Facts on American Teens’ Sexual and Reproductive Health,” Guttmacher Institute, January 2011, www.guttmacher.org/pubs/FB-ATSRH.html.

3.  Ibid.

4.  Joe S. McIlhaney Jr. and Freda McKissic Bush, Hooked: New Science on How Casual Sex Is Affecting Our Children (Chicago: Northfield Publishing, 2008).

5.  For a detailed evaluation of the studies on oxytocin and attachment, see Heather Corinna’s article, “Pump Up The Vole-Ume: Talking Oxytocin,” Scarleteen.com, August 4, 2010, www.scarleteen.com/blog/heather_corinna/2010/08/04/pump_up_the_voleume_talking_oxytocin.

6.  Beth A. Auslander, Michelle M. Perfect, Paul A. Succop, and Susan L. Rosenthal, “Perceptions of Sexual Assertiveness among Adolescent Girls: Initiation, Refusal, and Use of Protective Behaviors,” Journal of Pediatric Adolescent Gynecology 20, no. 3 (2007): 157–162.

7.  Michelle Fine, “Sexuality, Schooling, and Adolescent Females: The Missing Discourse of Desire,” Harvard Educational Review 58, no. 1 (1988): 29–53.

8.  Joan Jacobs Brumberg, The Body Project: An Intimate History of American Girls (New York: Random House, 1997). See also Margaret Mead’s Coming of Age in Samoa: A Psychological Study of Primitive Youth for Western Civilization (New York: William Morrow and Company, 1928).

9.  Hugo Schwyzer, “The Paris Paradox: How Sexualization Replaces Opportunity with Obligation,” Hugo Schwyzer Blog, www.hugoschwyzer.net, November 9, 2010, hugoschwyzer.net/2010/11/09/the-paris-paradox-how-sexualization-replaces-opportunity-with-obligation/.

10. Volunteers completed a survey that read simply, “Describe your loose girl experience.” All volunteers answered my request after having read Loose Girl or having become aware of it and its theme.

Chapter 1

1.  Mary Pipher, Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls (New York: Ballantine Books, 1994), 19.

2.  Ibid., 22.

3.  Anne Beattie, introduction to At Twelve: Portraits of Young Women, by Sally Mann (New York: Aperture, 2005), 8.

4.  Shumei S. Sun, Christine M. Schubert, William Cameron Chumlea, Alex F. Roche, Howard E. Kulin, Peter A. Lee, John H. Himes, and Alan S. Ryan, “National Estimates of the Timing of Sexual Maturation and Racial Differences Among US Children,” Pediatrics 110, no. 5 (2002): 911–919. Note that the earlier onset of puberty does not include “precocious puberty,” which is when puberty occurs before the age of eight.

5.  Marcia E. Herman-Giddens, Eric J. Slora, Richard C. Wasserman, Carlos J. Bourdony, Manju V. Bhapkar, Gary G. Koch, and Cynthia M. Hasemeie, “Secondary Sexual Characteristics and Menses in Young Girls Seen in Office Practice: A Study from the Pediatric Research in Office Settings Network,” Pediatrics 99, no. 4 (1997): 505–512.

6.  Julian Isherwood, “Dramatic Drop in Female Puberty,” Politiken. dk, June 18, 2010, politiken.dk/newsinenglish/ECE998340/dramatic-drop-in-female-puberty.

7.  Florence Williams, “Younger Girls, Bigger Breasts: Are Chemicals to Blame?” Slate, July 28 2009, www.doublex.com/section/health-science/younger-girls-bigger-breasts-arechemicals-blame.

8.  William Cameron Chumlea, Christine M. Schubert, Alex F. Roche, Howard E. Kulin, Peter A. Lee, John H. Himes, and Shumei S. Sun, “Age at Menarche and Racial Comparisons in U.S. Girls,” Pediatrics 111, no. 1 (2003): 110–113.

9.  Committee on Communications, “Children, Adolescents, and Advertising,” Pediatrics 118, no. 6 (2006): 2563–2569.

10. Naomi Wolf, The Beauty Myth: How Images of Beauty Are Used against Women (New York: Harper Collins, 2002).

11. Katy Gilpatric. “Violent Female Action Characters in Contemporary American Cinema,” Sex Roles 62, nos. 11–12 (2010): 734–746.

12. Diane E. Levin and Jean Kilbourne, So Sexy, So Soon (New York: Ballantine Books, 2009), 9.

13. Jessica Valenti, The Purity Myth: How America’s Obsession with Virginity Is Hurting Young Women (Berkeley: Seal Press, 2009), 13.

14. Ibid., 30.

15. Deborah L. Tolman, Dilemmas of Desire: Teenage Girls Talk about Sexuality (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002).

16. Wolf, Beauty Myth, 156.

17. Marta Meana, quoted in Daniel Bergner, “What Do Women Want?” New York Times Magazine, January 22, 2009 , www.nytimes.com/2009/01/25/magazine/25desire-t.html.

Chapter 2

1.  Leanne K. Lamke, “The Impact of Sex-Role Orientation on Self-Esteem in Early Adolescence,” Child Development 53, no. 6 (1982): 1530–1535.

2.  Naomi Wolf, Promiscuities: The Secret Struggle for Womanhood (New York: Random House, 1997), 113–114.

3.  Sylvia Pagan Westphal, “Partners of Underage Girls Focus Study,” Los Angeles Times, August 13, 1999.

4.  Mike Males, “Poverty, Rape, Adult/Teen Sex: Why ‘Pregnancy Prevention’ Programs Don’t Work,” Phi Delta Kappan 75, no. 5 (1994): 407–410.

5.  Sharon G. Elstein and Noy Davis, “Sexual Relationships Between Adult Males and Young Teen Girls: Exploring the Legal and Social Responses,” American Bar Association Center on Children and the Law, October 1997, new.abanet.org/child/PublicDocuments/statutory_rape.pdf.

6.  Gerald R. Adams and Michael D. Berzonsky, Blackwell Handbook on Adolescence (New York: Wiley-Blackwell, 2005).

7.  William Pollack, Real Boys: Rescuing Our Sons from the Myths of Boyhood (New York: Owl Books, 1999).

Chapter 3

1.  Jessica Valenti, The Purity Myth: How America’s Obsession with Virginity Is Hurting Young Women (Berkeley: Seal Press, 2009), Lynn M. Phillips, referred to later in this chapter, calls this virgin icon “the pleasing woman discourse.” The pleasing woman is “pleasant, feminine, and subordinate to men,” and she lacks sexual desire herself. Her entire being is based on pleasing and being in service to others, especially men.

2.  Hannah Brückner and Peter S. Bearman, “After the Promise: The STD Consequences of Adolescent Virginity Pledges,” Journal of Adolescent Health 36 (2005): 271–278.

3.  Emily White, Fast Girls: Teenage Tribes and The Myth of the Slut (New York: Scribner, 2002).

4.  Ibid.

5.  Kate Snow and Kelly Hagan, “Teen Girls Hazed on N.J. High School ‘Slut List,’” Good Morning America, September 23, 2009, abcnews.go.com/GMA/teen-girls-hazed-slut-list/story?id=8649050&tqkw=&tqshow=GMA.

6.  “2009 AP-MTV Digital Abuse Study,” MTV’s A Thin Line Project, www.athinline.org/MTV-AP_Digital_Abuse_Study_Executive_Summary.pdf.

7.  Lynn M. Phillips, Flirting with Danger: Young Women’s Reflections on Sexuality and Domination (New York: New York University Press, 2000).

8.  Ariel Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture (New York: Free Press, 2005).

9.  Laura Sessions Stepp, Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love, and Lose at Both (New York: Riverhead Books, 2007).

10. To read the full Marie Claire interview, see Sarah Z. Wexler, “Confessions of a Sex Addict,” Marie Claire, April 2008, www.marieclaire.com/sex-love/relationship-issues/articles/sex-addict-confessions.

11. Find the Jezebel.com blog post I refer to at Moe Tkacik, “Is ‘Sex Addict’ Memoirist Kerry Cohen Even a Slut?” April 22, 2008, jezebel.com/382609/is-sex-addict-memoirist-kerry-cohen-even-actually-a-slut. The blog post is intact, but almost all the original comments were deleted. Why? Less than a month after the posting, Jezebel ran into problems because their readers and bloggers were often deeply cruel and nasty. You can read about that at Lauren Lipton, “Not on Our Blog You Won’t,” New York Times, May 4, 2008, www.nytimes.com/2008/05/04/fashion/04jezebel-1.html. It seemed to me that most of the blog posts and comments that were truly mean were ones about women who had achieved success—and this at a blog created for “smart” women.

12. Erica Jong, quoted in Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs, 76.

13. Phillips, Flirting with Danger, 52.

14. Kerry Cohen, Loose Girl: A Memoir of Promiscuity (New York: Hyperion, 2008). For those who are interested, I wrote about the work it took to find the meaning inside this scene in the essay Kerry Cohen, “Excavating a Moment’s Truth,” Brevity.com, January 2010, www.creativenonfiction.org/brevity/craft/craft_cohen1_10.htm.

15. Biddy Martin, “Feminism, Criticism, and Foucault,” in Feminism and Foucault: Reflections on Resistance, ed. Irene Diamond and Lee Quinby (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1988), 3–19.

Chapter 4

1.  James Jaccard, Patricia J. Dittus, and Vivian V. Gordon, “Parent-Adolescent Congruency in Reports of Adolescent Sexual Behavior and in Communications about Sexual Behavior,” Child Development 69, no. 1 (1998): 247–261.

2.  Robert W. Blum, “Mothers’ Influence on Teen Sex: Connections That Promote Postponing Sexual Intercourse,” Center for Adolescent Health and Development, University of Minnesota, 2002, www.allaboutkids.umn.edu/presskit/MonographMS.pdf.

3.  Liz Brody, “The O/Seventeen Sex Survey: Mothers and Daughters Talk about Sex,” O, The Oprah Magazine, April 14, 2009, www.oprah.com/relationships/The-Sex-Survey-Oprah-Magazine-Womens-Sex-Survey.

4.  P. Averett, “Parental Communications and Young Women’s Struggle for Sexual Agency,” Ph.D. diss., University of Virginia Polytechnic Institute, 2004; Virginal Blacksburg and Kimberlee S. Schear, “Factors That Contribute to, and Constrain, Conversations between Adolescent Females and Their Mothers about Sexual Matters,” Forum on Public Policy: A Journal of The Oxford Roundtable, September 22, 2006, 4751–4872.

5.  Aimee Lee Ball, “Everyone’s Doing What?” O, The Oprah Magazine, April 7, 2009, www.oprah.com/relationships/Teenage-Sex-Dr-Laura-Berman-on-How-to-Talk-to-Teenagers-About-Sex.

6.  D. Herbenick, M. Reece, V. Schick, S. A. Sanders, B. Dodge, and J. D. Fortenberry, “Sexual Behavior in the United States: Results from a National Probability Sample of Men and Women Ages 14-94,” Journal of Sexual Medicine, 2010, 7 (suppl. 5), 255–265.

7.  A. Das, “Masturbation in the United States,” Journal of Sex and Marital Therapy 33, no. 4 (2007): 301–317.

8.  Christine O’Donnell’s now-famous television interview is available at “Christine O’Donnell’s 90s Anti-Masturbation Campaign,” www.msnbc.com, September 14, 2010, www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzHcqcXo_NA.

9.  D. Rosenthal, S. Moore, and I. Flynn, “Adolescent Self-Efficacy, Self-Esteem, and Sexual Risk-Taking,” Journal of Community and Applied Social Psychology 1, no. 2 (June 1991): 77–88.

10. Judith Levine, Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Children from Sex (New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 2003), 160–161.

11. Lynn Ponton, The Sex Lives of Teenagers: Revealing the Secret World of Adolescent Boys and Girls (New York: Penguin Group, 2000).

12. Michael Reece, D. Herbenick, V. Schick, A. Sanders, B. Dodge, and J. D. Fortenberry, “Condom Use Rates in a National Probability Sample of Males and Females Ages 14 to 94 in the United States,” Journal of Sexual Medicine 7, suppl. 5 (2010): 266–276. Interestingly, black and Hispanic adolescents use condoms the most.

13. “Patterns of Condom Use Among Adolescents: The Impact of Mother-Adolescent Communication,” American Journal of Public Health, October 1, 1998, www.cdc.gov/std/general/Condom_Use_Among_Adolescents.htm, www.cdc.gov, June 8, 2009, retrieved April 2, 2011.

14. Peter R. Kilmann, Jennifer M. C. Vendemia, Michele M. Parnell, and Geoffrey C. Urbaniak, “Parent Characteristics Linked with Daughters’ Attachment Styles,” Adolescence 44, no. 175 (Autumn 2009): 557–568.

15. Episode 3.10, “The Giving Tree.” For the full transcript and a comparison with a sex talk that went nowhere on My So-Called Life, see S. Seltzer, “On Friday Night Lights, the TV Sex Talk Done Right,” RH Reality Check, March 27, 2009, www.rhrealitycheck.org/blog/2009/03/26/on-friday-nightlights-tv-sex-talk-done-right. Another excellent television sex talk was between father and son on Glee. For the video clip, see “Watch Kurt and His Dad Have a Gay Sex Talk on Glee,” retrieved April 2, 2011, vodpod.com/watch/5729957-watch-kurt-and-his-dad-have-a-gay-sex-talk-on-glee.

Chapter 5

1.  Travis Plum Lee, Family Ark Ministries, March 30, 2010, retrieved January 12, 2011, www.travisplumlee.com/news/?p=131.

2.  Andrew Chomik, “Her Daddy Issues,” Askmen.com, retrieved April 2, 2011, www.askmen.com/dating/curtsmith_300/366_her-daddy-issues.html.

3.  Trayce Hansen, “Love Isn’t Enough: 5 Reasons Why Same-Sex Marriage Will Harm Children,” Drtraycehansen.com, retrieved April 2, 2011, www.drtraycehansen.com/Pages/writings_samesex.html.

4.  Gabriella Kortsch, “Fatherless Women: What Happens to the Adult Woman Who Was Raised without Her Father?” Trans4Mind, retrieved April 2, 2011, www.trans4mind.com/counterpoint/kortsch4.shtml.

5.  Megan Fox also said, “We seek male attention to validate us and so no one can really be your friend because if she takes attention from you then your daddy doesn’t love you, ultimately.” See the full story at “Megan Fox: Girls Are Awful,” Showbiz Spy, September 17, 2009, www.showbizspy.com/article/191974/megan-fox-girls-are-awful.html.

6.  F. B. Krohn and Z. Bagan, “The Effects Absent Fathers Have on Female Development and College Attendance,” College Student Journal of Family 35, no. 4 (2001): 598–608.

7.  J. Deardorff, J. P. Ekwaru, L. H. Kushi, B. J. Ellis, L. C. Greenspan, A. Mirabedi, E. G. Landaverdi, and R. A. Hiatt, “Father Absence, Body Mass Index, and Pubertal Timing in Girls: Differential Effects by Family Income and Ethnicity,” Journal of Adolescent Health, published online September 20, 2010, jahonline.org/article/S1054-139X(10)00389-7/abstract.

8.  B. Bower, “Absent Dads Linked to Early Sex by Daughters,” Science News, 164 (July 19, 2003): 35–36.

9.  S. R. Jaffee, T. E. Moffitt, A. Caspi, and A. Taylor, “Life with (or without) Father: The Benefits of Living with Two Biological Parents Depend on the Father’s Antisocial Behavior,” Child Development 74, no. 1 (2003): 109–126.

10. The quotes I use can be found in the scenes captured here: Tracey Egan Morrissey, “Purity Balls: Protecting Girls from Making Choices,” Jezebel.com, January 4, 2010, jezebel.com/5440014/purity-balls-protecting-girls-from-making-choices.

Chapter 6

1.  J. I. Dolgan, “Depression in Children,” Pediatric Annals 19, no. 1 (1990): 45–50.

2.  Thomas J. Dishion, “Cross-Setting Consistency in Early Adolescent Psychopathology: Deviant Friendships and Problem Behavior Sequelae,” Journal of Personality 68, no. 6 (2000): 1109–1126.

3.  Anthony Biglan, C. W. Metzler, R. Wirt, D. Ary, J. Noell, L. Ochs, C. French, and D. Hood, “Social and Behavioral Factors Associated with High-Risk Sexual Behavior among Adolescents,” Journal of Behavioral Medicine 13, no. 3 (1990): 245–261.

4.  “Study Links Teen Drug and Alcohol Use with Promiscuity,” CNN.com, December 7, 1999, articles.cnn.com/1999-12-07/us/teens.drugs.sex_1_teens-alcohol-drugs?_s=PM:US.

5.  P. A. Cavazos-Rehg, E. L. Spitznagel, K. K. Bucholz, K. Norberg, W. Reich, I. Nurnberger Jr, V. Hesselbrock, J. Kramer, S. Kuperman, L. J. Bierut, “The Relationship between Alcohol Problems and Dependence, Conduct Problems and Diagnosis, and Number of Sex Partners in a Sample of Young Adults,” Alcoholism: Clinical and Experimental Research 31, no. 12 (2007): 2046–2052.

6.  Sophie Borland, “Legacy of the Ladette: Now Alarming Rise in Teenage Promiscuity and Abortions Is Linked to Women’s Binge Drinking,” Mail Online, August 21, 2010, www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1304833/The-Legacy-ladette-binge-drinking-women-linked-rise-casual-sex-abortionsprescriptions-morning-pill.html#ixzz18ItsxRCX.

7.  Sheila B. Blume, “Sexuality and Stigma: The Alcoholic Woman,” Alcohol Health and Research World 15, no. 2 (1991): 139–46. For a recent discussion of examples of blaming the victim regarding rape, see Elaine Grant, “A New Era in Handling Campus Rape,” New Hampshire Public Radio, April 4, 2011, retrieved April 5, 2011, www.nhpr.org/new-era-handling-campus-rape.

8.  It remains intensely difficult to untangle what really is standard or normal when the culture has determined for us already that no sex in any way is normal for a teen. Suddenly, the question of whether a behavior causes someone extreme distress—a typical psychologist’s question when determining whether behavior needs to be addressed—becomes doubtful: a girl may well feel tremendous shame about behavior that isn’t so horrible when that behavior is removed from cultural mores. We have to wonder whether the real trouble is the behavior or the labeling of the behavior as a problem.

9.  Craig Nakken, The Addictive Personality, 2nd ed. (Center City, MN: Hazelden Publishing, 1988).

10. Kelly McDaniel, Ready to Heal: Women Facing Love, Sex, and Relationship Addiction (Carefree, AZ: Gentle Path Press, 2008), For the leading experts’ words on love and sex addiction, see also Pia Mellody’s Facing Love Addiction: Giving Yourself the Power to Change the Way You Love (New York: HarperCollins, 1992) and Patrick Carnes’s Out of the Shadows: Understanding Sex Addiction (Center City, MN: Hazelden Publishing, 2001).

11. E. O. Paolucci, M. L. Genuis, and C. Violato, “A Meta-Analysis of the Published Research on the Effects of Child Sexual Abuse,” Journal of Psychology 135, no. 1 (2001): 17–36.

12. Heather Corinna, “Who’s Calling Who Compulsive? Calling Out a Common Rape Survivor Stereotype,” Scarleteen.com, June 6, 2010, www.scarleteen.com/blog/heather_corinna/2010/06/06/whos_calling_who_compulsive_calling_out_a_common_rape_survivor_stere.

13. Becky and Kathy Liddle, “More Than Good Intentions: How to Be an Ally to the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Community,” Auburn Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual Caucus, retrieved April 5, 2011, www.auburn.edu/aglbc/ally.htm.

Chapter 7

1.  “Facts on American Teens’ Sexual and Reproductive Health,” Guttmacher Institute, January 2011, www.guttmacher.org/pubs/FB-ATSRH.html.

2.  Laura M. Carpenter, Virginity Lost: An Intimate Portrait of First Sexual Experiences (New York: New York University Press, 2005).

3.  The Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation and Seventeen Magazine, “Virginity and the First Time: A Series of National Surveys of Teens about Sex,” Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation, October 2003, www.kff.org/entpartnerships/upload/Virginity-and-the-First-Time-Summary-of-Findings.pdf.

4.  Bill Albert, “National Campaign to Prevent Teen Pregnancy, ‘With One Voice 2007: America’s Adults and Teens Sound Off about Teen Pregnancy: A Periodic National Survey,’” The National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy, February 2007, www.thenationalcampaign.org/resources/pdf/pubs/WOV2007_fulltext.pdf.

5.  Judith Levine, Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Children from Sex (New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 2003), 160.

6.  Kaiser Family Foundation, T. Hoff, L. Greene, and J. Davis, “National Survey of Adolescence and Young Adults: Sexual Health Knowledge, Attitudes and Behaviors,” Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation, May 2003, www.kff.org/youthhivstds/upload/National-Survey-of-Adolescents-and-Young-Adults-Sexual-Health-Knowledge-Attitudes-and-Experiences-Summary-of-Findings.pdf.

7.  S. A. Vannier and L. F. O’Sullivan, “Sex without Desire: Characteristics of Occasions of Sexual Compliance in Young Adults’ Committed Relationships,” Journal of Sex Research 47, no. 5 (2010): 429–439.

8.  Latoya Peterson, “The Not-Rape Epidemic,” in Yes Means Yes! Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World without Rape, ed. Jaclyn Friedman and Jessica Valenti (Berkeley, CA: Seal Press, 2008), 209–219.

9.  Lee Jacob Riggs, “A Love Letter from an Anti-Rape Activist to Her Feminist Sex-Toy Store,” in Friedman and Valenti, Yes Means Yes!, 114.

10. Levine, Harmful to Minors, 89.

11. Jill Filipovic, “Offensive Feminism: The Conservative Gender Norms That Perpetuate Rape Culture, and How Feminists Can Fight Back,” in Friedman and Levine, Yes Means Yes!, 19.

12. Sexual Abuse Statistics, Teen Help.com, retrieved April 5, 2011, www.teenhelp.com/teen-abuse/sexual-abuse-stats.html.

13. T. Luster and S. A. Small, “Sexual Abuse History and Number of Sex Partners among Female Adolescents,” Family Planning Perspectives 29, no. 5 (1997): 204–211.

14. J. H. Beitchman, K. Zucker, J. Hood, G. DaCosta, and D. Akman, “A Review of the Long-Term Effects of Child Sexual Abuse,” Child Abuse and Neglect 16 (1992): 101–118.

Chapter 8

1.  National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy and Cosmogirl.com, “Sex and Tech, Results from a Survey of Teens and Young Adults,” National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy, retrieved April 5, 2011, www.thenationalcampaign.org/sextech/PDF/SexTech_Summary.pdf.

2.  “Home Computer Access and Internet Use,” Child Trends Databank,June2010, www.childtrendsdatabank.org/?q=node/298.

3.  For a list of sexting legislation for each state, see “2010 Legislation Related to ‘Sexting,’” National Conference of State Legislature, January 4, 2011, www.ncsl.org/default.aspx?tabid=19696.

4.  For more on Jesse Logan and the Today show interview with Parry Aftab, see Mike Celizic, “Her Teen Committed Suicide Over ‘Sexting,’” Today Parenting, March 6, 2009, today.msnbc.msn.com/id/29546030.

5.  For more on Hope Witsell’s story, see Michael Inbar, “’Sexting’ Bullying Cited in Teen’s Suicide,” Today People, December 2, 2009, today.msnbc.msn.com/id/34236377/ns/today-today_people/.

6.  Mike Brunker, “‘Sexting’ Surprise: Six Teens Face Child Porn Charges,” MSNBC.com, January 15, 2009, www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28679588/.

7.  Vicki Mabrey and David Perozzi, “‘Sexting’: Should Child Pornography Laws Apply?” ABCnews.com, April 1, 2010, abcnews.go.com/Nightline/phillip-alpert-sexting-teen-child-porn/story?id=10252790.

8.  Berkman Center for Internet and Society, “Enhancing Child Safety & Online Technologies,” Harvard University, December 31, 2008, cyber.law.harvard.edu/sites/cyber.law.harvard.edu/files/ISTTF_Final_Report-Executive_Summary.pdf.

9.  Riva Richmond, “Sexting May Place Teens at Legal Risk,” New York Times, March 26, 2009, gadgetwise.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/03/26/sexting-may-place-teens-at-legal-risk/.

10. Dawn Turner Trice, “Girls, Don’t Dumb Yourselves Down in Social Media,” Chicago Tribune, November 12, 2010, c.

11. Judith Levine, Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Children from Sex (New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 2003), 149.

12. Facebook Horror Stories, True Facebook Stories, retrieved April 5, 2011, www.facebook-horror-stories.com/.

13. Russell Goldman, “Facebook Status ‘Engaged,’ but Cops Call It Statutory Rape,” ABCnews.com, September 14, 2010, abcnews.go.com/Technology/facebook-status-read-engaged-copscall-statutory-rape/story?id=11626836&tqkw=&tqshow=.

14. Tamar Lewin, “Teenagers’ Internet Socializing Not a Bad Thing,” New York Times, November 19, 2008, www.nytimes.com/2008/11/20/us/20internet.html?_r=1.

15. P. M. Valkenburg and J. Peter, “Social Consequences of the Internet for Adolescents: A Decade of Research,” Current Directions in Psychological Science 18, no. 1 (2009): 1–5.

Chapter 9

1.  Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider, The Rules (New York: Grand Central Publishing, 1995).

2.  “Infidelity Statistics,” Menstuff, retrieved April 5, 2011, www.menstuff.org/issues/byissue/infidelitystats.html.

Chapter 10

1.  James O. Prochaska, John C. Norcross, and Carlo C. DiClemente, Changing for Good: A Revolutionary Six-Stage Program for Overcoming Bad Habits and Moving Your Life Positively Forward (New York: Avon Books, 1994).

2.  Most chapters of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous won’t accommodate teenagers, which I find disturbing. Although they are difficult to find, there are a few teen programs scattered throughout the nation, such as in New York and Portland, Oregon.

Chapter 11

1.  M. M. Bersamin, S. Walker, E. D. Waiters, D. A. Fisher, and J. W. Grube, “Promising to Wait: Virginity Pledges and Adolescent Sexual Behavior,” Journal of Adolescent Health 36, no. 5 (2005): 428–436.

2.  Jocelyn M. Elders, foreword to Levine, Harmful to Minors, ix.

3.  Patricia Donovan, “Falling Teen Pregnancy, Birthrates: What’s Behind the Declines?” The Guttmacher Report on Public Policy, vol. 1, October 1998; Steven Reinberg, “U.S. Teen Birth Rate Hit Record Low in 2009: CDC,” December 21, 2009, health.msn.com/health-topics/sexual-health/birth-control/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100268351.

4.  Levine, Harmful to Minors, 94.

5.  “Not Just Another Thing to Do: Teens Talk about Sex, Regret, and the Influence of Their Parents,” The National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy, June 30, 2000, www.thenationalcampaign.org/resources/pdf/pubs/NotJust_FINAL.pdf.

6.  A. Y. Akers, C. P. Lynch, M. A. Gold, J. C. Chang, W. Doswell, H. C. Wiesenfeld, W. Feng, and J. Bost, “Exploring the Relationship among Weight, Race, and Sexual Behaviors among Girls,” Pediatrics 124 (2009): 913–920.

7.  Joan Jacobs Brumberg, Introduction, Lauren Greenfield, Girl Culture (San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2002).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PHOTO BY HEATHER HAWKSFORD

KERRY COHEN is the author of Loose Girl: A Memoir of Promiscuity; the forthcoming memoir Seeing Ezra, about parenting her autistic son; as well as three young-adult novels, Easy, The Good Girl, and It’s Not You, It’s Me. Her work has been featured in the New York Times and the Washington Post, as well as in numerous anthologies and journals. She has appeared on Dr. Phil, Saturday Live on the BBC, and morning news shows to speak about the loose-girl issue, and she was featured on the WE Network’s documentary series The Secret Lives of Women, about sex addiction. She is a practicing psychotherapist and writing teacher, and she lives with her family in Portland, Oregon. For more details, visit www.kerry-cohen.com.

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Dirty Little Secrets – Read Now and Download Mobi

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Everyone has a secret. But Lucy’s is bigger and dirtier than most. It’s one she’s been hiding for years?that her mom’s out-of-control hoarding has turned their lives into a world of garbage and shame. She’s managed to keep her home life hidden from her best friend and her crush, knowing they’d be disgusted by the truth. So, when her mom dies suddenly in their home, Lucy hesitates to call 911 because revealing their way of life would make her future unbearable?and she begins her two-day plan to set her life right.

With details that are as fascinating as they are disturbing, C. J. Omololu weaves an hour-by-hour account of Lucy’s desperate attempt at normalcy. Her fear and isolation are palpable as readers are pulled down a path from which there is no return, and the impact of hoarding on one teen’s life will have readers completely hooked.

About the Author

C. J. OMOLOLU is the author of Dirty Little Secrets, her first novel. She lives in Northern California, with her husband and two sons.

www.cynjay.blogspot.com

www.cjomololu.com

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C. J. Omololu

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Copyright © 2010 by C. J. Omololu All rights reserved.

Language
en

Published
2010-02-02

ISBN
080278660X

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dirty little secrets

c. j. omololu

For Bayo, who always knew

Table of Contents

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

acknowledgments

chapter 1

before

Everyone has secrets. Some are just bigger and dirtier than others.

At least that’s what I told myself whenever I stood in a crowd of normal-looking people and felt like I was the only one. The only person on the planet who had to hide practically everything that was real. It was soothing to look at all the unfamiliar faces and try to figure out the thing each person hid inside—true or not, it made me feel like less of a freak.

I’ll bet that guy in the red hoodie picks his nose when he thinks nobody is looking. And the kid with the baseball cap pulled too low over his eyes? Totally stoned on the pain pills he steals from his mother. See how that girl in the corner stands just a little apart from everyone else? Her dad probably smacks her around when he’s had too much to drink. Mom never laid a hand on me. There was that, anyway.

Despite the press of bodies, it was nice to know I could stand in the middle of a swirling mass of people and nobody would really see me. Nobody would know what my life was like, and nobody would ask me questions that were impossible to answer. I loved the glazed, faraway look people got as they glanced at you with a smile that faded as they quickly realized they didn’t know you—their eyes scanned your face and, without a flicker of recognition, moved on to the next person. You were a factor in their life for a nanosecond and then you were gone.

Which is why being friends with Kaylie this year had been so stressful. With her, the nanosecond in art class had extended into months of hanging out, and there was always that nagging worry in the back of my head that it would turn out just like it had before. I always tried to be careful—watching what I said and what she knew, but sometimes it got exhausting. It was nice having a friend, though, nicer than I’d ever imagined, and that made it worth the effort.

As my eyes traveled over the people in the lobby, I couldn’t help glancing in Josh’s direction. Whether we were in the school hallway teeming with bodies or in a crowded movie theater lobby, my eyes went straight to him. Not that he had a clue or probably even remembered my name, but the last thing I wanted was for him to catch me staring. Which I wasn’t. Much.

“Lucy, what do you want to see?” Kaylie was standing beside me, squinting up at the movie listings. She said that sticking her finger in her eye to put in contacts was gross and glasses made her look like a mathlete, so for now, she just wandered through life squinting at things. “The new one with Johnny Depp isn’t out until next week, so it’s either a chick flick with an unrealistically happy ending or an action/adventure with cute guys constantly in danger.”

“You choose,” I said, not wanting to make the wrong decision and pick a movie she really wouldn’t like. It was great that I’d finally found someone who shared my deep Johnny Depp love. Kaylie even had the complete set of 21 Jump Street DVDs, and we’d spent hours at her house devouring every episode—well, at least through season four when he left the show. Jump Street without Johnny was pointless. I fished around in my bag for my wallet. “I’ve got this one.”

“Are you sure? I have money . . .”

“I’m sure,” I said. “Dad sent me a fat check for Christmas. Technically, he’s taking us to the movies.” It wasn’t like I was trying to buy Kaylie’s friendship. At least I didn’t mean it that way. It was just that sometimes I felt a little guilty. With everything I had to hide, the least I could do was pay for a movie now and then.

“Thanks,” she said, putting her money back in her purse. “It’s so cool he sends you cash. It would almost be worth having divorced parents if I could get paid regularly.”

I grinned. “Not regularly, just sometimes when he’s feeling particularly guilty. Like Christmas. Sort of his way of saying, “Thanks for NOT coming.”

“What do you mean not coming—don’t you ever visit him?”

I made a sound that might qualify as a snort if it was any louder. “Not if I can help it. His new wife, Tiffany, likes to think Dad never even dated before she came along, forget about the whole married-with-kids thing. She’s only twenty-nine or something, and now that they have the baby, it’s better that I don’t exist in their reality.”

“Ugh,” Kaylie said. “She’s twenty-nine? Isn’t your sister that old?”

“Almost,” I said. “Sara’s going to be twenty-six in a couple of months.”

“That,” Kaylie said, making a face, “is gross. It’s like he’s doing his own daughter.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, smiling a little. It was nice to hear this stuff out loud and know it wasn’t just me. “These days, he’s nothing more than a sperm donor as far as I’m concerned.”

“So that’s why you hardly mention him?” She looked at me like she was waiting for more.

I scrambled for a good answer—it was stupid to have brought any of this up. Dad left when I was five, and he rarely looked back, so I tried not to care. Lately, all I saw of him was his pointy signature at the bottom of the checks I got every now and then, but talking about it always led to more questions, and you could never be too careful where the truth was involved. I tried to act casual, like I was concentrating on something on the opposite wall. “It’s really no big deal,” I said with a laugh that sounded fake even to me. “People get divorced all the time.”

Kaylie shrugged. “Sometimes I bet my parents would like to pay me not to show up. That way they wouldn’t have to stress over my grades all the time.”

I relaxed into the safety of talking about something other than me. “No way. Your parents are totally cool. They just care if you get into a good school, is all.” Her mom was like something out of one of those Nick at Nite sitcoms—their house was always so nice, and she didn’t seem to mind that my sleeping bag was a permanent fixture on Kaylie’s floor. I promised myself tonight was the last night I would stay over there for the rest of winter break. Hang out too long and people get tired of you.

Kaylie squinted up at the board again. “So, chick flick?”

“Sounds good.” I gave the ticket info to the guy behind the little round window and handed him the cash.

Kaylie’s little brother ran up and poked her in the shoulder. “I need five bucks.”

“Mom gave you money, Daemon.”

“That was for the movies,” he said. “I need money for video games with the guys.”

I took the tickets and my change from the cashier and stepped away from the window.

“Well, now you have a choice,” Kaylie said. “You can either go to the movies like you’re supposed to, or you can blow the money on loser video games and sit here for two hours until we’re done.”

Daemon frowned and looked back at the group of seventh-grade boys. I remembered how much it sucked to be the youngest and have to beg for everything. Sara and Phil were so much older than me that I always felt like I had extra parents instead of siblings. They were always talking about how they weren’t given half as much stuff when they were kids and how Mom spoiled me just because I was the baby. Ever since they moved out, they seemed to have totally forgotten what it was like living there. “Here,” I said, handing Daemon a couple of singles.

“Thanks,” he yelled back as he raced toward his friends.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Kaylie said, glaring at him. “He’s such a leech.”

I shrugged, trying to play it off. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I wasn’t on her side. “I’m loaded, remember?”

We still had fifteen minutes until the movie started, so I tried to decide if I wanted to blow more money on an industrialsized box of Milk Duds. They were such a rip-off here, but what was a movie without gobs of melted chocolate and caramel stuck to the roof of your mouth? Kaylie stood on her tiptoes beside me, looking for people she knew. She nudged me with her elbow. “He’s totally staring at you.”

“Who?” I asked, looking around. Somebody staring was generally not a good sign. Even worse if they were pointing.

She glanced over my shoulder and then back to me. “Like you don’t know who. Josh Lee who. In the popcorn line.”

As if I didn’t already know where he was standing, or that he was wearing the blue jacket with the koi design he got at the beginning of the year. As if I didn’t secretly watch him at lunch on the quad or practically lose my powers of speech every time our hands touched passing papers in physics.

“Right. I’m sure he’s staring at you, not me.” I pushed my hair out of my face and tried to look casually around. Kaylie was the one guys always stared at—tiny and cute, she could have been a cheerleader if she wanted to. Why she picked me to be her friend was still a mystery, but hanging out with her made my life seem almost normal.

She also never let a little thing like subtlety bother her. “Ooh, he’s with Steve Romero! We should totally go over there and talk to them.” She was a foot shorter than me but freakishly strong, pulling me in that direction before I could think up a good excuse not to go.

“No, Kaylie. Wait . . . ,” I tried, but we were already there.

“Hey, Steve, hey, Josh,” she said effortlessly. “What are you guys going to see?”

“That new Will Smith movie,” Steve said, peering over the heads in front of him. “If this line ever gets moving.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, sounding surprised. “We are too.” She bumped me with her hip and I managed a weak smile. I knew the smartest move I could make right then was to stand there and shut up.

“Hey,” Josh said to me. He didn’t look too annoyed and was even smiling a little.

“Hi,” I managed, glancing up at those deep brown eyes. He had a certain Johnny Depp-ness that made my heart race and my cheeks burn. Somebody somewhere in his family must have been Asian—he had the deepest almond-shaped brown eyes. I was afraid to look at them too long in case they swallowed me up.

Josh had been in my eighth-grade English class when I’d first transferred in from Catholic school three years ago. He’d sat right in front of me, and I spent the entire semester staring at the back of his head, fighting with myself not to reach out and run my hand over the short, bristly hairs where they faded into his neck. He always smelled like soap and laundry detergent, and I leaned forward on my desk as often as I could to get a whiff of the light, clean scent. No matter how hard I tried, I could never smell like that.

“Poetry,” Mr. Manillo had written on the board that first week. I groaned inside. I liked English well enough, but I absolutely hated poetry. Poets never said what they really meant, and your job was to spend hours trying to figure it out. In the end it usually wasn’t worth the effort.

Mr. Manillo turned to face us as he spoke about the mysteries of poetry. His eyes locked on mine and I quickly glanced down at my desk.

Too late. “Ms. Tompkins,” he said. “You must have a favorite poet. I’m sure they gave you a good poetry foundation over at St. Ignatius.”

Like most of the other teachers in this place, he either thought too highly of a Catholic school education, or he was making fun of me. I was never sure which it was.

“I don’t . . . ,” I started to say, but then noticed every eye in the room was on me. I knew my face was bright red and could feel droplets of sweat trickling down my back. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, cleared my throat, and recited the only poem I had ever memorized.

Judging from the silence in the classroom, maybe a poem from third grade wasn’t the best choice. Mr. Manillo cleared his throat. “That was, ah, interesting,” he said. “And that piece was by . . .”

“Shel Silverstein,” I said quickly. “A Light in the Attic.”

The whole class started laughing. And I knew right away they weren’t laughing with me. I could hear other kids talking behind me. I glanced toward the open door, wishing the bell would ring so I could run out and be anonymous in the crowd. Instead, I stayed glued to my seat, staring straight ahead, my head pounding with embarrassment.

Mr. Manillo held up his hand. “People, please.” He looked right through me. “This semester, we are studying the great masters of the seventeenth century and comparing the different forms of poetry. I’m afraid Mr. Silverstein is not on the syllabus.”

The laughing started to subside as he called on Josh. “Mr. Lee, do you have a better example of a popular poetry form?”

I was glad Josh was sitting in front of me so that I couldn’t see the look of disgust that was probably on his face. At least he hadn’t turned around to laugh directly at me. He cleared his throat and began to recite his poem in a clear, deep voice.

My pulse was pounding in my ears so loudly that at first I didn’t listen, but then I began to hear people giggling all around the room and I started to pay attention. By the time he was done with “Jimmy Jet and His TV Set,” I had the smallest but deepest grin on my face.

Mr. Manillo just stood in the front of the class with his arms crossed over his chest. “Is that meant to be amusing?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Manillo, but Shel Silverstein rocks.”

I didn’t know why he’d done it, but he managed to get everyone to laugh with him and come off even cooler. He probably just felt bad for the new girl who didn’t have a clue. If it were a movie, we’d have gotten together after class and discussed how much we had in common besides Shel Silverstein, and been bonded together from that very moment. Since this was only my real life, I just murmured “thanks” as I raced out of the room to change classes at the end of the period.

Josh was not just smart and gorgeous and apparently a Shel Silverstein fan, but he played guitar in a band called The Missing Peace and even wrote some of their songs. He’d also been one-half of the Cara-and-Josh super-couple since freshman year. At least until she got drunk and made out with someone else at that Halloween party a few months ago.

So now Josh was single and smiling at me, and I was standing right in front of him like a complete idiot with absolutely nothing to say. We stood in an uncomfortable silence, staring at the snack bar menu board, as Kaylie inched imperceptibly closer to Steve so she could put her hand on his arm for emphasis as she spoke. She made it look so easy.

“Maybe we should leave them alone,” Josh joked, nodding at Steve and Kaylie, whose heads were now bent deep in conversation.

“Yeah,” I said, mentally beating myself up for such a lame answer. I turned phrases over in my head, trying to come up with something casual and clever. So what’s your favorite Shel Silverstein poem these days? Right. He’d never remember something that happened so long ago. Where’s the band playing next? Too groupie slut. Did you know our children would be gorgeous?

I felt a hard tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me?” a girl’s voice demanded.

I turned to see Justine Hildebrandt, Cara’s best friend, standing with her hands on her hips. “The end of the line is back there, in case you didn’t know.”

“Oh, we weren’t—,” I started to say, but Justine cut me off, indignation flashing in her eyes. She glanced at Josh with a lot more anger than the situation called for, but continued to talk to me. All of a sudden, I had a pretty good idea what her secret was.

“Right. We saw you two cut in front of us,” she said. “Don’t think we didn’t.” A group of JV cheerleaders stood with her, nodding their heads in unison. At least Cara Lassen and her perfect highlights were nowhere in sight.

“No, really,” I managed. “Kaylie just wanted to say hi.” I reached out to grab Kaylie’s arm, but she was so blissed out talking to Steve she didn’t even notice we were about to be ambushed by the entire Gompers High School cheerleading squad.

“Ease up, Justine,” Josh said to her. “I’ve been saving Lucy’s place.” He smiled at me. “What took you so long?”

“Um,” I squeaked, startled by the fact that he’d actually said my name out loud.

Josh reached over and put his arm around my shoulders, and it was everything I could do not to gasp. Nobody had touched me for such a long time that just a little bit of contact made my knees wobbly. I tried to savor the weight of his arm on the back of my neck, the faint, warm, clean smell making me want to turn and bury my face in his collar. My heart was beating so fast I was sure he would notice the jolt of energy that ran up my spine. I should have stopped time then—framed this one perfect moment so I could go back and look at it again and again. His shiny brown hair flopped in his eyes as he gave me a barely perceptible wink.

Justine leaned back and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You’re here with her?” I didn’t blame her for not believing him. I could hardly believe I was standing in front of a bunch of cheerleaders with Josh Lee’s arm casually draped around my shoulders.

Josh pulled me closer to him, and I could feel the heat from his body and the muscles in his arm as he flexed. “Of course,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. I knew it was all a joke—he was only doing it so Justine would turn around and tell Cara. Josh probably wanted to get back together with her, and sparking some jealousy was always a good choice. Still, if I was being used, I can’t say I minded all that much.

“What can I get you?” the old guy behind the counter asked as we reached the front of the line. Josh dropped his arm and my shoulders felt neglected and cold immediately.

“One jumbo popcorn,” he said, turning his back on Justine and the other girls. “You don’t mind sharing, do you?” he asked, bumping my arm. I smiled and shook my head, prepared to go along with the joke as long as he wanted. Not only did I get to pretend to be with Josh, but I got to piss off Justine Hildebrandt, and that was never a bad thing. As we walked toward the theater, I couldn’t help but glance back at Justine and feel a secret thrill at the scowl on her face as Josh pretended to be interested in walking with me.

I didn’t even really like popcorn, but I ate it through the whole movie because our fingers brushed as we reached into the bucket at the same time. I was glad the movie was blaring so I didn’t have to think of anything interesting to say and could just pretend we were on an actual date instead of playing some game that would end as soon as the lights came on.

Steve and Kaylie weren’t exactly holding hands as they walked out of the theater, but their shoulders kept brushing as they bumped into each other. Cozy, for sure. I was walking behind them as slowly as I could to make the moment last as long as possible. Pretty soon, we’d reach the big glass front doors, and that’s where it would stop. Without Justine around, Josh wouldn’t have to pretend anymore, and I’d be just me, stuck watching him safely from a distance once again. We’d almost crossed the lobby in complete silence when Josh stopped and turned to me. “Listen, I play guitar in a band with a bunch of other guys. We’re not too bad—mostly covers, but I write some songs too.”

He said this like I knew nothing about him. Like I didn’t lie in bed in the dark some nights and picture him saying something just like that. I held my breath, hardly believing it was really happening, partly hoping it wasn’t. It was the perfect guy saying the perfect thing at the perfectly wrong time. “Anyway,” he continued, “we’re playing at a party tomorrow night down on Marina. If you’re not doing anything, you want to come by?”

Maybe it was the bright lights of the lobby after being in the dark theater, but the whole place seemed to start throbbing. “That would be cool,” I managed. I had to look down at the ground in order to actually say what had to come next. “But I, uh, don’t think I can make it.” Every fiber of my being was screaming “yes,” but I knew I couldn’t go. Pretending I was on a date with Josh Lee was one thing. Meeting him somewhere on purpose was another. Getting close to someone like him would just be way too risky.

He actually looked a little bummed, which made my heart skip. Either he was a better actor than I thought or this wasn’t completely a joke. “Got a date with someone else?” he asked, watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“Ha! No,” I said a little too quickly. “I mean, no. But . . .” God, I’d wished for this moment to happen since I first laid eyes on him, and now that he was asking me out, I was racking my brain for a good reason why I couldn’t go.

He must have seen my indecision. “We play pretty early if you have to be home.” He reached out with his pinky and curled it around mine, playful but secure. I stared at the spot where we touched, hardly able to believe any of this was real.

I looked into those big brown eyes, and against everything I knew I should do, I heard myself say, “Okay. I . . . I think I can make it.” It was going to be fine, I reasoned. Dating Josh Lee for real would be impossible. Hanging out one single night might be doable.

Josh grinned and squeezed my hand for the briefest second. “I can pick you up if you want.”

And there it was already. My whole body stiffened at the thought. I had to keep him away from the house no matter what. “Oh, no. That’s okay.” I tried to sound as casual as possible. “I’ll come with Kaylie. I’ll probably stay over at her house, anyway.” So much for no more sleepovers. I was sure Steve would be at the party too, which meant she’d be into it.

“Easier to tell your mom you’re at Kaylie’s than you’re out at a party?”

I swallowed hard. “Something like that. She’s, um, really religious and doesn’t let me go out much.”

Josh nodded like he understood. “Must be rough.”

“Yeah. Sometimes it is.” I nodded slowly and looked down at the floor so I couldn’t see his face.

That was the trouble with secrets—the lies you had to tell to keep them hidden almost made you feel worse than telling the truth.

Almost.

chapter 2

9:00 a.m.

After spending all night at Kaylie’s going over every detail, I stood at the bottom of our cracked cement walkway the next morning, the ache in my stomach starting the minute I saw Mom’s car in the driveway. She must have switched schedules with someone at work again. Just when I’d counted on her to be gone.

I really wanted to be alone to think about the party tonight—get it sorted in my head so I wouldn’t make any big mistakes, but if Mom was home, the hassling would start the minute I hit the front door. Kaylie was excited about the whole Steve and Josh double-dating angle and was going to spend the day figuring out what we were going to wear. It was hard not to get caught up in the excitement. Josh had asked me to come to a party. Me. To a party. Where his band was playing. Unbelievable.

Kaylie’s mom didn’t have to be to work until late, so she’d given me a ride home on the way. Like always, I waited until she had driven around the corner and was safely out of sight before I headed for the front door. Our little gray and white house really didn’t look that bad from out here. If you were paying attention, you could spot the black mold gathering along the edges of the living room windows and the way the curtains were pressed against the glass by stacks of boxes. Those were just small hints about what was really behind the shingled walls, but nobody on the outside ever noticed.

I kicked at the tufts of grass as I slowly made my way toward the porch. Even though Mom had to park the car in the driveway because of all the junk that filled the garage, from out here the house looked pretty normal.

All of our secrets started at the front door.

The TV was on too loud, as always, mercifully covering any noise I made as I came in. Standing on my tiptoes, I peeked into the living room over the tops of the newspaper piles and bags of junk that flooded every inch of open space in the house. Mom wasn’t in her usual spot in the vomit-green recliner, and the lady on television was trying to sell genuine synthetic sapphires to nobody. I let myself relax a little—maybe I could make it to the safety of my room without another confrontation.

Hurrying past the kitchen and down the hall, I glanced around the narrow pathways we’d carved in the piles of newspapers and garbage over the years. It had gotten easier to get around since I’d grown tall enough to see over the top of a lot of it. Mom was only about five-foot six and she didn’t stack things higher than she could reach. When I was smaller, I used to pretend I was walking at the bottom of the Grand Canyon with the cliffs rising over my head, only instead of a steel blue sky with puffy white clouds, there was a cracked plaster ceiling and a burned-out lightbulb.

At the bend in the hallway, a tall pile of National Geographics had fallen over and blocked the narrow pathway that led to her room. That’s really going to make her mad, I thought as I turned and walked toward my room. Mom didn’t go into her room much anymore, but I wondered why she hadn’t straightened up the pile right away. Even with all this stuff crammed into the house, having things out of place made her even crazier. Especially if she thought I’d had something to do with it.

That’s what last night’s argument had been about. As usual.

I’d been throwing clothes in my backpack to go to Kaylie’s when I heard her shouting from the living room, “Lucy!”

I pretended not to hear her until she called for a third time, then I pushed my door open and yelled down the hall, “What?”

She squeezed past the piles of newspapers and overflowing plastic bags in the hallway until she could see me. Her red hair showed an inch of gray at the roots, and wiry strands of it were hanging in front of her face. She put her hands on her hips, and I watched her ropy veins wiggle and move underneath her chapped, red skin. “What did you do with them?”

I shut my eyes and slowly opened them again. Here we go. “With what?” I asked, keeping my voice as even as possible. Any hint of sarcasm would send her over the edge, and I really, really wanted to go out tonight.

“You know what. My good scissors. The ones with the black handles.”

“I haven’t seen your scissors, Mom,” I said, allowing just a hint of a sigh to creep into my voice as I tried to duck back into my room.

“Lucy Tompkins! You never put anything back where you found it. I need those scissors and I can’t find them anywhere.” She leaned forward and tried to peer over my shoulder and into my room. I quickly stepped into the hallway and tried to block her view, although I knew she’d be in there looking through my stuff within seconds of my leaving.

Her eyes began to fill with tears. “I need them right now. There’s an article on dog training I wanted to clip for your sister, and I always keep my good scissors on the table right next to the chair. Now they’re missing and I know you took them.”

In a voice you’d usually use on a three-year-old I said, “Honestly, I didn’t do anything with them.” For once, this was the truth. I hadn’t touched her stupid scissors. “Kaylie’s coming to pick me up in a couple of minutes, so I have to finish here.”

The tears were starting to spill over her eyelids and run unchecked down her cheeks. “After sixteen years, this is what I get? No help at all? You’re just going to run off with your friends and leave me here alone? Can’t you spare two minutes to help me look?”

I backed into my room and left her standing in the hallway looking old and defeated. God, I couldn’t wait to get out of here and get my own place. I’d live all by myself and not answer to anybody. Less than two years—I just had to keep telling myself, less than two years and I could leave this all behind like Phil and Sara had.

I finished packing, but a lump of guilt settled into my chest. I listened to her shuffling around in the living room until I couldn’t stand it anymore. In a few minutes, I’d be out of here, hanging out with Kaylie at the movies, but I knew she’d spend the next twelve hours sitting on the recliner watching TV by herself, which despite everything made me feel kind of bad.

Lifting my backpack onto my shoulders, I checked the time. Kaylie wouldn’t be here for a few more minutes, and it would make Mom happy if I at least made an effort. It’s not like I had a prayer of finding her stupid scissors in the avalanche of garbage, but I could fake it. At some point, I’d just started to go along with her and pretended everything was normal and this was the way everyone lived. It was easier that way.

I squeezed through the hallway and spotted Mom sorting through a stack of pictures in the living room. “Did you find them?” I asked hopefully.

She looked up from the pictures like she’d forgotten I was in the house. A frown settled on her face as she refocused her anger on me. “How could I find them when I have no idea what you did with them?”

I looked around the room, trying to concentrate on all the horizontal surfaces where a pair of scissors could be set down and never seen again, like some crazy picture from one of those I Spy books. I inched my way over to the recliner. “I think I might have put them back over here,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. I picked up a plastic bag from the drugstore and looked inside.

Mom leaned over and snatched the bag from my hands. “Don’t touch that,” she said. “I need those things for work.”

It always came down to trying to find the right answer in a game where I didn’t know any of the rules. If I didn’t help look for the thing I supposedly lost, she’d be mad. If I touched any of her stuff, she’d be mad. It was just a question of what was going to make her less mad at any given moment. The exhaustion I always felt in these situations began creeping into my bones. “Okay,” I said in my most patient voice. “I’m going to retrace my steps back to the dining room.”

As I tried to turn in the narrow pathway, my backpack clipped the corner of a box that was stacked on top of some newspapers. It wobbled and started to fall, but I caught it in time and eased it back.

“Watch out!” Mom yelled. “I swear, you are such a klutz! Can’t you even walk through a room without sending half the contents to the floor?”

No matter how many times she said stuff like that, it still settled heavily onto my chest. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands, hoping the pain would distract me from crying. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

Mom shook her head and sighed, as if the world’s problems had been placed on her shoulders. “That’s the best you can do? Always knocking everything over, losing my things. You never lift a finger—”

She was just warming up when Kaylie’s signature two short beeps followed by one long beep sounded out front. It was like the cavalry had come to rescue me from hell.

“I have to go,” I said. I pulled my backpack tight against my shoulders and inched carefully along the path toward the front door. The relief I always felt when I stepped out of the house was like plunging into a cold pool on a hundred-degree day.

“I hope you have a lovely time,” Mom said, turning back to the pile of photos, the saga of the lost scissors temporarily forgotten. I said nothing, but shut the door just a little more forcefully than was necessary as I left, hopefully dislodging a pile or two to give her something to do for the night.

Now, as I stood in front of my bedroom door the next morning, I wondered if she’d ever found those stupid scissors. I pushed it open and stepped inside, leaving the rest of the house behind me. Compared to everywhere else in this place, my room was like paradise, with surfaces that weren’t covered with bags of useless garbage, and with a bed you could actually sleep in.

The first time I’d really cleaned my room a couple of years ago, she’d totally freaked. I’d been babysitting at the Callans’ when I got the idea to clean my room. I wanted my bedroom to look the same as the ones their kids had—carpet on the floor you could see and a desk you could reach without having to wade through drifts of crap. A room that could be dusted on occasion because there wasn’t so much clutter, with a bed that didn’t have to be cleared to be slept in. It’s not like anyone else would see it, but still it would be nice. I’d started one morning when Mom was at work, and by the time she got home you could really see the difference. Despite my better judgment, I thought she might be happy about it, might be glad that for once I’d done some work around here. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The whole neighborhood could hear her ranting out by the garbage cans as she dug through them for the dirty stuffed animals, clothes that were too small, games with missing pieces, and everything else I had thrown out. I got the usual lecture about starving people in Africa who didn’t have anything nice at all as she marched the garbage bags back into my room. Not that I could ever figure out what a starving African child would do with a one-eyed Care Bear. After she’d fallen asleep in the recliner, I’d taken the bags back out of my room and shoved them deep into the dining room where they quickly got absorbed into the mess and disappeared. From then on, I cleaned my room by relocating the junk to other parts of the house.

Soon after that first time, she made Phil take my door off the hinges and put it in the garage so she could keep an eye on me. At least that’s what she said. Phil never said anything, but I could tell he felt bad about it. He was a senior in high school by then and did whatever it took to get by—just marking time until he could move out and be on his own like Sara had done years before.

You’d think a person would get used to being completely exposed, but I never did. I always slept facing the wall, but it still felt like someone was watching me. It took almost a year of careful negotiation to get the door put back on, minus the lock and doorknob so it didn’t actually close all the way, but I wasn’t about to complain. Apparently, nobody as sneaky and selfish as me deserved any privacy—you never knew what I might get up to in here if I had an actual door that locked. I might go crazy and vacuum the carpet or, worse, wash the windows. Anytime I cleaned something, she took it as a personal attack, like I was saying she wasn’t good enough to do it herself. Which, in reality, she wasn’t.

I reached into my jacket pocket for the ticket stub from the movies last night and smiled to myself. Smoothing over the corner that had gotten bent, I could almost feel the weight of Josh’s arm around my shoulders. I put the stub carefully in my vintage Partridge Family lunchbox. A calm feeling came over me as I sifted through the tickets I kept there—movies, the baseball game with Dad when I went out to see him that one summer, Disney on Ice when I was seven, and the circus from before Mom decided it was cruelty toward animals and we stopped going.

My room was freezing, so I reached down and clicked on the ancient space heater. One hard smack to the side got it running again, the orange glow from the coil inside making me feel warmer even before the heat actually kicked in.

I wasn’t sure when the furnace had broken completely, but it hadn’t worked right since last year. I’d have to call Phil and have him come try to fix it again. He hated having to come home from college to deal with the house, but we didn’t really have a choice. The last repairman didn’t get past the front hallway before realizing the place was too full of crap to even get near the hot water heater. He threatened to report Mom to Child Protective Services if she didn’t clean it up. He must not have, because CPS never showed up. Neither did another repairman. Mom said a lot of people in the old days had no hot water or indoor heat, and it didn’t hurt them any.

Because she had an early dentist appointment, I hadn’t had time to take a shower at Kaylie’s this morning. I took inventory in my bathroom mirror to see how bad things were getting. Cutting my hair short had been a great idea, because it made showerless days not as noticeable. I could probably hit the gym for a shower later today so I’d look as good as possible for tonight—the mere thought of Josh sent an electric thrill through my entire body. Maybe I’d even manage to get a workout in this time, and justify Dad paying for the membership. Although from the looks of my hamper, a trip to the laundromat this afternoon was probably more important.

I was heating up some water in my microwave to wash my face when the doorbell rang. I froze like we always did, hoping whoever was out there wouldn’t hear anyone moving around inside. The doorbell rang again a few seconds later, and I could hear distant knocking. Unless she knew who it was, Mom wouldn’t get it, either, so we’d both just wait until they got tired and went away. Except whoever it was wasn’t going away. After it rang insistently a third time, I quietly opened my door and tiptoed down the hall.

There was a spot in the dining room where you could look out the window without anyone seeing. Just as I reached it, I heard a car pull away from the front of the house and exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Having someone at the front door always tied my stomach up in knots.

As I walked back to my room, I wondered why Mom didn’t open her door even a crack. Usually she at least listened to see if she could figure out who it was. She must be sick or something if she didn’t bother to come out at all. Her room was so full of stuff that she hardly ever slept in there anymore, but she occasionally shoved everything off the bed if she really needed to use it.

Feeling like I should at least make sure she was okay, I headed toward her room. The National Geographics blocked a good six feet of the hallway, and I’d slowly started to pick my way over the mountain of fallen magazines when I saw it. One of Mom’s slippers sticking out from under the pile.

“Mom?” I bent down and threw some of the magazines off until I had uncovered her leg. I shook it. “Mom?” It didn’t jiggle like it normally would; it just felt solid and heavy. “Mom!”

Because the paths we’d carved through all the garbage over the years were only wide enough to accommodate one relatively skinny person, I had to kneel down by her foot and stretch out on my hands so I could reach her face. I frantically tossed magazines to the side until her head was completely uncovered. Her eyes were closed and her mouth had a purplish tinge around the edges. I followed her outstretched arm and saw her inhaler just out of reach on the ground. She must have been having an asthma attack when she fell, pulling a decade’s worth of magazines with her as she went.

“Mom!” I reached up to shake her shoulder, but only felt the heaviness of her body as it refused to move. “Mom!” I yelled a little louder. “Come on!” This was not happening. This was not happening right now. My heart was pounding so loud it sounded like the ocean in my ears.

I reached up and with a quick motion put my index finger out to feel her face. Her cheek was mottled and cold. Even though she was pale, my finger made a faint mark on her skin where I’d touched her. I scrambled backward, slipping on the magazines, and slammed into a pile of newspapers, sending them cascading down on us both. My breath was quick and short as I tossed them off me, throwing them as far as I could down the hallway until I could struggle to my feet.

Standing alone in the cold, dark hallway, I felt my teeth start to chatter, and I couldn’t keep my hands from shaking. “This can’t be real. This can’t be real,” I repeated over and over as I crouched down, pulling the newspapers off her, revealing her face one more time.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she was just out cold. I grabbed her shoulders and shook them so hard her head flopped from side to side. “Get up! Come on, Mom, please, this is not funny. Get up!” If wishing really worked, she would have jumped up and scared the crap out of me right then—that would teach me to leave her and try to get on with my own life. It would have been the best trick ever, except practical jokes weren’t her style.

I dropped her shoulders back to the floor and crumpled down beside her as I realized nothing I could do was going to make any difference. This was not the way things were supposed to go. I sat, leaning carefully on the stack of newspapers behind me, trying to pull rational ideas through the swarm of thoughts running through my head.

What if the stack of magazines had fallen when I’d slammed the door last night? She was in the living room when I left, but what if they’d moved just enough to send them crashing down as she walked by? All she had to do was clip the corner of one, and the whole thing could have come down right on top of her. I wondered how long she had been lying there, her inhaler just out of reach, her breathing getting shallow and more ragged. Did she know what was happening? A chill went through me as I pictured her trapped and weak, calling my name as her voice got quieter and quieter. I could almost hear the echo of her cries in the hallway.

I stood up to try to shake off the heavy feelings that were settling inside. As I looked at her unmoving body, I knew deep down Mom wasn’t sick and she wasn’t messing around. She was really and truly dead.

chapter 3

10:00 a.m.

I pulled the phone from my pocket, my throat feeling so thick I wasn’t sure I’d be able to speak. This was not happening. I should have stayed home last night. Mom’s asthma was getting bad, and she always needed her inhaler when she got upset. Those stupid scissors. If I’d only taken two minutes to help her find them, everything would be okay right now.

The phone’s display shone brightly as I opened it to dial 911, the numbers blurring through the tears that had started to form in my eyes. I blinked hard. My fingers hovered over the first number as I looked down the hall at the piles of magazines, newspapers, clothes, plastic bags, and boxes of her stuff that choked all but a few narrow, winding paths through the house. I knew it smelled like rotting garbage in here, remembered it in one of the recesses of my brain. It was the same smell of decay I always worried would follow me out of the house, clinging to my clothes like a sock to Velcro. I’d lived with it for so long, I didn’t even notice the smell anymore.

But the paramedics would.

They’d definitely notice the stink, the decay, and the sea of garbage that cascaded from the center of every room and built up along the walls like rolling waves. I looked back along the path that snaked through the hall and then took a sharp turn into the dining room. The only way through the house was along these ant tracks, and they were much too narrow for any type of stretcher to get through. It would probably take the paramedics hours just to clear out a path wide enough to get her out of here. And what if it wasn’t just them?

My mind started racing and my heart beat faster as I realized what could happen. As soon as the paramedics showed up, the news cameras would probably follow—big cameras with bright lights on top so they could illuminate the dark pathways. Newspeople had radios and sat listening to the paramedic and police reports just waiting for a story like this. I could see the teasers now—“Local Woman Dies Surrounded by Filth and Squalor—tune in at eleven.” Our house would be the spotlight report on all the networks, maybe even on some of those morning shows. I’d seen a story on the news one time about this lady who died in a trailer full of garbage. They videotaped the mess, and the perfectly overhairsprayed news anchors shook their heads at how anyone could live like that. They didn’t come out and say it, but I knew what they were all thinking: she was a freak. Who else would possibly live their entire lives surrounded by garbage? Freaks.

They’d probably want to interview me, and find out how we lived like this for so long—and because the evidence was right there in front of their faces, I’d have to tell them. About all of it. Kaylie would see it, and that would be the last time I’d stay over at her house. She’d be so disgusted by how we lived for all these years, she’d wonder how we could have ever been friends. That’s what had happened the last time a friend had come over, and the house hadn’t been nearly this bad then. I thought of the look in Josh’s eyes when he asked me to the party, and knew I’d never see that look again. I wouldn’t be able to stay here after that. I’d have to move away and change schools one more time, starting all over when I just had a lousy year and a half until graduation. Where would I even go?

I braced myself against a pile of newspapers and slid to the floor. My chest was hollow, and I’d never felt so lonely in my life. None of this was normal. If Kaylie had found her mom lying dead on the floor, she’d be bawling her eyes out. Somewhere deep down, I was pretty sure I loved Mom—the mom who used to push all the kids on the swings at school when it was her turn to do yard duty. The mom who actually hugged me as I left in the morning and stopped by my room to say good night. I could cry for that mom. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this mom.

At that moment the kitchen phone rang, the sound ricocheting around the still house, and I jumped, my heart beating almost visibly in my chest. Before I could think about what to say, I ran to get it just to make the noise stop.

“Hello?” It came out as more of a croak, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello?”

“Joanna?” I wasn’t sure if I was relieved it was only Nadine, Mom’s supervisor at work.

“Oh, hi. No, it’s Lucy.”

“Are you okay, dear? You sound like you’re breathing hard.”

As much as I knew that I should, I couldn’t tell her what had happened. For now, that fact had to be another part of our secret. Once I told someone, I wouldn’t be able to take it back. “I, um . . . yeah, I’m fine. I was just racing for the phone. From the backyard.”

“Sorry about that, darlin’,” she said. “I’m looking for your mama. Her shift started at seven, but she hasn’t been in or called or anything, and that is just not like her. I came by the house a little bit ago on my break, but nobody answered the door.”

I glanced down the hallway toward the fallen pile of cheerful yellow magazines.

“Right,” I said. “I’ve been outside doing some stuff in the backyard, and I must have missed you. Mom asked me to call you, but I forgot. She’s, uh, got some sort of flu and probably won’t be in for a few days.” Mom was an oncology nurse, and the last thing they wanted was sick people down at the hospital.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”

I thought about Mom where I’d left her lying all alone. “No,” I said. “Not really.”

“Chicken soup? Advil? I can stop by on my way home,” she said.

“Really,” I said, “we’re fine. I’ve got it under control.”

“Your mom is blessed to have you,” she said. “I don’t know what she’s going to do without you when you go off to college, especially now that everyone else is gone. It’s always hardest when the baby leaves.”

“I’m sure she’ll manage,” I said, wondering how blessed she’d think Mom was if she could see us now. I tried to tune into the conversation, but my eyes were scanning the tops of the debris piles that clogged the kitchen and the dining room. The smell was so bad in the kitchen I stretched the cord as far as I could into the dining room so I wouldn’t have to breathe it in. Even in here, the visual noise from the garbage made it difficult to see the individual pieces that made up the mountain. A plastic bag from the grocery store full of God knows what. A stack of old margarine tubs. A box full of empty egg cartons and toilet-paper tubes. A pile of clothes still on their wire hangers from some adventure to the dry cleaners years ago. And green plastic storage bins stacked so high they brushed the ceiling in every room. Green plastic bins were like crack for Mom—she couldn’t get enough of them.

“Lucy, honey?”

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head trying to pick up the last threads of the conversation. “You cut out on me there for a second.”

“I was asking you if you’d picked a college yet. Don’t you have to start applying soon?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Well, really, we have a whole year before things are due. They don’t make you decide until senior year.”

“Well, you be sure to come down here soon for a visit. You haven’t been in here to see us for such a long time.”

“I will,” I said. “Soon. Oh, listen, I hear her calling me. I really have to go.”

“Okay, doll,” Nadine said. “You tell your mama just to take it easy and not worry about us. She works so hard, I’m sure she needs the rest. You holler if you need anything.”

“Thanks. I will.”

I leaned into the kitchen to put the handset back and wiped it with the sleeve of my jacket. We still had one of those big, square, wall-mounted phones everyone else got rid of years ago. A while back, Mom had bought one of those fancy digital systems with four portable handsets and an answering machine. It was good in theory, but it took less than a week for every last handset to be lost in the piles, and eventually I dug out this old mustard yellow phone and put it back on the wall. Ugly, but at least we always knew where it was.

Just talking to someone on the outside had calmed me down a little. My breathing got back to normal, and I felt like I could think straight again. Nadine thought we were fine. People all over town were doing regular things at work, spending winter break at the mall, going to the grocery store. Nobody knew. I had time.

Everybody still thought we were exactly like them—I just had to keep it that way.

I took a couple of deep breaths and looked down at the cell phone that was still in my left hand. Once I dialed those three numbers, there would be no turning back. Slowly, I closed it. There really wasn’t much reason to hurry, if you thought about it. Why call 911 when someone was so obviously dead? The paramedics couldn’t help someone who’d had their head cut off or had been shot straight through the heart—or had died under a six-foot-tall stack of National Geographics.

I walked back toward Mom’s room, forcing my eyes to travel past the magazines and focus on Mom’s face. She looked peaceful—relaxed, even. If you didn’t know she was dead, she actually looked pretty good. Most of the time lately her face had rippled with frown lines. At least when I was around.

I couldn’t even remember the last thing I said to her. Last words were supposed to be meaningful, about how much you loved the person and how much you were going to miss them, and the last thing she’d said to me was something about scissors. Or was it about going to Kaylie’s? Of course, she probably had other last words that nobody was around to hear. Did those count? My mind started reeling again, and I shook my arms to try to release some of the energy.

I took a couple of steps backward toward my room so I could think a little better. Here, the path was wider and you could see patches of the dirty brown carpet that covered all the floors, but only appeared here and there through the drifts of garbage, like jagged cracks in the earth. My chest felt heavy, and my breathing was fast and shallow as the panic started to wash over me again. I couldn’t possibly deal with all of this by myself.

I clicked my phone open again. This was crazy. I hit the numbers and held it to my ear, my left hand shaking so violently I had to reach over with my right hand to try to steady it. It rang twice. Three times. Come on, answer, I thought, all of a sudden feeling like I had to hurry. I switched the phone to my other ear just in time to hear the voice mail click on.

Hey, this is Phil. I’m probably on the phone, so leave a message and I’ll call you back. I waited for the beep, and then snapped the phone shut. What kind of message could I possibly leave him?

Hey, Phil, it’s Lucy. Mom’s dead, and if you don’t get over here and help me quick, everyone’s gonna know our secret, and life as you know it will be over. Phil had just as much to lose as any of us—a serious girlfriend, fraternity brothers, a fancy job as soon as he graduated. I tapped the phone against my forehead, trying to think. What did I want him to do, anyway? He couldn’t make her less dead. At least he could be here to help me decide. I only knew calling 911 was as good as ruining all of our lives.

From where I was standing in the hallway, I couldn’t see Mom’s head anymore, only her legs and feet. It looked like she was still wearing her robe, and she had on those nasty slippers like she always did when she was home. Mom had worn the same brown suede slippers as long as I could remember—repairing rips with silver duct tape until that wore through as well and left dirty, sticky marks from the adhesive.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Just for a few minutes, if I could get my mind clear, my thoughts could sort themselves out, and I would know what to do and how to feel. It was just the shock of it all that had me confused.

Past the kitchen, I squeezed myself into the living room and turned off the TV so I could think without it squawking around inside my head. We only had one trash can in the whole house so Mom could monitor what went in it. If something couldn’t be recycled, it could be reused. If it couldn’t be reused, it could be composted. If it couldn’t be recycled, reused, or composted, it could be put in a pile somewhere in this house where it would never again see the light of day.

I could put a few bags out in the trash bin, but then what? A few bags in the garbage wouldn’t begin to make a dent in the accumulation of almost an entire lifetime of “treasures.” Which was mostly what other people called trash.

I walked back into the kitchen and took a look around. I hadn’t looked in here for a long time—with good reason. The microwave and minifridge in my room were all I ever needed, so I avoided this part of the house at all costs. The counters were stacked with dirty dishes, petrified pizza boxes, and takeout containers full of food that had sat long enough to congeal into one black, furry mass. I knew the stove was to the left of the sink, but I couldn’t see it beyond the one clear spot right in the middle of the room. The cupboard under the sink was open, and the big pipe underneath drained into an old green bucket that sat on the floor half full of moldy water. Back when we still used the sink, I had rigged this so the waste emptied into the bucket, and we could take the bucket and dump it outside. The system was so primitive it almost made me smile—I could do a lot better now.

The sink itself was full of a uniform dark brown mass that could have been anything once. It looked like chocolate pudding, but I could guarantee it wasn’t.

As I glanced around at the remains of the kitchen, I could feel trickles of sweat running down my neck despite the frigid house. I couldn’t fix this. It had taken years to get it this bad; how was I supposed to fix it overnight?

I wrapped my jacket tighter around me and wished for more time. A few days—a week, maybe, and I could have this place looking okay enough to let people in. It’s not like I had to make it perfect, just good enough so it wasn’t a freak show.

A draft of cold air came from somewhere and brushed against my cheek. It was so cold inside, I could see my breath hang in front of me. It felt almost colder in here than it did outside, and, without the furnace working, this whole place was turning into one giant freezer. I’d have to keep moving or I’d freeze to death along with her.

Oh my God—my stomach did a flip-flop as the idea started to form. It was freezing in here!

A glimmer of hope started flickering inside me as I picked my way to the other side of the room as fast as I could, my thoughts racing one step ahead. This was totally crazy and totally wrong and totally the only hope I had at all.

The smell near the sink was so bad I had to hold my breath as I worked the windows halfway open. The moldy curtains waved listlessly in the breeze as the frigid air worked its way inside. The window in the laundry room was stuck pretty tight, but I did manage to open it a crack, and I hoped it was enough. With this many windows open in the back of the house, it would probably drop the temperature close to actual freezing. It almost never got cold enough to snow around here, but I’d heard on the radio that there was a frost warning this week, just in time for New Year’s Eve. The timing couldn’t be better.

The answer had been staring me in the face this whole time. The cold. As long as I could get it cold enough, Mom would . . . keep . . . until I had time to make things look better. I didn’t know that much about dead bodies, but I’d watched enough cop shows to know the cold would buy me a couple of days before things got too bad. And a couple of days might be all it took to make the difference between normal and newsworthy.

I could never keep track of the days during vacation, and it took a minute to figure out today was Tuesday. That meant I had until at least Thursday morning, maybe Friday, before Mom would have to be “discovered.” I could spend the next couple of days cleaning the place up, and then go to Kaylie’s to spend the night. When I came home in the morning, I could “find” Mom on the floor in a normal-looking house that contained a normal amount of stuff—lying dead in a normal position, not buried under a mountain of magazines in a house that looked like a landfill. If I closed all the windows before I left, it should warm up enough in here to make it look like she’d just died.

Two more years until I could have a normal life had seemed like an eternity, and suddenly it was like the universe was handing me a chance to have all of it ahead of schedule. There was only ten tons of garbage standing in the way.

I rushed back through the pathway, out of the kitchen, and down to my room at the end of the hall to grab my wallet. I’d need garbage bags—the big, black ones made for moments like this. As far as I knew, we didn’t even own any. I stood in my open doorway and felt my heartbeat slow and the knot in my stomach loosen. I kicked the door shut behind me, blocking out the smell and the mess, and took a deep breath.

The flutter of panic that had been whirling in my head was being replaced by something else. I felt a little guilty for the warmth of optimism that was spreading throughout my body at a time when I should have been devastated, but there it was. For once in my life, I was in charge. If I worked hard enough, I could keep Kaylie and Josh and the glimmer of a normal life that had started to form.

Was it selfish? Absolutely. It wasn’t like I could do anything to save Mom at this point, but I could do something to help me. But I wasn’t just doing it for me. I was doing it for Phil and his girlfriend and Sara too. In a way, I was even doing it for Mom. She could still be the hardworking single parent everybody thought she was. Now Nadine and everybody else who knew her wouldn’t have to change their memories.

As I looked around my bedroom at the clean surfaces and my neatly made bed, I could feel some energy return deep inside. I could do this. I didn’t help Mom last night, but I could help all of us now.

Taking one last look around my room, I gathered strength from the peaceful space. Mom was dead—there was nothing I could do about that. Local history would remember us either as that garbage-hoarding freak family on Collier Avenue, or as the nice oncology nurse with the lovely children.

It was up to me to decide which one was our truth.

chapter 4

11:00 a.m.

Our street was one of those that had ridden the roller coaster of good times and bad, and it showed in the little details, like fine wrinkles around an otherwise pretty face. You could tell it had once been a really nice neighborhood because the houses were set back from the street and most of them had big porches, but the old Toyota up on blocks in the Harveys’ driveway and the weeds that choked out any grass in the yard on the corner told a different story. The houses were old, but mostly in a good way, and each one had a big yard, which meant the neighbors weren’t so close that they were always peeking in your windows. Keeping nosy neighbors away was a good thing as far as I was concerned.

I shifted the bag of cleaning supplies to my left hand and unlocked the front door with my right. As the door swung open, bits of mail caught in the bottom and made a scratching sound along the tile floor. I kicked the mail to the side, where it joined the pile from yesterday.

Standing in the hallway, I stopped to listen. I wasn’t sure what I was listening for, but the whole house was silent. Dead silent. I knew Mom was lying in the back hallway, but just for one moment, I wanted to pretend I was coming through the door for the first time today. Mom was at work, I was coming home from Kaylie’s with the warmth of Josh’s arm still on my shoulders, and none of this was my problem. Yet.

Our entry hall was wide, with the living room on the right and the dining room on the left. Piles of belongings, newspapers, and green plastic bins draped with clothing started at the edges of each room and marched toward the center until the only way to maneuver through the stuff was to turn sideways and pray you would reach your destination unscathed.

On the other side of the living room was the fireplace mantle, which held a brown, spindly potted plant that had been dead for years and a couple of framed pictures. I stood on my tiptoes so I could see them better. The picture on the right was my school picture from fourth grade. I was wearing my sweatshirt jacket, and Mom had gotten mad at me because I forgot to take it off for picture day so my new shirt would show. I remember when Aunt Jean put the picture in the big gold frame and set it on the mantle. It was the last time she was in our house, before Mom banished her forever.

The house wasn’t nearly as crowded back then—the kitchen still worked, mostly, and both bathrooms were usable. The piles were just starting to accumulate, and most weren’t any taller than my head.

Even though I was only nine when it happened, I’d been able to figure out that the car accident was bad. Mom didn’t come home after work that first night, so Sara had come back to stay with us for a few days, not letting us forget she was doing us a favor. Phil was five years older than me, but Sara was almost ten years older—somewhere between a sister and something else, and she was always looking for an excuse to boss us around. She had already graduated from high school and had moved to San Francisco, so she couldn’t stay with Phil and me for very long without missing work. She left after a few days, and Aunt Jean came to stay with us until Mom got better.

I was helping Aunt Jean with her suitcase when she got her first look at the inside of our house.

“Oh my God,” she said. Her hand flew to her mouth as she surveyed the clutter that covered most horizontal surfaces and lined the edges of every room.

I put her suitcase down on the tile floor, thinking she’d seen a mouse or something. “What?” I looked around frantically.

Aunt Jean turned to look into the dining room. “This . . . this place,” she said. “Look at all this junk. My God, there’s crap everywhere.” She turned to me. “How long has it been like this?”

I looked around the living room and shrugged. There were some piles of clothes that had never been folded and put away, and Mom did like to save newspapers in case she missed an important article. The sink was clogged, so the dishes hadn’t been done for a while, but I really didn’t see the problem.

Aunt Jean ran her fingers through her hair as she rushed from room to room, looking at the piles of clothes on every bed, and the mildew that was starting to become a permanent fixture in the bathrooms. I finally caught up with her in Mom’s room as she sat in the one tiny clear spot on the bed with her head in her hands.

“Auntie Jean?” I said quietly.

She looked up at me, tears running down her face, and shook her head. “I had no idea . . . I should have known because of Mama that Joanna could get this bad. But I really had no idea.”

I stood there quietly waiting for her to say something else. Mom cried a lot like this after Dad left us, but other than that, I hadn’t seen many grown-ups freaking out before. Aunt Jean reached out and pulled me to her, grabbing me around the waist and holding me tight.

“I’m so sorry,” she said over and over. “I had no idea.”

As I stood there, wrapped in her arms, I decided maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe Mom was hurt worse than I’d thought, or maybe she was already dead. We were supposed to go and see her that afternoon, but now it was too late. I turned this thought over and over in my head until I believed it was true with all the conviction a nine-year-old can gather, and tears started spilling out of my eyes and down my face. Mom was gone. Mom was gone, and I was going to have to go live with someone else, away from my school and everything I knew. I didn’t want to go and live with Dad—Mom said that Daddy was the devil and that he never really loved any of us. If he did, he’d never have abandoned us like he did. Even worse, maybe he’d only let one of us live there, and I wouldn’t have anybody at all who cared about me. My tears turned from silent tracks into loud sobs that made my whole body shake.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Aunt Jean said. She held me away from her so she could see my face. She rubbed my tears away with the palm of her hand and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

I tried to swallow the hiccups that had started in my chest so I could speak. “Are we going to have to live somewhere else?” I finally squeaked out between sobs.

Aunt Jean looked around the room. “No. No, honey. We’ll get this straightened out in no time. Your mom is going to have to stay in the hospital for a couple of weeks—that should give us just enough time to have this place spic and span.”

I blinked back a fresh set of tears in disbelief. “She’s coming home?” I said. “I thought she was dead.”

Aunt Jean laughed and gave me another hug. “No, honey, she’s not dead.” She took another look around the room. “Your mom is one hell of a slob, but she’s definitely not dead.”

As we drove to pick up mom from the hospital on the last day, Aunt Jean turned to us. “Now remember, we want this to be a surprise, so don’t say anything until we get home.” She sounded cheerful and confident, but she looked nervous as she said it, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tight her knuckles were white.

I looked down at my own hands. Aunt Jean had told us to wear gloves as we cleaned and scoured every surface in the house, but I could never get any gloves that fit right, so I’d just gone without. Now my hands were an angry red, and all of my nails were broken down to the bare edges.

But it had been worth it. For two weeks, Aunt Jean and Phil and I had dragged bags of trash out to the Dumpster she had rented that stood sentry in front of the house. The plumber had been called, and every dish shone from its place in the cupboard. Once the floors and tables were clear, we had sorted through the closets and drawers. Finally, every surface was scrubbed and bleached until there wasn’t a speck of mold left in the whole house. Aunt Jean had done most of the work; I could see the light from the hallway streaming under my door late into the night. It was like she couldn’t sleep until the house was spotless.

Phil was chewing on his fingernail and staring out the window as the streets rushed by. “Auntie Jean,” he said quietly.

I could see her glance at him in the rearview mirror. “What’s on your mind, babe?”

“Do you . . . do you think she’s going to like it?” he asked.

Aunt Jean glanced at the road, and then back to him. “We did it out of love,” she said. “How can your mom not like something we did out of love?”

“Then why couldn’t we tell her?” I said. “Or Sara?” Sara hadn’t bothered to come back once Aunt Jean showed up, spending all her time either at the hospital or at her apartment.

“Well,” she said. “Your sister is busy with her own life, and your mom might have felt bad because she couldn’t help. You know that even though she’s getting out of the hospital today, she’s going to need lots and lots of rest. Isn’t it better that she recuperates in a nice, clean house with all of us there to take care of her?”

“I guess,” Phil said, not looking convinced. I didn’t know what he was so worried about—it’s not like we did anything bad. He shot a glance at me and I shrugged.

“Watch your step, Joanna,” Aunt Jean said as she guided Mom’s walker up to the house. “Put your wheels on the stoop and then take the step up slowly.”

“I’ve got it,” Mom said, clearly frustrated at having to rely on someone else for help.

“I just don’t want you to fall,” Aunt Jean said.

Mom stopped her slow progress up the walk and leaned on the handles, her breathing coming hard, like she’d just run a marathon. “I know. I’m sorry. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for the kids the past few weeks. You must be anxious to get home.”

Aunt Jean leaned over and kissed her sister on the cheek. “It was nothing. I know you’d do the same for me. The only thing that matters now is that you get better.”

Phil and I walked behind the two of them, me carrying several bunches of flowers from her hospital room and Phil carrying Mom’s small suitcase.

I was so excited I felt like I was going to explode. We’d worked so hard to get everything finished—even the big Dumpster had been taken away just this morning, leaving only two parallel scrapes in the street to show it had ever been there. “Can we tell her now?” I asked. I was practically jumping up and down, and wished they would hurry up and get to the door.

“Tell me what?” Mom smiled. It was probably the first smile I’d seen since her accident. The worry lines in her forehead had gotten so deep they looked like scars from a lifetime of hurt.

Aunt Jean concentrated on finding the right key on her key ring. “Oh, just a little surprise we cooked up for you.”

Phil hung back and didn’t say anything.

“Open the door already!” I practically shouted.

Mom had a confused smile on her face as Aunt Jean swung the door open.

I scooted past the two of them and into the sparkling hallway that still smelled faintly of pine cleaner. “Ta da!”

Mom placed the front legs of the walker in the hallway and pulled herself into the house. She took two tentative steps and stopped, craning her neck to see into the dining room and then back to the living room. “Oh no,” she said quietly. The walker rattled on the tiles as she tried to hurry down the hallway. Her voice got louder and more frantic as she went. “Oh no . . . oh no . . . oh no!”

Aunt Jean followed behind her, but Mom didn’t seem to notice. “Now, Joanna, it just needed a bit of sprucing up in here,” she said. “It’s no big deal, really. Joanna?”

Mom continued her noisy scraping along the hallway until she got to her bedroom. One hand gripped the walker as the other flew to her mouth. “Where are they? Where are all my things?” She turned and started back down the hallway to where Aunt Jean had stopped. “My papers and photos? All of my quilting supplies—some of those fabrics are irreplaceable!”

“You need to calm down,” Aunt Jean said. “We kept everything that was valuable. It’s all put away. The kids did such a wonderful job—”

“The kids? You made the kids do this to me?” Mom looked at Phil and me. He hadn’t even made it through the doorway yet—he stood outside with his eyes planted firmly on the ground.

“Phil and Lucy worked so hard trying to make this place livable,” Aunt Jean said, an edge creeping into her voice.

“I knew Sara would never betray me like this!” Mom said. She looked frantically around the living room. We had found the photos and put them on the mantle along with a big vase for her flowers. Mom walked up to it, and, with one swipe of her arm, pulled everything onto the floor with a crash.

Aunt Jean rushed over to the pile. “Lucy, honey, would you grab the dustpan?” she said, the waver in her voice the only sign she wasn’t as calm as she looked. She took my fourth-grade picture and gently placed it back on the mantle.

Mom turned on me. “You’ll do no such thing,” she said. She turned back to Aunt Jean, gripping the handles of her walker so tight her arms were shaking. “Where is everything? I want everything back in this house by tonight,” she said.

Aunt Jean straightened up to face her. “It’s gone, Jo,” she said quietly. “It’s gone. You can’t get it back. It was garbage. Don’t you remember what it was like with Mama when we were kids? Can’t you see you were living just like her?”

“I am nothing like her,” Mom said, every word sounding like it had come from the center of her body. She was practically spitting with anger. “I am a collector. Everything in this house has . . . had a purpose and a meaning. How dare you come in here and get rid of my treasures!”

I hugged the wall as I crept back onto the porch where Phil was still standing.

Aunt Jean’s eyes were wet as she tried to reason with Mom. “But all of the mold and mildew—and what I found in the refrigerator! It’s not healthy living like this. Don’t you remember when we were kids? What if their friends found out?” She swung around and pointed at me. “Do you want them to make fun of her too? I remember what it was like even if you don’t.”

“Get out!” Mom started screaming at her. “Get out! I will not tolerate this in my own house. You took advantage of me! You probably stole my things for yourself. Get out!”

Aunt Jean still didn’t move. “Joanna, calm down. It’s going to be okay. Look around at your beautiful house.”

“Get out!” Mom screamed at Aunt Jean one last time and, with all the effort she could muster, swung the walker at her. One leg caught Aunt Jean under the eye as she scrambled out of the way.

“Fine!” Aunt Jean said as she made her way to the door, her fingers pressed to her rapidly swelling face. “You’re on your own from now on. You don’t want help, you just live here and drown in your own filth.” As she passed me in the doorway, she placed a hand on my cheek. “Take care of each other,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can to help.” And then she was gone.

Mom lay crumpled in a heap on the living room floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. I walked over to try to help her up, but she swatted my arm away.

“I don’t need you,” she said. She looked at Phil still standing in the doorway. “Either of you.”

We both watched silently as she dragged herself to the coffee table and used that to swing herself onto the chair. That night, she spent the first of many nights sleeping on our old green recliner.

These past few years, her room had gotten so cluttered and her bed hidden under such a huge mountain of clothes, it was almost impossible to sleep there. Her life in this house had shrunk down to the space around that old recliner.

Over time, Mom got less angry at Phil and me, but things were never the same as before. Sara loved to suck up to Mom and tell her over and over how she would have never let us do it if she had known. If any of us ever wondered who the favorite was, we didn’t anymore.

Aunt Jean might have tried to help, but I only talked to her a couple of times after that. She would call when she knew Mom was at work and ask me how things were. I’d tell her they were okay, and she’d tell me she was sorry, but I always tried to get off the phone quickly. I felt so bad about betraying Mom that I didn’t dare keep in touch after she told us not to. Little by little, Mom eliminated almost every “outsider” from our lives. It was better this way, she used to tell us. The only people you can trust were right here in the immediate family. Phil just spent as much time as possible away from home until he could leave for good. That’s what we all did—waited until we could leave for good.

It took three people and two solid weeks to clean out Mom’s mess. It took her less than six months to return it to squalor.

chapter 5

11:10 a.m.

Two weeks. As much as I tried to be positive, I couldn’t ignore the fact it had taken us two entire weeks to clean out the house back then, and there were three of us doing it—now there was just me and a whole lot more stuff.

Mom was lying in the back of the house, but at least she was in the hallway. This way, I only had to clear the places the paramedics would see as they dragged the stretcher through the house to get her. Any room that had a door could be shut away from prying eyes, and I could deal with them later. I didn’t have to do the whole house in the next couple of days. Just the visible parts.

Still, I had no idea where to start, and taking it in as a whole made it look impossible. But impossible wasn’t an option.

Mom always said you eat an elephant a bite at a time, so I tried to concentrate on one little part of one room. I walked back to the front door and turned around, trying to find the spots that would make the most difference. I tried to see it as someone new would, someone who hadn’t gotten used to seeing piles and piles of junk as they expanded over the years until they were as much a part of the house as the couch or dining room table. Not that you could actually see the couch or the table under all the garbage.

Obviously, I would have to start with the front hallway. At some point, Mom had covered this part of the mound with a sheet so it wouldn’t look so bad in case someone caught a glimpse of what was inside the house. Cautiously, I lifted a corner of the sheet and peeked underneath. As far as I could tell, it was the same assortment of clothes, mail, newspapers, and plastic grocery bags resting on the ever-popular green bins that were scattered through the house.

As I put the sheet back down, I noticed a familiar box about halfway down the pile. I pulled it out and lifted the cover to see that the slippers were still in there, just as new as they had been when I’d given them to her for her birthday a couple of years ago. I’d looked hard to find some that matched her old ratty ones almost exactly, and she’d seemed happy when she opened them. But here they were in a mound of junk, while her old nasty ones were still snug on her feet.

I walked back into the dining room and opened the first box of trash bags. The bag made a sharp snapping sound as I shook it open—it was the sound of efficiency and organization and somehow it made me feel a little better.

The top of the nearest pile held the mail from the past few weeks. The whole place was like some sort of archaeology site—the layers closest to the top had the most recent stuff, while the layers on the bottom were probably six or seven years old. As I crammed the fliers and ads into the first bag, I started to feel guilty about just throwing it all away. Mom always said she’d recycle all this stuff—it’s one of the reasons she had for keeping it. I could at least recycle the newspapers, but they would be too heavy for the garbage bags. Luckily, we had a huge stack of boxes in the garage. Mom never threw away a good box.

On my way to the garage, I tried not to look toward her room, but I couldn’t help it. Something moved and I jumped, but it was only a fly. A big, shiny, greenish black fly. It sat on a yellow magazine, changing and shifting direction every few seconds like it was waiting for something to happen. Weren’t flies supposed to be hibernating or something when it was this cold out?

I couldn’t stand to see it there, rubbing its legs together in anticipation, so I made my way back to the front hallway and grabbed the sheet that was covering the monster pile by the door. With the grimy sheet over my shoulder, I inched my way back down the hall until I was standing at Mom’s feet. In one quick movement I flung the sheet over her like it was some sort of magic trick. And it worked. Mom had used the sheet to make the junk in the hallway disappear, and now I used it to make her disappear. The fly was out of luck.

It felt much better to have Mom all covered up, so I worked my way to the garage. It took several minutes of digging to get a couple of boxes from the pile that was stacked against the garage wall. The garage was what the house aspired to. It was so packed full of stuff that it seemed like there was no way to cram even one more tiny item into the overwhelmed space. There wasn’t even a real path through the stuff anymore. If something needed to be stored in the garage, most of the time we just stood in the doorway and tossed it as far into the mess as we could. A long time ago, someone had put plywood up in the rafters in an attempt at organization, but now everything that was up there just made the beams in the ceiling sag until they almost met the piles on the ground. The whole space had an air of impending doom.

As I turned to walk back up the concrete steps and into the house, I caught a glimpse of a silver fender sticking out of the pile. My car. At least Mom said it would be once she got it out of here and fixed it up. It was really Mom’s old car that she’d put in here when she’d bought the new one a couple of years ago. Maybe someday I could dig the car out and get it running, or even use hers. I could finally get my license and feel like I was free. It would sure beat having to ask Kaylie’s mom for a ride everywhere.

I grabbed the boxes from the garage and dragged them back down the pathway to the front door. It only took ten minutes to go through one big stack, recycling most of it and throwing the rest in one of the garbage bags. I picked up the box to take this first load outside, but when I got to the hallway, the sides were blocked by the stacks of newspapers and magazines—the path was way too narrow for me to carry the box through the kitchen and out the back door. I could feel my muscles straining as I stood in the front hallway trying to decide what to do with the heavy, awkward box. The last thing I needed was to draw attention to myself by carrying the bags and boxes through the front door, but until I’d made the main path wider, it was going to be impossible to carry them out through the back.

I checked my watch. Eleven thirty on a Tuesday morning. The only people who would really be around were old Mrs. Raj next door and maybe TJ from across the street, unless his mom put him in some sort of day camp during vacation. I decided going out the front was worth the risk—mainly because I had no other choice.

As I set the box down behind the garage, I felt like I had begun to accomplish something. I was even sweating from the exertion, despite the cold weather, so I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of the front doorknob as I came back in.

I was feeling even more accomplished as I hauled the next box out the front door. I heard the skateboard wheels scraping the concrete before I saw him.

“Hey,” TJ said as he kicked the back of his skateboard so it landed in his hand. “Whatcha doin’?”

I shifted the weight of the box to my hip and turned to him. “Just some cleaning.”

“My mom always does that after Christmas so she can make room for the new stuff,” he said.

“Well, there you go.” I turned to walk away.

“Can I help?” he asked.

I sighed and stopped walking. I really liked him, but the last thing I needed was a kid hanging around asking questions. “No, TJ. Not really. I’m doing fine on my own.”

“Are you getting rid of anything good?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How about I let you know when I’m finished.”

“I can go through it with you,” he said. “Come on, I’m totally bored.”

I looked up and down the empty street. “Aren’t there any other little kids around today?”

TJ tipped his helmet back on his head with one hand. “I’m not a little kid,” he said. “I’m in third grade.”

“Listen,” I said. “Anyone I babysit on a regular basis is a little kid. Go find someone else to bother. I’m really busy here.”

“Fine.” TJ’s shoulders slumped as he turned to walk down my driveway. Great. Now his feelings were hurt. I really did not have time for this.

“Hey, T,” I called after him. “How about I make a pile for you to go through later? If I find any cool stuff Phil left behind I’ll give you first pick.”

He shrugged without turning around, but dropped his skateboard on the sidewalk and, with a running start, rolled around the corner and out of sight. I took that as a yes.

Back inside, I felt good, like I was making progress. As I stuffed the boxes full of paper, I grabbed a bag labeled “Scrub City”—Mom’s favorite clothing store. Sure enough, it was filled with colorful nursing scrubs with the tags still on, and I wondered how long ago she’d bought these. I pulled out a shirt that was covered with Simpsons characters all dressed for Christmas—Homer had on a Santa hat and Lisa’s saxophone was covered in lights. Mom always found the most obnoxious scrubs to wear because she said it made her people feel better to look at something cheerful. She never called them her patients, always her “people.” I guess calling them patients would make it more obvious that a lot of them were never going home again. Maybe after, I could take these down to her work and let the other nurses have them. Sort of like Mom’s legacy.

I’d gone down to the hospital with her for one of those “Take Your Daughter to Work” days a couple of years ago. I’d been there lots of times, usually parked at the nurses’ station with a supply of pens and pads of paper with the names of pharmaceutical companies written on the top, but we never stayed more than a couple of minutes—just long enough for her to pick up her paycheck or see to one of her people quickly. I’d spent half a day there once when the daycare lady didn’t show up, but I’d never seen her actually work before.

I’d expected the same cranky, irritated person I saw at home every day, but once she stepped through the sliding doors, she was different. Her face softened, and there was a slight smile on her lips as we approached the floor where she worked.

“Good morning, Mr. Evans,” she said to a tall, skinny bald man as we got off the elevator. He was wearing red plaid pajamas with a matching red plaid robe and gripped a tall pole that held an assortment of IV bags. Tubes snaked from under his robe and attached to the bags as he wheeled the contraption along beside him.

“Good morning, Joanna,” he said, his gaunt face assembling into a slight smile. He turned to me. “Do we have a new nurse on the ward?” I’d picked the least objectionable pair of scrubs in her closet, but I was still mortified to be seen with roller-skating penguins all over my shirt. Mom said if I was going to miss an entire day of school, I had to look the part.

“This is my daughter Lucy,” she said, putting her arm around me like it was the most natural thing in the world. “She’s come to see what we do here all day, so you boys better behave yourselves.” She winked at him as she said it. Arm around my shoulder? Winking? It was like Mom had been taken over by some kindly nurse alien.

“Aw, come on, Jo,” he said, winking back. “That’s no fun now, is it?”

“Just see what you can do for the next few hours, okay?” Mom patted his arm as he continued his slow shuffle down the hallway.

Mom turned to me. “Let’s get you settled, shall we?” she said brightly, like we were going to spend the day at Disneyland instead of in a hospital cancer ward. We went to the nurses’ station and put our purses in the locked filing cabinet that held her stuff. She introduced me to the other nurses on the floor, reminding me which ones I’d met over the years. She kept saying, “My youngest, Lucy,” as if she was actually proud of that fact rather than thinking I was a liability.

For the next few hours, I followed her around the floor, watching her check charts and stick needles into IV tubes. Mom chatted with the people in the beds like they were old friends—asking about their kids or their husbands, talking about the latest episode of some cop show they both watched, even while she had to pump some chemical into their bodies that was bound to make them feel even worse than they did already. She let me carry the bottles of medicine and once let me hold an IV bag, but most of the time I felt embarrassed for being upright and healthy while all these people were so sick.

Late in the afternoon, we stopped by a half-closed door to a darkened room. Mom pushed it open, but turned to me. “I’m going to take this one alone, okay? Do you mind waiting here for just a minute? I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah. Okay,” I said. She sounded so calm and reasonable I almost didn’t know how to react. It was like we’d spent the day reading a script of how a good mother-daughter team should communicate. I couldn’t help watching through the crack in the door as she talked softly to someone I couldn’t see behind a curtain. Instead of the harsh florescent lights and blaring TV in the rest of the rooms, this one was lit by a small bedside lamp and had soft classical music playing in the background. I could see Mom standing at the foot of the bed and stroking the tops of the person’s feet under the blankets.

“Your mama is good at what she does,” her boss, Nadine, said, coming up behind me so softly I jumped.

“Oh, I was just, uh . . . she asked me to wait out here,” I said, looking as guilty as I felt for peeking.

“It’s fine, sugar,” she said. “Mrs. Collingwood is one of your mama’s special people. No family or even many friends around, so Joanna tends to spend a little extra time. Mrs. Collingwood’s been in and out of here so much over the years that we told her last time we’d issue her a FastPass so she could go right to the head of the line.” She looked at my blank face. “That was a joke.”

I smiled weakly, but it seemed wrong to joke in a place that held this much pain. “I got it,” I said.

Nadine reached out to pat my shoulder. “Been a hard day for you?”

I shrugged. It had been weird to see Mom so efficient, so capable of taking care of other people when I knew deep down she was a failure at taking care of her kids. Maybe she used up all the good stuff before she got home. The person Nadine saw at work every day and the person who slept in her robe on our green recliner every night seemed like two different people.

Nadine peeked through the crack in the door. “I’d tell you it gets easier, but it doesn’t, really.” She nodded toward Mom. “Joanna is one of the most caring and knowledgeable nurses I’ve ever worked with. Plenty of times she’s caught things even the doctors have missed.” She turned to me. “Think you’ll ever become a nurse? Or a doctor?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, but that was really just to be polite, because I did know. Nursing was one more way I wouldn’t be like Mom when I got older.

I could hear Mom’s shoes squeak as she turned to leave the room, so I took a couple of steps away from the door. She forced a smile as she closed the door behind her.

“She’s having a tough time,” Mom said to Nadine. She looked at a chart in her hands. “I tell you what, Lucy,” she said. “School would be almost over by now, so what’s say I run you home on my break and then come back here for a while?”

“Okay,” I said.

“You come back and see us anytime,” Nadine said, and gave me a quick hug.

“Thanks, I will.”

Mom drove me home, and then stayed at the hospital until way after I went to bed. As I lay there alone in the dark that night, I wondered if you had to be sick or dying to get Mom’s full attention. I never asked, but I always pictured Mrs. Collingwood dying that night, with Mom sitting next to her, talking softly and rubbing her feet as she slipped away. It was an image I tried to keep with me whenever she was being particularly unreasonable or screaming her head off at how stupid I was. I would remember back to the day I was proud of her, and somehow that made it not so bad.

chapter 6

12:30 p.m.

Once the first boxes were filled and put away, I had to drag more empty ones out of the garage. I tried to look at it as though I was getting rid of two things at once, and from the looks of the garage, Mom probably had enough cardboard boxes to handle most of what was in the house. She always said she could start sorting through her things once she got enough boxes. I was guessing she finally had enough.

My stomach started rumbling as I picked my way through the piles in the front hallway, and I wished I’d gotten something to eat when I’d gone out before. As I was lifting a pile of newspapers from the far corner of the living room, I stumbled and the stack hit something that made a faint tinkling sound. I tossed some newspapers off the top and saw the familiar dark wood. Our old piano. It had been so long since I’d seen it, I’d actually forgotten we had one. Shoving years of junk off the keyboard, I hit a few notes that were wildly out of tune but left me with a strangely satisfied feeling inside.

Somewhere in a distant corner of my mind, I remembered being a really little kid and sitting with my back against the side of the piano, feeling the notes run up my spine as Mom’s hands flew over the keyboard. When Daddy first left us, Mom spent all her free time playing the piano. She didn’t play lullabies or pretty music, though. Her songs were loud and harsh and demanded that you pay attention. I would sit for what seemed like hours with my head just barely touching the dark wooden piano leg, watching as her feet worked the pedals furiously. I used to think that someday she would pedal that piano so hard it would start up, crash through the wall, and drive off down the street.

My fingers left prints in the dust that had settled on the faded wood. Nobody had touched the piano in years. After Mom stopped crying all the time, she didn’t seem to need the music anymore. I wondered if she buried the piano to forget about it, or if once it was buried, she never thought about music at all.

Over the next hour, I filled six more boxes of various sizes and deposited them behind the garage. That space was starting to look fuller, but I wasn’t seeing much difference inside the house. Plus, my arms were aching from all that lifting. I shook them out to try to get the blood flowing again.

As I looked around, I started to notice the clothes. There were clothes everywhere—some on hangers dangling off furniture and doorknobs, some in plastic bags with the tags still on them, and some draped here and there over stacks of other things, like someone had discarded a shirt or pants and was coming back to get them in a minute.

I picked up one of the black trash bags and started grabbing at the clothes that were within reach. Mom went shopping almost every day looking for deals, but we didn’t go out together very often. She always said I slowed her down because I stopped to look at everything, and she had a very cutthroat method of getting through a store. It was almost as if she wasn’t interested in what she bought: the real point of the trip was the discount she got. She thought thrift stores were invented just for her.

There was a large red Macy’s bag underneath a pile of shirts in the living room. I stuffed the shirts into the giveaway bag and reached for the Macy’s bag that was full of something, but it didn’t feel like clothes. Pulling the handles apart, I spotted six or seven wallets, all the same style but in different colors. I recognized them immediately because I had a green one exactly like them in my purse.

We’d been on one of our rare mother-daughter shopping trips when I’d found the wallets on the sale rack last year. They came in a dozen colors ranging from hot pink (definitely not me) to more muted sage and cobalt blue. They were perfect because they weren’t filled with spaces for photos of the friends I didn’t have. Just room for money and a license if I ever got one. I was looking at the display when Mom came up behind me.

“Ooh, these are nice,” she said. She picked up a pink one and opened it to see the inside.

“Yeah, I need a new wallet,” I said warily. I never knew if Mom would be in a bad mood and accuse me of wasting money even if it was mine. “I’ve been using my black one for such a long time, it’s falling apart. What do you think, green or blue?”

Mom took both of them from me and looked from one to the other. “They’re both so pretty.” She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “You know, Christmas is just around the corner. Maybe Santa can bring you a new wallet, and you can save your money.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “Besides, these are expensive.” I’d learned not to expect too much for Christmas or my birthday. Mom always seemed to have some sort of financial crisis right before a major holiday.

“They’re not that much,” Mom said. She turned the blue one over and looked at the back. “They’re already forty percent off—and I’ll bet they’ll go down more closer to the holidays. What color do you think Santa should bring?”

I smiled at her. Sometimes, mom could be cool like in the old days. “I don’t know. Why doesn’t he just surprise me?” I put both wallets down on the display. “But Santa shouldn’t bring me pink.”

“I’ll let him know,” she said.

On Christmas morning, we went over to Aunt Bernie and Uncle Jack’s house to open presents. They weren’t really related to us, but they’d been friends with Mom since before she and Dad got divorced and were the closest thing we had to family nearby. They didn’t have any kids, and we’d been opening our presents at their house since I was little. Best of all, they had a huge house in the hills, so there was always room to play with whatever new toy we’d been given.

I still had a few presents left to open when Mom handed me a big, square box. Things shifted inside when I shook it, and I couldn’t imagine what was in there. As I tore off the wrapping, Mom sat excitedly on the sofa waiting for me to see what was inside. I lifted the lid to find not just a green wallet, not just a blue wallet, but a bunch of wallets in all different colors scattered in the box.

“Do you like them?” Mom asked, clapping her hands like a little kid. “Remember, we saw the wallets in Macy’s that day?”

I set each one out on the carpet in front of the fireplace. There were eight of them, in every color except pink. I looked at Mom. “I remember,” I said. “But I thought you were only going to get one.”

“Well, they were such a good deal, I decided to get a few,” she said, waving the cost away with her hand. “You know I can never pass up a bargain. Your present is that you get to choose whichever one you want.”

I picked up the green one. “Thanks, Mom. But what are you going to do with the rest of these?” I could see Aunt Bernie staring at us with a strange look on her face.

“I don’t know,” she said. “People always need gifts, or I’ll take the rest back.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I just want you to be happy.”

Aunt Bernie laughed. “Well, Joanna, my birthday is in February. Just remember I’ve got my eye on the gold one over there.”

“You got it,” Mom said, laughing like it was all a big joke.

As I sat there with the Macy’s bag in my hand, I realized she’d never intended to return any of these. She always bought things for people and then could never remember where she’d put them, so they just got swallowed up with everything else—the gold wallet meant for Aunt Bernie was sitting right on top. Bernie and Jack always left for a long vacation in Hawaii after Christmas, but maybe I’d surprise her with it when they got back.

I turned it over to look at the price tag. Fifty dollars. Even if she’d gotten these at half price, it still meant there was almost two hundred dollars’ worth of wallets in just this one bag.

I sat down on the recliner and picked at the pile on the couch. Who knew what was in the rest of the house? How many more Macy’s bags was I going to find? How many shirts still had their tags? How many pairs of shoes did she buy and then toss in a pile, never to think of them again? I could feel myself starting to get angry, but I tried to get back to work. I didn’t have time to feel things right now. I tossed the Macy’s bag to the side and figured I’d decide what to do with it later. There was one last box full of paper sitting in the hallway, so to make room I grabbed it and yanked open the front door.

“Hello?” The delivery driver stood on the porch with an equally big box in his arms, his eyes peering over the top of it.

Startled, I dropped my own box in the doorway, and then shoved it out of the way so I could shut the front door quickly. My heart was pounding, but I tried to look calm.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. He shifted the weight of the box to one hip and glanced down at his clipboard. “I’m looking for Mrs. Tompkins.”

From the lack of alarm on his face, I didn’t think he’d seen anything inside. At least he wasn’t giving anything away. I looked back at the door to make sure it was shut. “You, um, you just missed her.”

He nodded at the door. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” I said.

He held the clipboard out to me. “Would you mind signing on that line at the bottom?”

I scribbled something that looked like my name at the bottom of his list. He took a step toward the front door. “This is really heavy—how about I bring it in for you? I can just drop it inside the door.”

“No!” I said too quickly and then caught myself. “No, it’s fine. I’m just going to put this box in the recycling. I’ll get it when I come back.” I pointed to a spot along the wall. “You can just set it there for now.”

“Are you sure? I’d be happy to bring it—”

“I’m sure. It’s fine.” I picked up my box and watched as he set his down by the door. “Thanks.”

“No problem. You have a good day.”

I waited until he got back into his big brown truck and drove away. After dumping my box out back, I examined the delivery on the porch and wondered what on earth Mom could have ordered this time. It was huge and had the logo of that TV shopping network on the side, like most of the empty boxes I was pulling out of the garage.

The street was quiet, so I took the keys out of my pocket and sliced open the tape that held the top shut. As I peeled back the flaps, I could see what it was Mom had to order just three days after Christmas. I pulled it partway out of the carton until I could see what it looked like, then let it slip right back inside.

A mixer. One of those huge red mixers that sat on a counter, with a big silver bowl, and whipped up endless batches of cookies for waiting children. For other people’s waiting children, because we hadn’t baked anything in this house for years. It was something for a house we didn’t have, probably bought with money she always said we didn’t have. But I bet she got a really good deal on it.

I kicked the box but it just wobbled a few inches. I hadn’t realized how heavy it was, but the pain in my big toe felt almost satisfying. My eyes watered as I walked back into the house and slammed the door with my heel. The walls rattled, and this time I didn’t feel guilty about it. With any luck, someone would come up on the porch and steal the stupid thing.

chapter 7

2:00 p.m.

I stood in the hallway, sweat beading at my hairline, my hands already aching from carrying the bags and boxes to the back. I’d been busting my butt for over three hours now, and the place didn’t look any different. My eyes fell on the stacks of newspapers that still reached to the ceiling and the mountains of clothes and bags I hadn’t even had time to touch. The kitchen still reeked of garbage and rot, and the paths were no wider than when I’d started. Three hours hadn’t helped at all. How much would I be able to do in two days?

It’s not going to work. That thought began to play over and over again in my head, pounding in my ears like I’d just run a mile. My stomach started to churn as I let the wave wash over me. I thought about giving up. It would be so easy to walk outside and dial three little numbers and end all this craziness. That would be the easy way out now, but what about later? What about tomorrow, when I had to look at Kaylie and her parents and see the disgust on their faces? When I had to see pity replace anything positive in Josh’s eyes? Phil had just moved out and gotten a normal life a couple of years ago—could I really take it away from him?

I took a deep breath and forced myself to think about the house the way it could be. After. I could replace the peeling, gray paint with a fresh coat that would make it look almost new. We could fix it up real nice, replacing the lingering stink with fresh flowers on the table every week.

I could feel my heart stop racing and my breathing slow. Thinking about the life I was going to have after was better than Valium for calming me down. Giving up wasn’t an option. Repeating that to myself was the only way I was going to get through this. Giving up was not an option.

Opening my eyes, I realized I’d been going about this completely the wrong way. Nobody cleaned a mess this big by picking up one little piece at a time and separating it into this pile or that bag. Aunt Jean hadn’t worried about recycling. She’d even resorted to a shovel at one point as we filled up the Dumpster. I had to stop seeing each little thing individually and start seeing it as one giant thing that stood between me and the rest of my life.

Aunt Jean was right—a shovel was the only tool for this job. Thanks to Mom’s “collecting,” we happened to have several out by the shed in the back. I dragged the green trash can into the house and set it up with a bag in a small, clear spot on the living room floor.

Even though I knew Mom was gone, it was hard to really believe she wasn’t going to burst through the front door and start screaming at me for touching her stuff. She wasn’t going to tell me that I never helped her and that she worked too hard to have time for stupid things like cleaning the house. I jammed the stuff as far down into the plastic bags as I could, poking and punching at the clothes, papers, and scraps of fabric she valued more than she valued any of us.

Before I realized it, I had four bags full of junk that needed to go outside. Four was about the upper limit for the number of bags I could stack around the recliner before they took up all available space. When I checked out the peephole in the front door, there was an old couple slowly shuffling down the street. I tried to think about how many trips I’d taken to the backyard today. It had to be at least eight or nine. In an hour or two, people were going to start coming home from work, and the street was going to get a lot busier.

I stepped away from the door and tried to figure out another way to get this done. The hallway was still too cluttered to drag bags or boxes through, but if I continued to cart things out the front door and around the side of the house, people might get suspicious. It was getting colder in the living room, so I grabbed my jacket off the door and put it back on while I thought. Leaving the windows open in the back of the house was going to be good for keeping Mom . . . cold, but I was going to freeze in here tonight.

The windows. That was it. I grabbed one of the bags and dragged it through the living room and into the dining room. The window in that room was blocked by a small pile of boxes and bags that reached just past the windowsill. I didn’t bother clearing any of it away, but just stood on top of the pile and undid the latch. Like the rest of the house, the windows were old, and this one probably hadn’t been opened in years. Part of it was held shut with paint, but I banged on the top of the frame until it began to inch up little by little.

When I finally had the window opened wide enough, I stuck my head out to see what was down below. There were a few old plastic milk crates stacked against the house, but other than that it was clear. I balanced the full garbage bag on the ledge and, with a shove, sent it flying out the window where it bounced off a crate and settled onto the ground. This was the perfect solution. Not only would it save me from having to haul all this stuff out the front door for the world to see, but I could keep everything right here on the side of the house until they took Mom away.

Now it was like my body was on autopilot. All my energy was concentrated into grabbing whatever was on top of the closest stack and shoving it as far down into the trash bag as it would go. Grab a handful, shove it in the bag. Grab another handful, shove it in the bag. Bag after bag, pile after pile. I felt like I was finally making progress.

Halfway down one pile, I found what at first looked to be a large box covered with a hot pink towel. When I hit it with the back of my hand, it sounded like metal clanging together, and I realized it wasn’t a box. I could see ridges under the towel that made it lie in waves along the top. Even before I pulled the towel off, the faint smell of cedar chips told me what it was and made me a little sad all over again.

I hadn’t seen the hamster cage since ninth grade.

“Make sure you feed him this week,” I said to Mom as I set Petey’s cage down in a cleared spot on the kitchen counter. “He likes sunflower seeds and these green pellets. Also, little bits of apple and peanuts at night.” Petey was curled up in a ball on his mound of cedar shavings. Every morning, he’d spend hours getting the mound just right so he could turn around three times and snuggle into it with just one ear showing.

“He eats better than I do,” Mom said, peering over the top of the cage. She poked a finger in through the bars and wiggled it around. “Here, Petey Petey.”

“He doesn’t like it when you do that,” I said to her. I was already annoyed. She never made anything easy.

“How do you know what he likes?” she asked. She waggled her finger at him one more time. “Since when did you start speaking hamster?”

“It scares him,” I said. “Look, he’s curling up tighter and digging in the shavings. That means he’s scared.”

“Maybe you don’t handle him enough,” she said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be such a scaredy-hamster.” She pulled her finger out of the cage and stood up straight to look at me.

“Don’t pick him up while I’m gone, okay? It’s only two weeks—he’ll be fine. Just feed him twice a day and make sure he has enough water in the bottle. I’ll clean the cage when I get back.” I wished I could take him with me to camp, but it would be hard to explain to the other junior counselors why I couldn’t leave him at home. All Mom had to do was shove some food in his cage, and with it sitting in the middle of the kitchen, there was no way she could forget. I just kept telling myself he’d be fine.

“Don’t worry about your precious rodent,” she said. “I’ll feed him every day. He’ll be fat and happy when you get home, you’ll see.”

It didn’t work out exactly that way.

“Where’s Petey?” I said as I dropped my suitcase on the kitchen floor, a pile of junk mail filling the space on the counter where the cage had been.

“Oh,” Mom said, looking down at the newspaper she was holding. “I was going to call you, but I didn’t want to ruin your trip. He got out the other day when I was feeding him. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find him.”

“What do you mean he got out?” My eyes searched what I could see of the floor. A tiny hamster could be hiding anywhere in this house. “All you had to do was feed him. You said he’d be okay.”

She put her arm around my shoulders and gave a quick squeeze. “I’m really sorry,” she said. She was looking everywhere except right at me. “I only left the door open for a second so I could cut some more apple, and when I looked back he was gone.”

“He really ran away?”

She nodded. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Probably found a nice, soft corner to curl up in.”

“But he was counting on me . . .” Petey was the first thing I’d ever been in charge of, and I’d let him down. He must have missed being held and stroked on the very top of his head. He must have thought I was never coming back, and he made his escape when he saw an opportunity. A sick, heavy feeling settled in my stomach and made the back of my eyelids prickle.

I got down on all fours and looked under the table and along the wall. “Here, Petey Petey.” I made little kissy noises as I was calling him. “Here, Petey. I’m back. Here, Petey.” Mom got down on the floor too and together we searched everywhere we could, spending the next hour at hamster level trying to find him. But we never did.

Sometimes I would see hamster droppings on the counter or the table, and I took it as his way of telling me he was still somewhere in the house, curled up safe in a little nest he’d made for himself, only coming out at night to look for food. I’d leave a pile of peanuts on the counter for him, and little by little it would vanish, so at least I knew he was eating something.

The sharp smell from the cedar shavings in his cage brought back everything I’d felt that day when I’d come back to discover him gone. Mom must have put the cage back here in case we ever got another hamster, but we never did. It didn’t seem right to bring another living thing into this house when I couldn’t even manage to keep Petey safe. The water bottle was still secured to the side of the cage, but it had been dry a long time.

I carried the whole thing over to the wall where the green bins were stacked. Even if Petey was long gone, the cage was still good. Maybe when all this was over, I’d get another hamster. Or clean it out and give it to TJ. He was about the right age for a pet.

As I set the cage down on the bins, I spotted something sticking out from under the cedar chips. I shook the cage so the chips settled and I could see it better, sticking my face right up to the bars to get a good look. He wasn’t curled up in a ball, but lying out straight under a thin layer of cedar chips. The skin looked dry and papery but still had a few tufts of brown hair clinging to it.

Petey.

“Oh God,” I said. I looked closer to make sure, but there was really no doubt. Petey hadn’t escaped at all. He’d died right in this cage while I was gone, and instead of doing something normal like burying him, or even telling me the truth, Mom must have covered up the cage and left it in the dining room like it never happened. That was her solution to everything—cover it up like it never happened.

My mind raced as I backed away from the cage containing the mummified remains of my only pet. “How could she?” I whispered. She probably forgot about him completely. Didn’t feed him or even give him water. Petey trusted me and I’d totally let him down.

Without even thinking about it, I opened the top of the cage and gently wrapped him in the towel. He wasn’t much more than dried skin and bones by now, but the least I could do was give him a decent burial. Grabbing the shovel, I headed outside, not caring who saw me.

On the side of the house, just under my window, was a sheltered spot next to a spindly hydrangea bush. The cold ground was hard as I stabbed at it with the shovel, but after breaking through the top layer I was able to dig a small hole, pulling out chunks of hard clay soil and piling them up in the walkway. When the hole was deep enough, I leaned the shovel against the wall and knelt down as I lowered the pink towel into it. Tucking the edges of the towel around Petey, I waited for thoughts to come—something about how I was sorry I’d left him alone, and how I’d do it differently if I had it to do again. I wished for something profound to give him a dignified send-off, but my mind just felt blank and empty. Slowly, I got up and dumped dirt back on top of him, scraping the shovel on the walkway as I scooped it up over and over again until the pink towel was gone.

When I was done, I patted the dirt down with the back of the shovel and looked at the smooth ground where my first and only pet was buried. Unless you knew, you’d never guess he was here, but maybe it would make me feel a little bit better when the bush bloomed with huge pink flowers in the spring and reminded me that Petey was in a better place.

chapter 8

3:00 p.m.

I, however, was still trapped in this crappy place. As clouds gathered outside, it grew quieter inside, and every move I made seemed to echo off the ceiling. Mom had the television going twenty-four hours a day if she was home—something to keep her company she said—so I grabbed the stereo from my room and set it up on top of a pile of papers in the middle of the kitchen. Filling the house with sound helped make it feel a little less lonely and made this crazy project seem a little less futile. Music to decontaminate by.

After I suited up in my orange rubber gloves, I stood near the sink and tried to figure out where to start in what used to be a functional kitchen. That was always the problem when you were standing in an endless pile of garbage—where to start. Regular people might leave their dirty dishes in the sink for a few hours or even a day until someone got around to washing them and putting them in the dishwasher. Once the dishwasher broke down and the plumbing backed up, our dishes sat in the sink and on the counter for years. Actual years.

The fronts of the cabinets were white once, but now looked as though they were covered in fine, brown dirt, like someone had stood in the middle of the kitchen and flung bags of potting soil all over everything. Except it wasn’t potting soil. It was mold that had crept along the counters and down over the cabinets until you couldn’t tell what color the cabinets were supposed to be. The mold had made its way up the tiles and the walls until the bottoms of the curtains hung heavy with black. It happened so gradually that we really didn’t notice. We just stayed out of that room as much as we could and tried not to look at anything too closely. After a while, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Getting rid of this stuff was probably some kind of biohazard. I coughed just thinking about it. Mom’s breathing problems had gotten a lot worse lately—inhaling mold spores for years would do that to you. It might even kill you.

It was creepy looking closely at everything like this. If you walked by it every day you didn’t notice how bad it really was. Now that I was paying attention, it was hard not to see it like Josh or Kaylie would—a disgusting mess that nobody sane would live in. Thinking about Josh just made me sadder. I don’t know who I was kidding last night.

Until I got this fixed, I couldn’t let anybody near it. Or near me. It was amazing Kaylie still didn’t know—I’d been getting careless letting her pick me up and drop me off here. What if she’d seen how we really live? What if Josh smelled the house stink on my jacket when he put his arm around me? The heaviness started to take over as I let these thoughts race through my brain. I shook my head and tried to erase the image of him backing away from me in disgust. I couldn’t think any further than right now if I had any hope of making this work.

There was no getting around cleaning the kitchen because that’s where most of the stink was coming from. Like every other horizontal surface in the house, the counters were piled high with everything you’d find in a normal kitchen—times twelve. If a few empty grocery bags might come in handy someday, Mom would save hundreds, because you never knew when the world might run out. Stacks of newspapers stood here and there waiting to be read and clipped. Empty food containers were everywhere—margarine and yogurt containers, water bottles, and cylinders that once held potato chips. Those were some of Mom’s favorite treasures. And it’s not like these just came from us. Mom “saved” empty containers from work and even random trash cans. She always said with some sort of strange, misplaced pride that she didn’t go digging in other people’s trash cans, but if something was sitting right there on top for all the world to see, well, then, she had an obligation to see it wasn’t wasted.

I’d have to clear off some counter space to really get down to it, so I started with the stove. It was piled with miscellaneous junk as high as the range hood. A few years back the refrigerator broke, so Mom just piled groceries on the counter next to the stove, lining up the cans of food instead of putting them away anywhere. This would probably have been okay if she had only bought things in cans, but I was pretty sure she’d stashed things like lunch meat and fruit here too with the idea that as long as it was visible, we’d eat it quickly enough. Which was good in theory, I guess.

In order to reach the stove, I had to make a new pathway through the piles of stuff that littered the kitchen floor. I couldn’t get the trash can in here, which meant my only option was to grab a trash bag and shove anything into it that I could find. Most of the stuff in here was so destroyed by mold, I didn’t bother wondering what was in the bags or boxes. It was better not to think about it, particularly if something was soggy or leaking or smelled so bad my gag reflex kicked in.

I grabbed a can of green beans from the counter beside the stove. It had an expiration date that was two years earlier. And that was probably one of the newer cans in her collection. I started to load a bag with all the canned food, but realized that cans of food would make the bag really heavy really fast. I decided to leave the rest of them on the counter. Once everything else was cleaned up, a bunch of cans sitting on a counter wouldn’t look as weird. Maybe the paramedics would think she’d just gotten home from grocery shopping. If they didn’t look closely, they might not figure out that the shopping trip was from five years ago.

With one hand, I held the trash bag against the stove, and with the other, I swept the containers, plastic bags, cups, and old food packages off the top. A few things missed the bag and bounced onto the floor, but I could deal with that later. I found not one, not two, but three big margarine containers full of those little plastic clips that come on bread packages. It only took one trash bag to clear most of the stove and uncover the burners. Real safe to have things piled on top of something that actually makes fire all these years, but it didn’t seem to have worried Mom. On a hunch, I turned the knob for the burner, thinking that like everything else in this house it wouldn’t work, but to my surprise it clicked and with a small whoosh burst into a bright blue flame.

Maybe I could start cooking in here one day, if I could get the memory of the old kitchen smell out of my brain. Once Phil moved back, I’d make meals for the two of us—I’d have to start watching the Food Network to get some ideas. Maybe I could even have people over for dinner. I could learn to make complicated casseroles and fancy appetizers. Someday, after all this had been taken care of, maybe I could even have Josh over for dinner. It would be amazing having him in my house for dinner without worrying about Mom and the mess. I turned the burner off and threw a stack of about fifty empty cottage cheese containers in the bag. Good thing someday wasn’t all that soon.

Working my way from the stove toward the sink, I cleared the counters pretty quickly. There were a few things that might have been worth keeping, but I had to just close my eyes and toss them in the garbage. Mom had three thermoses sitting next to the sink, and I could have saved them for the Salvation Army, but the thought of having some poor unsuspecting worker actually opening one of the jars and encountering some sort of festering, mummified stew was just too cruel. In the bag they went. Opened Diet Pepsi cans that were full of something that was probably liquid once but had through the wonders of science turned solid? In the bag. A shoebox full of bottle caps? In the bag. A plastic grocery bag full of some gelatinous brown goo that was probably produce at one point? Definitely in the bag.

All the hard work made me forget about the cold wind that blew through the open windows. That and the rapid progress I was making toward the sink. Under a pile of plastic bags on the counter, I found a white dish drainer complete with dishes that had been clean once upon a time. I reached in and stroked the Underdog glass that had been the only cup I would drink from when I was little. Holding it in my hand was like discovering an old friend that I’d thought was gone forever. Underdog looked great, still bright red, white, and blue; his arm raised as he took off for parts unknown. Maybe that’s what I’d liked about him—he was always ready to go somewhere new.

For the first time in more than an hour, I stopped working and carefully wiped the glass with the bottom of my shirt to remove any traces of mold. I took the rest of the dishes out of the drainer and tossed them into the garbage bag. Aside from the Underdog glass, there was nothing here I was ever going to use again. I grabbed a coffee cup that had “World’s Greatest Mom” printed on it in flowery pink letters. I could still see traces of lipstick around the edge and could picture it sitting on the side of the bathroom sink full of coffee as she got ready for work. Mornings were the best time for talking to her when I was a little kid. I’d sit on the fuzzy pink toilet lid and watch Mom as she did her hair with the curling iron and put her makeup on. She’d ask about my second-grade teacher, Ms. Davis, who always had lipstick on her teeth and I’d usually tell her about something rotten Phil had done. If I was lucky, she’d spray some of her perfume in the air and let me walk through it so I could smell like her for the rest of the day. If I missed her while I was at school, I’d just sniff my sleeve and the smell of her perfume would make me feel safe. I didn’t remember very much about being little, but I knew, once upon a time, Mom might have deserved the World’s Greatest Mom mug.

As I held the mug over the garbage bag, I remembered with a creeping sense of dread how the dishes got into the drainer. I’d done them about four years ago, before “Garbage Girl” happened. Before I’d totally given up. It was probably the last time I’d done anything constructive in this room. In this whole house. I’d learned my lesson well.

I had planned it as a surprise for Mom. She’d been working late all week, and I’d wanted to do something that would make her life a little easier, so she’d make mine easier too. And at that point in seventh grade, I needed an easier life more than just about anything else.

Carefully pushing aside all of Mom’s stuff that had started to take over the space—after the Auntie Jean episode I knew better than to throw anything away or move it more than a few inches from where she had put it—I managed to make enough room to cook dinner. Okay, cooking dinner might be an exaggeration, but I made a meal in that kitchen for the three of us to eat. This was before the sink stopped working and developed a permanent brown crust, and before mold had started its incessant march across all surfaces. Back when you could still eat something that had come into contact with the space and not watch for signs of botulism or trichinosis.

After school that day, I’d gone down to the grocery store on the corner and picked up one of those already cooked chickens that came in the little plastic containers. If nothing else, I knew how much Mom loved those containers with the clear plastic dome on top. For her, something as simple as a chicken container held endless possibilities. After the chicken was gone, it could be a container to take food over to a sick friend, or with a slit cut in the top, become a place to put receipts. Most likely, it would become just another piece in her ever-growing collection of useless plastic containers. It was like she used up all her energy thinking about possibilities for reusing stuff, so she never got around to actually doing it. As long as something could be labeled useful, it was allowed to stay, and if you thought about it hard enough, you could figure out a use for just about anything.

French bread and salad completed the meal. Phil hated salad or anything that was naturally green, but I’d tried to make it up to him by buying ice-cream sandwiches for dessert. Just as I was setting the bags on the counter, Phil came in from his room and started poking around in my bags.

“Get out of there,” I said, slapping his hand away. “It’s for dinner.”

“Whose dinner?”

“Our dinner. Yours, mine, and Mom’s.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” I pulled out the bag of salad and set it on a clear space on the counter. “I just thought it would be good for us to eat dinner together.”

Phil opened the cupboards and found a box of Cheez-Its that had hopefully been put in there not too long ago. After shoving a handful of crackers in his mouth, he said, “Bull.” Tiny crumbs of cracker flew out of his mouth in a dry, orange shower as he spoke.

“What?” I asked. He always thought he was so smart.

“Bull that you don’t want anything,” he said. “You’re totally fishing for something from her. What is it? You want a cat? Or a new bike?”

I made a show of concentrating on opening the salad and digging through the bottom cupboard for a cleanish bowl to put it in. “No.”

The bag crackled as he fished around the bottom for whatever crumbs were left. “Well, I’m not falling for your ‘let’s be a happy family’ act. You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t want something from her.”

I sighed and wiped a dinner plate with a wet paper towel. “It’s just that I was thinking about trying to have some girls over here. For my birthday.”

Phil wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “Why would you want to do that?”

For someone in AP classes in high school, he could be such an idiot. Was it really that different for him? Did he not care that he could never have anyone over to play video games or hang around watching late-night TV? Didn’t it bother him that we always had to make excuses for why nobody could come in the house, and that we always had to figure out ways to meet people outside? Maybe boys just didn’t notice those things. Unfortunately, girls did.

“A couple of the girls in my class wanted to have a sleep-over. You know, have one over here because we always go to someone else’s house. I’ve been stalling them for months, but they’re starting to get suspicious.”

I secretly thought that Elaina from my class had a crush on Phil—God only knows why—and that’s why they all wanted to come over here. We weren’t even very good friends, but she was always asking if he was going out with somebody, or if he was going to be home after school. Elaina said once that she thought Phil’s curls were hot, and did I ever think he would grow his hair out. I gave her such a look that it never came up again. Luckily, he was in high school, and seventh-grade girls were totally off his radar.

Phil looked around the room. Knowing him, I figured whatever was going to come out of his mouth would be obnoxious. But he just nodded. “I can see how that would be a problem.”

Buoyed by his sudden understanding, I continued letting my thoughts form into words. “So I figured I’d be nice to Mom, you know, make it easy for her, and then see if she would let us clean up a little bit—it wouldn’t have to be perfect—but enough so I could have a couple of girls over just this once.”

“That way, they won’t have anything to say behind your back,” he said. He opened the fridge and stuck his head all the way in. “Did you get any soda?”

I leaned against the sink to look at him carefully. Because he was five years older than me, we didn’t do much together. He ran track at school so he was in pretty good shape, if you could think that about a brother. The fact that I wrinkled my nose made me realize you couldn’t actually think that about a brother. “No soda,” I said. “But there are ice-cream sandwiches in the freezer. They’re shoved way up in the corner.”

Phil opened the freezer and grabbed the box, sending a cascade of ziplock bags full of mysterious meat products onto the floor. “Crap,” he said, hopping around on one foot. “Those things are like bricks.”

I helped him pick up the bags and shoved them back into the freezer. We slammed the door quickly so nothing else could attempt an escape.

“Thanks,” he said. He unwrapped the top of a sandwich and took a bite. As he put the wrapper in our one trash can that lived under the sink, he looked me in the eye.

“About the whole Mom thing,” he said. He shut the door to the cabinet and looked around the room. I felt closer to him at this moment than I’d ever felt before. We never talked about what went on in the house. Not after what happened with Aunt Jean. “Yeah,” he said. “Good luck with that.” He shoved the last of the ice cream in his mouth and ducked out of the room.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when Mom got home. I’d managed to clear enough space for two place settings, complete with placemats and napkins. Phil had taken a plate of food to his room, but I didn’t care, as it didn’t look like he was going to be all that much help.

Mom set the bags she was carrying down in the doorway to the kitchen and looked at the table. “Did I miss a holiday or something? What’s all this?”

I brought the plates into the kitchen where I’d set up the food. “I just thought you could use a break,” I said. I was so nervous I couldn’t look at her directly. One wrong word would set her off, and I needed her to be in a good mood. The only question was what that word would be. “I picked up some dinner after school. You didn’t plan anything else, did you?” Since the closest we got to family dinner was all meeting up at the pot of SpaghettiOs at the same time, it was more of a rhetorical question.

“No,” she said cautiously. “I didn’t. This looks nice.”

“Yeah, I’ve got some salad and chicken. There’s ice cream for dessert. I borrowed a twenty-dollar bill from the kitchen jar—is that okay?”

“It’s fine.” Mom washed her hands with the special antibacterial soap she got from work. She was afraid of germs and washed her hands until they were bright red. I’m sure she would have liked to declare a national holiday for the day they invented sanitizing gel for your hands. Mom was always telling us to bundle up so we wouldn’t catch cold, no matter how many times I told her that clinical studies proved it didn’t make any difference, and she would never, ever, even if it was the last morsel of food on earth, take a bite from someone else’s fork. “That’s how you get sick,” she always said. Forget about living with rotting food on the counters, mold spores in the air, and no clean dishes—just make sure you didn’t share food with anyone.

We filled our plates and took them to the kitchen table, eating in awkward silence like we were on a first date. My stomach was in knots, and even though I’d spent a lot of time thinking about the food, I could barely eat.

Mom spoke first. “So, how was your day?”

I speared a giant piece of lettuce and tried to decide whether to cut it or just shove it in my mouth whole. “Fine. How was work?”

“It was good.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. I watched her as we ate. She was getting those lines around her mouth that made people look like they were still smiling even after the happy thoughts had faded, and her dark hair had strands of gray shimmering through it. Mom looked over at the bags she’d dropped in the hallway, and her eyes lit up with excitement. “Oh, I stopped by Thrift Town after work, and they were having a blue-tag sale on books. Everything was a quarter, so I got some great hardback books practically free.”

I thought about the four bookcases we already had stuffed full of Mom’s bargain books that none of us had ever read. The overflow books had taken up residence next to the bookcases and were now the holders of other useless stuff, as if they were some kind of towering side table. “Where are you going to put them?” I asked tentatively. I kept my eyes firmly on the rapidly cooling chicken on my plate.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ll find somewhere,” she said. “Some of them I bought for other people. There was one called Mexico on $5 a Day that I’ll give to Sara for her trip next summer. It’s from 1989, but I’m sure most of the information is still the same.”

I took a deep breath. Here was my opening, and if I didn’t take it now, I might not get another one. Dinner was coming to an end, and I knew that after that, Mom would retire to her recliner to watch TV for the rest of the night, while Phil and I stayed barricaded in our rooms. “About finding places for stuff,” I said slowly. I glanced up quickly to see her expression, but she was happily cutting up chicken on her plate. “I was wondering if we could maybe do some straightening up around here this weekend.”

Mom chewed and nodded slightly. “We could probably do that,” she said between bites. “You know I’ve been busy organizing the drawers in the coffee table. There was so much good stuff in there, you wouldn’t believe it.” Maybe she would understand, after all.

“Well, I was thinking about more than just the coffee table,” I said. I could hear myself starting to talk more quickly. Once the words were out, I wouldn’t be able to take them back again, so I just had to move forward. Like taking a Band-Aid off in one quick motion. “I was thinking maybe we could take some of the newspapers and magazines to the recycling center and go through some of the stuff that’s starting to pile up in the living room.”

Mom’s chewing slowed. “I don’t know about that,” she said. She glanced down the hallway with a worried look. “I haven’t had a chance to go through all of the newspapers yet. There might be something in there I really need, and if we just toss them all, I might miss it. And stuff is not starting to ‘pile up’ in the living room. I know where everything is, and it’s all very necessary. I have my quilting supplies for when I start quilting again, and there are the clothes I’m sorting through for the charity drive at church.”

“There is such a thing as the Internet, Mom.” I could hear sarcasm creeping into my voice, but I couldn’t stop it. I could feel her pushing back, and I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “You can pretty much find everything you need there, you know. You don’t have to save all these papers.”

“Well, Ms. Smarty Pants,” she said, “how do I know what I’m looking for if I haven’t read about it yet?” She put her fork down on her plate with a loud clatter. “You haven’t been talking to Aunt Jean, have you? I knew she wouldn’t mind her own business. She’s just jealous about all my treasures—”

I was losing control of this situation quickly and had to pull it back if there was ever going to be a chance to look normal to Elaina and the other girls. “No. I would never talk to Auntie Jean. We promised you we wouldn’t.” My stomach was beginning to churn, but I got up from my chair and put my arm around her to try to get her back on my side. “It’s just that some girls wanted to come for a sleepover—you know, for my birthday—and I thought—”

“You thought I was an embarrassment, is that it?” Her eyes were wet around the corners, and I could see she was going to start crying. She shrugged my arm off. “I’ll have you know I work hard for this family just to keep us afloat. No thanks to your deadbeat father, I’m killing myself to keep a roof over all our heads. Maybe other mothers have time to keep their houses spotless because they don’t have to work twelve-hour days and then come home to ungrateful children who can’t manage to pick up after themselves.” She slid her chair back with such force it banged into the sliding glass door. “I don’t need to come home to this kind of pressure, Lucy Anne Tompkins.” Tears were rolling down her face, and she wasn’t doing anything to stop them. “If I’m not good enough for your snotty little girlfriends, then maybe you should find somewhere else to live.”

“Maybe I will,” I said quietly, staring into my napkin. I knew that was like throwing water on a grease fire, but I couldn’t help myself. I was so tired of pretending, of not being good enough.

She inhaled sharply, and put all four legs of the chair back on the ground. “You think so, do you?” she said evenly. “And where would you go? Hmm? Who in the world is going to want an arrogant, whiny, good-for-nothing twelve-year-old baby? Your father?” She laughed. “You really think he wants you ruining his life? His perfect little girlfriend wouldn’t let you in their house for a minute.”

I could feel my cheeks burning. “Auntie Jean would take me,” I said. “She always said she would help us if we needed it.”

“Jean?” Mom said with scorn in her voice. “How often have you heard from Aunt Jean?” She took a deep, labored breath. “You really think she’s going to want to take you in? Trust me, she doesn’t want anything to do with us. Face it, Lucy, I’m all you’ve got left, so you’d better get used to it.” Her face was flushed and she coughed twice.

“I’ll run away,” I said, staring her down. “Anywhere would be better than here.”

“Fine,” she said, her voice raspy. She coughed and then inhaled sharply with a gasp. Her breath rattled in her chest as she tried and failed to fill her lungs with air. Mom’s arms started flailing and her eyes grew wide with panic as the oxygen failed to come. “Inhaler,” she mouthed, pointing to her purse on the floor by the doorway.

“Phil!” I screamed as I dove for her purse. I’d seen Mom’s asthma act up before, but I’d never seen an attack this sudden or this severe. I tore through the contents and found the beige inhaler sitting at the bottom. I shook it as I raced back to her place at the table, where she grabbed for it like a lifeline, Phil standing uselessly wide-eyed next to her. After a couple of hits, her breathing was ragged but successful, and the wild panic in her eyes was replaced by weariness. I stood next to her chair, not knowing what to do next, the feelings of hate mixed with guilt for almost killing her. Several long minutes passed as she gained control of her breathing and I held mine, remembering the words that hung between us.

Mom took one last hit on her inhaler and put it in her pocket. She held her hand out to me, and I helped her up out of her chair, her legs still shaking. She braced herself on the table before letting go and testing her balance, her shoulders squared as she stood up and looked me in the eye. “You do what you want,” she said and paused for breath. “But I won’t be an outcast in my own home.” She took a couple of shallow breaths again. “If you walk out that door . . . you’d better be able to make it on your own . . . because you won’t be welcome back.” She took a few shaky steps out the kitchen door and down the hallway, slamming the door to her room so hard the windows rattled.

I didn’t cry or get upset like I usually did—I just felt a numbness that started in my chest and flowed outward with a strange kind of peace. Slowly and carefully, I picked up our plates and carried them both to the sink. At least now I knew what was possible, and I’d never ask her again. I’d start marking down days on the calendar until I could move out on my own and keep my house the way I wanted, and have people over whenever I wanted. It seemed like forever, but what else was I going to do?

“That went well,” Phil said, grabbing a dish towel from the drawer next to the sink as I ran water for the dishes. “Anyone walking by probably thought so too.”

“Thanks for your support,” I said. “She almost died out here, you know. If it hadn’t been for her inhaler . . .”

“She’ll be fine. Probably sleep until tomorrow, anyway,” he said. “I could have told you not to bother.” He grabbed a couple of plates that were in the drainer and started slowly rubbing them in circles with the towel. We didn’t speak for several long moments. I could feel hot tears beginning to form behind my eyelids as I ran the argument over in my head. She always said it was our fault—that Phil and I couldn’t pick up after ourselves, and that’s why this place was such a mess. If I ever left so much as one shoe in the hallway, she’d scream and yell like I was the one who stacked up piles of crap in the middle of the living room that were so high you couldn’t see around them.

“You know, it wasn’t always like this,” Phil finally said. He was talking quietly, and I almost didn’t hear him over the running water.

I sniffed. “What wasn’t like this?”

Phil looked around the kitchen. “This place. The whole house. Mom didn’t used to save stuff like she does now,” he said. “When Dad was here, everything was clean—almost too clean. Sara and I had to pick up everything, and if we left toys out, Mom would go crazy.”

“So Dad was a neat freak?” I was almost afraid to say anything in case he stopped talking.

“No. That’s the weird thing. Dad wasn’t a slob or anything. He was just regular. Mom was the neat freak.”

I let out a laugh so forceful it sounded like a bark. “Right,” I said. “Look around, Phil. Mom is the opposite of a neat freak. She’s more like some kind of garbage freak.”

Phil shook his head. “Seriously,” he said. “The whole house was spotless all the time. Mom vacuumed and dusted like every day. She used to say that everything in this house had its place, and it was our job to make sure it got back there.” He laughed. “She had this thing about vacuuming—all the lines had to be going in the same direction when you were done, and if you made footprints in the freshly vacuumed carpet, she made you do it again.”

I looked around at the piles of stuff that hadn’t been touched in years. “I don’t remember any of that,” I said.

He shrugged. “I guess you were too little.” He stopped and looked around too. “It didn’t start to get bad until after Dad left.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, we only have to deal with it until we move out. Then she can bury herself in it for all I care.”

I turned back to the dishes. “Easy for you to say,” I said. “You’ve only got another year.” The thought of being alone with Mom in this house made me nauseous. It seemed like Sara had always had her own apartment and was more like a distant, bossy relative than a real sister—but I wasn’t sure I could do it without Phil, even though most of the time he was no help at all. It was just having someone around who understood, even a little bit, what it was like. We weren’t one of those families that went around talking about their feelings all the time, but I was sure Phil knew what I was thinking.

“It’s not that long,” he said. “And besides, I’ll probably go someplace close by so I can come and visit all the time. And you can come and stay with me sometimes.” He bumped me with his hip. It was probably the closest thing to a hug I’d ever gotten from him. “It’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

Just then the phone rang, and he ran to get it. I could tell it was a girl by the way his voice got softer and he stretched the cord as far into the dining room as it would go.

I picked the last dish up out of the sink. It was the pink “World’s Greatest Mom” mug that she always used for her morning coffee. I stabbed at it with the sponge and tossed it into the drainer without even rinsing it. Maybe I’d get lucky and she’d be right about the germs.

Now, so many years later, I stared at the pink mug in my hand like it was an artifact from a previous civilization. As I threw the mug into the garbage bag with as much force as I could, it was satisfying to hear it break into little pieces.

chapter 9

4:00 p.m.

The smell in the kitchen was giving me a headache, so I decided to take a break from the worst of the mess and go back to the living room. I’d been digging for a while when the shovel hit something at the bottom of one pile that felt solid, not like the papers and clothes that were everywhere else. I leaned against the handle of the shovel and tried to figure out why I couldn’t pick up whatever was on the bottom of this pile. It just looked like newspapers and maybe a couple of bags of something else. A McDonald’s bag was lying near it, and when I picked it up, the top half tore off of the soggy bottom. The bag must have had food in it when it was set down here however long ago, because whatever it was had liquefied and seeped into the layers of newspaper down below, providing a home and nourishment to a colony of rice-sized maggots. I scrunched up my nose and tossed the remains of the bag into the big green can.

With the shovel, I felt around the edges of the soggy, maggot-infested papers. I put the blade on the very bottom of the pile and tried to lift it, but the pile had been in this spot for so long that the papers were stuck to the carpet. I tried again about halfway up the pile and, with a ripping sound, managed to separate part of it off from the bottom. As it ripped away from the base, the pile of papers flipped into the air, and several of the maggots were flung off the papers and into my face like a larval rain shower.

Raking my fingers through my hair to make sure none landed on me, I felt something cold and wet inside my shirt. I quickly shook it out and watched as one lone maggot landed on the ground, still moving. I ground the disgusting thing into the remains of the carpet with my shoe until it was just a pasty, wet smear.

Spitting and gagging, I ran into my bathroom and went straight to the sink. After splashing cold water over my face and peering intently into the mirror, I was sure with the reasonable part of my brain that there weren’t any more maggots on me, but the unreasonable part felt like they were crawling through my scalp and down my neck.

I had come into this part of the job completely unprepared. Tearing off my shirt, I dug around in my drawer for an old turtleneck. There was a bandanna in my sock drawer from when we had Wild West Days at school, so I took it out and tied it around my head to protect my hair from whatever else I was going to find as I cleaned.

Armed with the neck of the shirt pulled up over my mouth, I walked back to the living room. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the shovel again and tried to pry the stack of newspapers off the carpet. The tip of the shovel dug into the brown fibers as I jammed my foot on the blade to try and work the papers free. Finally, with a wet tearing sound, the small stack broke free of the floor, and I was able to heave it into the trash can. A big patch of the carpet had come up with the papers, and I could see the hardwood floors underneath. I poked at the floor with the metal shovel. Instead of being solid, the wood felt spongy and soft. We definitely couldn’t keep the carpet the way it was once the place was cleaned. I wondered how much it would cost to replace an entire floor.

Dark clouds were rolling in as I dragged the bag toward the window, making it seem like dusk even though it was only four o’clock. As I balanced the bag on the sill, I could see the last rays of watery sunshine glowing behind the clouds in the distance as the sun began its roll toward the ocean. The weather didn’t usually make much difference to me, because we always kept the curtains closed in the front of the house. I shoved the bag out the window and heard it join the others with a soft sigh.

“Hello?” The voice came from outside. I sucked in my breath and froze. It came again. “Hello?”

Pulling the turtleneck off my face, I stuck my head out the window and tried to manage a normal-looking smile. Mrs. Raj. Even though her house was a pretty good distance from ours, she seemed to think that living next door was an excuse to constantly monitor what we were doing.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Raj.” I sounded remarkably normal, even though I was a little out of breath.

“Doing a bit of early spring cleaning, I see.” She stood at the corner of our house where the walkway ended. Her eyes darted to the growing pile of garbage bags, and then back to me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I forced a little laugh. “I didn’t have anything else to do on vacation, so I thought I’d help Mom out. Just getting rid of a few things.”

She pursed her lips and looked at me. “I’ve heard teenage girls can be rather untidy,” she said. “It’s nice to see you making a go of it.”

Her dog, Tinto, strained at the end of his leash, trying to sniff some of the bags. I hoped she had enough sense to pull him away before he chewed a hole in one.

I’d always begged Mom for a dog, but with her breathing problems, we could never get one. Not that I’d want a dog like Tinto—even calling him a dog was generous. He looked more like a long-haired white rat on a leash and was always barking in that high-pitched yap that could be heard all over the neighborhood.

“Tinto, no!” Mrs. Raj called, pulling him back toward the street. He lifted one flea-bitten leg and peed on the bags as a parting gesture. “Come away from there. I don’t want to have to give you another bath today.” Mrs. Raj bent down and picked him up, nuzzling him on the nose. “My precious baby.”

“Well,” I said, giving her a little wave, “have a nice walk. You should probably hurry; it looks like it might rain.”

“Yes, we will,” she said. She tried to peek around the curtains at my back, so I reached down and held them closed with one hand. “I notice your mother’s car hasn’t moved from the driveway all day. Is she out of town?”

I kept the smile plastered on my face as my insides were screaming for her to mind her own business. “No. She’s home. She’s just not feeling well, so she didn’t go to work today.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. She raised her eyebrows. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “We’re fine.”

“All right, then,” she said, and turned like she was going to walk away.

I exhaled, unaware that I had been holding my breath. I started to pull my head back inside the window when she spoke again.

“Oh, Lucy, dear,” she called from the sidewalk.

I bumped my head on the bottom of the window as I stuck it outside again. “Yes?” I said brightly through the pain.

Mrs. Raj indicated the growing pile of black trash bags with her hand. “You’re not going to leave those bags there, now, are you? You know the town council has rules about compounding garbage that is visible from the street. It would reflect badly on all of us to start a garbage dump on the side of the house.”

The whole place is one giant compounded pile of garbage, I wanted to scream. But instead, I smiled sweetly and said, “Only until trash pick up day. I’m going to get tags for extra garbage.”

Mrs. Raj sniffed from the sidewalk. “Well, that’s very good, dear,” she said. “As long as it’s gone on trash day. We can’t have garbage piling up around our neighborhood, now can we? What would people say?”

“No, we certainly can’t,” I said. “Have a nice walk, Mrs. Raj. I have to get back to work.” I pulled my head in the window and pulled the curtains closed before she had a chance to reply.

“We can’t have garbage piling up around our neighborhood,” I mimicked as I worked my way back to the living room. No, we certainly could not. Instead, we’d keep it here behind closed doors and live with it every second of our freaking lives.

Mrs. Raj and all those people who were just like her were the reason that I had to get rid of all this crap before anybody could see. Snooty, too-good-for-you busybodies with nothing better to do than to stick their nose in our business. I’ll bet Mrs. Raj had been killing herself trying to get in here for years. She was just the type to get invited over to the neighbor’s so she could feel that she was so much better than them. Than us. I couldn’t let her have the satisfaction.

My phone rang once, so I pulled it out of my front pocket and flipped it open. It was a text from Kaylie asking when I was coming over. I couldn’t believe it had gotten so late already. I texted her back that I still had a lot of work to do, trying to stall for time. Anytime I thought about Josh and the look on his face when he asked me to come to the party, I could feel a zing of energy course through my whole body. It would be totally amazing to stand in the crowd watching him play, knowing that he had asked me to come. But it was crazy to leave here, wasn’t it? There was no way I could hang out at a party with things the way they were. What if someone came by? And all of that time wasted—it wasn’t like I had so much to start with. I would have to come up with something so that Kaylie wouldn’t hate me and Josh wouldn’t think I was a total loser for not showing up. A few seconds later, the phone rang for real.

“Hey,” Kaylie said. “What could you possibly be doing that takes all day?”

“Just some stuff around the house,” I answered. “Did you go shopping?”

“Yeah, I got an awesome new bag. What time are you coming over?”

It felt like last night with Josh was a part of another lifetime. I looked around the room and felt the crushing weight of the stuff wash over me. All of a sudden I felt exhausted, like the only thing I wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep for weeks.

“About that,” I said. “I don’t think I can make it tonight. Something came up.” I winced as I said it, knowing she wouldn’t let this one go easily. You’d think that all my lying over the years would have made me better at it. You’d think.

There was silence on her end for a long moment. “Something came up? Are you seriously trying to tell me something came up that’s more important than seeing Josh play? At a party that he asked you to go to?”

“It’s just—”

“No. Way.” I could picture Kaylie holding her hand up to the phone. “I don’t want to hear any of your excuses.” Her voice was getting louder. “I’ve been planning all day for tonight. You can’t let me down like this—you can’t let you down like this. Josh is totally dying to see you tonight, and you’re saying something else came up?” She was really on a roll, so I just waited until it wound down, trying to come up with a good reason why I couldn’t go have the best night of my life.

“I can’t—”

“At least meet me at Sienna. In twenty. Then you can explain all this to my face.”

I knew that if I didn’t go to the café she would try to come over here. “Okay—” But the phone went dead.

I wiped my forehead with the back of my arm. I could use a break, and some coffee was definitely in order if I was going to keep at this for much longer. It was almost five o’clock, and I would have to work late into the night—probably all night—to keep making any progress. I had just enough time to change out of my maggot-deflection gear and get over there before she got suspicious.

chapter 10

4:45 p.m.

I ordered my drinks and headed to the bathroom at the back of the café—I’d managed to beat Kaylie here. I knew Josh’s work schedule by heart, and luckily he was off on Tuesdays so I didn’t have to see face-to-face what I was giving up. I had a feeling that if I looked into those brown eyes, I’d be able to rationalize just about anything.

The bathroom was empty, so I turned on the hot water full blast in the sink and poked at the stream with my finger until it got warm. Once I had the temperature adjusted so that it was just this side of too hot, I ran it over my hands and lower arms, feeling a shiver raise the hairs on the back of my neck as the warmth reached through my skin and into my blood. I stood staring into the running water, enjoying the sensation of hot water cleaning away the maggots and the dirt and the thoughts of everything that had gone on today.

Out of everything else, I missed hot water the most. I had a bathtub in my bathroom, and a couple of times in the last few years I’d warmed up enough hot water in the microwave to take a teeny tiny bath, but it took so long to get bowls of water hot enough that, in the end, it really wasn’t worth the effort for five inches of lukewarm water. Showers at the gym were nice, and they never cared that I often stayed in there so long that clouds of steam rolled off my red skin by the time I got out. Maybe we could get a hot tub for the backyard when everything was cleaned out. I’d always wanted a hot tub.

A lady with a bad orange dye job opened the bathroom door and went into a stall, so I just soaped up my hands, rinsed one last time in hot water heaven, and turned off the tap. My hands were red but warm all the way through as I patted them dry with a paper towel and went back out into the busy café.

The frothing sound of the milk steamer was soothing, and it calmed the flutters of panic that kept rising in my throat and threatened to reject the blueberry scone I was picking at. My stomach was starving, but my head wasn’t interested. I chewed another piece of scone and looked around. It was somewhere between lunch and dinnertime, and there were a surprising number of people sitting down for their afternoon jolt. Nobody paid attention to me—I just blended in with the rest of the people in the café staring into space and waiting for their drinks. It was amazing that a person could have such a big secret and it didn’t show at all.

“Two large vanilla lattes,” the girl called, setting my cups on the counter.

Just as I reached for them, Josh walked out from the back room, tying a black apron around his waist. “I’m back if you want to go on break,” he said to the cashier. I was frozen between trying to pick up the steaming coffee without being noticed and running away. Damn Kaylie. She must have known he’d be working today, which is why she wanted to meet here.

I grabbed the coffee and tried to turn around quickly, but it didn’t work. “Lucy,” he said, sounding surprised and (I hoped) happy to see me. “Fueling up before the party tonight? I was on a break, or I’d have gotten you something special.” Josh grinned, showing off every one of his perfect white teeth with the small but adorable gap in the middle. He wasn’t making this easy, standing there looking like something out of a magazine.

“It’s okay. Thanks, though,” I said. I pretended to be absorbed in slurping up the little plume of foam that had appeared through the tiny hole in the lid. “Yeah. I’m, uh, meeting Kaylie.”

“Here she comes.” He nodded toward the front doors.

Kaylie walked in with the phone to her ear, talking loudly to someone, but she snapped it shut as soon as she saw us. “Good,” she said. “You’re here. I guess you’ve told him already?”

Josh tilted his head and looked at me. “Told me what?”

I willed more people to show up and desperately need caffeine, but it looked like everyone in town was taken care of for the moment. I took a sip of the hot latte. “Mmm. Maybe later. You’re busy.” I made a move toward an empty table, but Kaylie grabbed my arm and held me there.

“Lucy has decided that she can’t come tonight, after all,” Kaylie said to Josh. “Something has ‘come up.’ ” She made little quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

It was hard to read Josh’s reaction. Even though I knew that there was no way I could show up at the party, I wanted him to look at least a little disappointed.

“You sure? We’ve been working on this new song, and I really wanted you to hear it.” I had to admit, he looked pretty sincere.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry, I really can’t.” Looking into his eyes was like looking directly at the sun—do it too long and you could go blind. I stared down at the scuffs on my Converse. “Next time, maybe?”

“Sure,” he said. He reached across the counter, but just then the bells on the front door rang and three women walked in. Josh looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he turned to the customers. “Good afternoon. What can I get for you?” As he ignored me and became all businesslike, I started to realize what had just happened. Josh had asked me out once, and chances were, he wasn’t going to do it again.

Kaylie ordered a coffee and headed for an open table. “Come. Sit.”

“I really do have to—”

Kaylie kicked the chair under the table so it scooted in my direction. “Sit. You at least owe me that for bailing.”

So I sat. Kaylie had been my best friend since the start of school this year—longer than I’d ever been best friends with anyone before. She didn’t ask a lot of questions and always believed my answers, which to me were important qualities for a best friend. I couldn’t afford to blow it, especially now. After what happened to my last “best friend,” I swore I’d never let it happen again.

I’d always been careful before. Whenever I got picked up at the house, I made sure to meet people out front or on the curb. I spent a lot of time waiting outside, but it was worth not having to explain why they couldn’t come in. I should have been waiting at the end of the driveway for Elaina and her mom to pick me up that day. Even though I’d never been able to pull off the slumber party, she and a couple of girls in my class still seemed interested in hanging out with me. I’d fooled myself into thinking they liked me. Instead of waiting at the curb that day, I was in the bathroom trying to get one side of my hair to lie flat like it was supposed to. Once I noticed what time it was, it was too late. Elaina was knocking on the front door before I could even get down the hall. I stood on the other side of the door with my heart racing, trying to figure out what I was going to do.

“Hey, Elaina,” I yelled through the door. “I’ll be out in a sec. I’ll meet you down at the car.”

“Okay,” she yelled back.

I took a deep breath. Close calls always freaked me out. I stood on my side of the door for two whole minutes just to make sure, but when I opened it, Elaina was standing on the other side. Even worse, she slid into the doorway before I could pull it shut.

“You know what?” she said. “I really need to . . .” Her words tapered off as she took a look around the parts of the house that she could see. “I, um, really need to pee.” She looked directly at me with a funny smirk on her face. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“I, uh, it’s broken,” I said, knowing in the pit of my stomach that it was already too late. Our hallway bathroom was covered in mildew, and the shower was filled with papers and bags of clothes, but technically it still worked. She’d have to push her way through the rest of the house to get there, though, and there was no way I was going to make this worse.

“Broken?” Elaina asked, staring at the piles of newspapers that lined the hallway. “How does a bathroom get broken?”

“We’re remodeling.” I tried to block her way into the house, but just then Mom came around the corner and stopped in her tracks at the sight of Elaina on the wrong side of the door.

Her hands flew to her hair, as if having a few hairs out of place was the worst thing we had going. “Oh, hello, dear,” she said. Her voice was shaking and her eyes were darting around the room. “Are you girls going out?”

“I was just telling Elaina that she can’t use the bathroom. Because of the remodel.” I sent Mom messages with my eyes to please, please go along with me. She hated lying, but she hated having people in the house even more.

Mom couldn’t keep her hands still, and they flew around her body like they were possessed. She reached out to touch some of the newspapers and to smooth the cover of a National Geographic that had gotten bent, but until she opened her mouth, I wasn’t sure what she would do. “Right. The remodel.” I was afraid Elaina would see my relief. For once, Mom was on my side. She looked directly at Elaina for the first time. “Perhaps we can go next door and ask Mrs. Raj if you can use hers?”

Elaina took one last look around, memorizing the piles of junk that reached almost to the ceiling. “That’s okay,” she said. “I guess I can wait.”

I grabbed my bag, and all three of us slipped out of the house. I didn’t dare look at Elaina, but Mom cut her eyes at me like she’d never been so angry in her life. I knew she’d blame me for letting Elaina in on purpose, even though I spent all my time trying to keep people away. I was glad I was going out, because then maybe she’d cool off by the time I got home.

Mom followed us down the driveway and plastered on a normal-looking smile as she waved to Elaina’s mom in the driver’s seat. “Hi, Victoria,” she said as she reached the van. “Thanks so much for taking Lucy with you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Elaina’s mom said.

I pulled the back door open and strapped myself into the van. I tried to stare straight ahead and listen to their conversation, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what Elaina had seen. I started to breathe faster and had to will myself to calm down. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as I thought. Maybe Elaina would just think the place was a little messy, is all.

After what seemed like an hour and a half, Mom stepped back from the van with a wave. “All set?” Elaina’s mom asked.

“Yup,” Elaina said as the van pulled away from the curb. She watched out the front window as her mother drove, but kept sneaking glances back at me as she talked. I swear I saw her nose wrinkle just a little. That whole afternoon, Elaina seemed normal but distant. There was no way I was going to bring it up, so we just acted like nothing had happened, and I’d hoped that was the end of it. I found out at school on Monday that it was nowhere near the end of it.

The balled-up piece of notebook paper hit me in the back of the head to the sound of giggling from the back of the room. It landed near my right foot, so I bent down to pick it up. As quietly as I could, I straightened it out in my lap so that I could see the cartoon of what was probably supposed to be me, with boogers dripping down my face and flies buzzing around me. I was sitting on top of a mountain of junk and underneath the whole thing were the words “Garbage Girl” written in big black marker.

I looked toward the back of the room, but everyone was staring at their desks, pretending to write in their journals. It could have been anyone, really—aside from Elaina, I didn’t have any real friends. Maybe now I didn’t have any friends at all.

“Lucy, do you have something to share?” The voice from the front of the room echoed in the stillness.

“No, Sister,” I said, and tucked the disgusting drawing away in my notebook.

To my left, Curtis Swanson coughed loudly, but I swear I heard the words “Garbage Girl” come out of his mouth. Over the next couple of weeks, I was going to hear it a lot. Elaina avoided me like I stunk, and I got notes and drawings stuffed in my locker almost every day. I finally told Phil about it after I’d said I had a stomachache and stayed home from school for three straight days. For once he wasn’t a jerk—he was the sympathetic brother I’d always wanted sticking up for me. Now that he was older, Mom treated him more like another adult. Maybe she knew he was on his way out.

I don’t know how he did it, but Phil got Mom to let me go to public school right after that. She said it was because Catholic school was too expensive, but communication wasn’t a strong point in our family. I was just glad the whole “Garbage Girl” episode hadn’t followed me this far. Yet.

I glanced back at the front counter where Josh was helping some more customers. He wasn’t even looking in my direction. I’d missed my chance and he’d already moved on. Probably relieved that I’d changed my mind.

Kaylie picked up her coffee and walked back to the table, squinting at the display on her phone, trying to read a text. “So it looks like I’m meeting Vanessa at nine—are you sure you can’t come?”

I nodded quickly and took another sip of coffee.

“I’m sorry I got all mad at you on the phone. Is it your mom’s head again?” she asked. She looked sympathetic, but that was probably because she had Vanessa as backup. Maybe Kaylie was moving on too.

“Yeah,” I managed, grateful that she’d remembered my lie. Over the past couple of years, I’d told people that Mom had a brain tumor, multiple sclerosis, epilepsy, Alzheimer’s, kidney failure, and irritable bowel syndrome as reasons for why I couldn’t do something or have them over. I always felt a little guilty saying it, like I was jinxing Mom somehow. Maybe I was.

“I thought the brain surgery was supposed to cure the seizures,” she said.

“It will,” I said. “But the doctors said it might take up to a year. She’s . . . she’s not doing so good right now.”

“That sucks,” she said. She glanced up at the counter where I didn’t dare look again. “I just think Josh would be so good for you, you know? You need to have a little more fun in your life. You’re always so serious.”

I couldn’t answer her. I just looked down and studied my fingernails.

“I mean, I know you don’t let guys rule your life and everything,” she said. “And you don’t care what people think about you. But still.”

All I could do was look at her and nod at this totally distorted image of me that she seemed to have. I’d love to let guys rule my life, if my life was normal. The fact that she thought my hiding from the world was some display of maturity was actually a little sad.

“Are you okay?” Kaylie asked. She leaned her face in closer to mine. “You look funny.”

I plastered a smile on my face. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Maybe later I could come and help you, so that you could get out of there,” she said. “You never let me come over to help, even though you’re all alone with her.”

As she said that, the backs of my eyes started stinging, like I was going to start bawling. The worst part was there was nobody who could help me—nobody that I could even tell. Dad had made it clear that sending money every month was about as much involvement as he wanted with us, and all he’d do was tell me to call 911. Or worse, call them for me. He’d probably be relieved if I could persuade Phil to move back in with me afterward so that he wouldn’t have to deal with it, but I wasn’t convinced that Phil would see things my way. What if I told him what had happened and he called the police? Sara would definitely not see things my way and would have the house surrounded by flashing lights in no time. I had effectively been an orphan for the past eight hours or so, and I had to keep the biggest secret of my life all to myself.

“No. Thanks,” I said. I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands. Kaylie looked at me like she wanted me to say more. “Why . . . why do you even bother?” I finally asked.

“Bother with what?” Kaylie looked genuinely confused.

I was sure that my nose was bright red by now and that I looked even more pathetic than usual. Luckily, nobody around seemed to be listening. “With me,” I said quietly, wiping my nose to make sure there was nothing dripping. “You’ve got Vanessa and all of your other friends. I just wreck your plans.”

She sat back in her chair. “Are you serious?”

I didn’t say anything else. I knew that I sounded like a whiny pain in the neck, but it might be easier if I just got rid of everyone—all two of them—in one quick afternoon. Maybe after all this was over I could make new friends—have a boyfriend, even, but things were getting too complicated right now.

“First of all,” Kaylie said, “you don’t wreck everything. Okay, yeah, you bail on me sometimes, but you’ve got a lot going on. Do you remember art class last year?”

Of course I did. Kaylie sat at the next table while my partner was the annoying Miles Harris, pitcher for the baseball team and all-around idiot who threatened to ruin my favorite class. I tried to ignore him, and all the girls in the class who would always find excuses to come by our table, by drawing pictures of the house I was going to design someday. Kaylie started talking to me toward the end of the year, first asking to borrow a pen or some paper and later asking me to tag along with her when she went out on the weekends.

“You were the only one who wasn’t dying to sit next to Miles—you even seemed irritated by him. You’d just sit there drawing these really amazing pictures, and your projects were always so much better than mine. It was like you had more important things to deal with than the hottie sitting next to you. I wanted to find out what your secret was.” She laughed.

If Kaylie ever did find out the real secret, she wouldn’t think it was so funny. “I don’t have a secret,” I lied.

“Yes, you do,” she said. I felt a momentary flutter of dread, but I knew she wasn’t anywhere near the truth. “Your secret is that you really don’t care about all the stuff that goes on in school. You’re somehow removed from it all.” She sat forward again. “Which is why this whole Josh thing is so awesome. I just don’t want you to walk away from him.”

“I’m not,” I said. “It’s just that tonight . . . I can’t come tonight.” I didn’t want to tell her how much I really did care about what Josh thought and what he was doing. And who he was doing it with. Leaving yourself vulnerable was the quickest way to have anything good taken away from you. If I’d learned anything from Mom, it was that.

“Well, I’ll totally keep an eye on him for you,” she said. “I’m not going to let him get away, in spite of you.”

I managed a smile. “Thanks, Kay,” I said. I tossed back the last of the coffee in my cup. “I really do have to head back,” I said, and stood up.

Kaylie sighed. “If you say so. Do you want me to walk with you?”

“No, it’s cool. I have to stop at Safeway.”

She leaned over the table and gave me a hug. “I’ll call you if anything good happens.”

I nodded and picked up the second cup of coffee I’d ordered.

“Didn’t you just have coffee?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “This one’s for Mom. I promised her I’d bring some back with me.” The one thing I didn’t have set up in my room was a coffee maker, and I was going to need all the help I could get if I was going to keep working until late at night.

“Don’t let my mom hear you say that,” she said. “She already thinks you’re the perfect daughter. She’s always joking that she’d like to adopt you and have you come live with us.”

I could never tell Kaylie how perfect that would be. As much as I wanted to grow up and be on my own, I wished for someone to take care of me so I wouldn’t have to worry all the time. I thought of my mother’s sheet-covered body lying in the hallway at that very second. Every time I started to feel guilty, I had to remind myself that I was doing it for all of us. But that still didn’t change the fact that Mom was dead, and I was sitting here talking and drinking coffee. I wondered what Kaylie’s mom would think about that. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not so perfect.”

Josh was busy up front, so I just walked out the door without another word. It was probably best this way. It felt like a solid lead ball was sitting in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t stand thinking about him at the party tonight. As much as I liked to think I was special, there would be so many girls there, he wouldn’t even notice I was missing. He’d probably be going out with someone else by the time vacation was over.

Walking home, I carried a bag from the grocery store and balanced the coffee in one hand, hoping that and some egg rolls from the deli would keep me at least until tomorrow. I’d really wanted fried rice, but as I bent down to look at it in the deli case, all I could think of was the maggot I’d brushed out of my shirt earlier. As much as it used to be my favorite food, thanks to one lone, preadolescent fly, fried rice was probably lost to me forever. I’d also loaded up on more rubber gloves and those paper face masks that supposedly protect you from chemicals and irritants. We should probably have been living in these all along.

The walk was short, but it felt good to be out in the cold air. I zipped my jacket up to my chin so only the top of my head and my face were freezing. It was starting to get dark, and most of the houses still had their Christmas lights on outside, which made the cold darkness seem not so bad. Like it had a purpose, even.

As I walked up our street, I looked in the windows of the houses I passed. I could see people sitting down to dinner, or the blue glow on the walls from the TV.

The Callans a few houses down had their curtains open, and I could see the Christmas tree all lit up by the window. I was sure Mrs. Callan would be in the kitchen cooking, waiting for Mr. Callan to come home. Hanging out in their house had made me realize that not everyone had parents who loved their stuff more than they loved their kids.

The air smelled like a campfire, and I thought about how nice it would be to sit by a warm fire on such a cold night. Maybe we could get the fireplace working again once everything was done. Phil and I would keep a big stack of wood on the porch and feed it to the fire every time it started to die. Maybe we could have regular movie nights in the winter, where we’d invite people over, make popcorn, and sit in front of the fire, watching movies with all the lights off. At this point I should have probably stopped with the “maybes” and “what-ifs,” but whenever the now got bad, thinking about the future always made me feel better.

chapter 11

5:30 p.m.

“Lucy!”

I stopped dragging the green bin across the dining room and listened. It was high and faint, but it was definitely my name. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my heart beat faster.

I pulled down my face mask. “Mom?” I whispered cautiously, and immediately felt ridiculous. I had to be hearing things. Since I’d only put on lights in the dining room, it was pitch black in the rest of the house now—and starting to get a little creepy, if I let myself think about it. I slowly tiptoed out of the dining room and down the hall, trying to calm myself. Mom was definitely dead the last time I looked. No amount of moving her stuff around and looking in forbidden boxes would turn her into an angry ghost. At least, that’s what I hoped.

I got to the back hallway and flicked on the overhead light. The sheet was still there. I swallowed hard and tried to reason with myself. This was crazy. Whatever I was hearing, it definitely wasn’t Mom calling me. At least not from the hallway.

I walked back to the dining room and started moving boxes again. As I was stuffing some newspapers in a garbage bag, I heard it again. A small voice calling my name.

“Stop it!” I yelled out loud this time. I was starting to panic when movement at the window caught my eye. Before I could react, the curtains parted, and TJ stuck his head through them.

“Hey!” he said. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“Man, TJ,” I said. My knees wobbled with relief, and I felt like I had to sit down. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“Did I?” he said, not looking ashamed. “I wasn’t sneaking up on you or anything. I yelled and stuff.” He scrunched up his nose and looked around. “What stinks?”

I ignored that last statement and crossed the room until I was standing above him at the window. “What are you doing out there?” I peeked out the window and saw him standing on the stack of plastic bags. Only TJ wouldn’t think to ask what a giant stack of plastic bags was doing along the side of the house.

He looked around the room. “Are you moving or something? Who’s going to babysit me when Mom goes out?”

“Knock it off,” I said. “We’re not moving. I told you, I’m just cleaning up some stuff.”

“Cool.” TJ looked behind him. “Can I come in?”

“No!” I answered just a little too quickly. “You can’t come in. It’s not a good idea. You said yourself it stinks in here.”

“I didn’t mean it. Come on,” he said. “I can help. Plus, you said you’d see if you could find some of Phil’s stuff for me to go through.”

I hesitated just long enough for him to see the crack in my resolve. TJ was one of those kids that spent his free time wandering the neighborhood waiting for someone to ask him to come over. Whatever the reason, he hated being home—a feeling I understood more than anyone else on the block. Plus, he was a pretty good kid.

“It’s freezing out here,” he said. “Can’t I just come in for a little bit?”

Even though I willed myself not to look back toward the hallway, I could feel my thoughts wandering in that direction. It was dark out now, and even though I could still hear the music from the kitchen, I had to admit it would be nice having another living body in the house. How much could a kid figure out, anyway?

“Shouldn’t you be in bed or something?” I asked.

“It’s not even six o’clock,” he said. “Mom lets me stay up until nine during vacations. She’s having that weird guy from work over for dinner, so I had to get out of there.” TJ’s mom had been divorced for a couple of years and seemed to go out with a new boyfriend every week. TJ didn’t seem to like it, but she kept the babysitting jobs coming, so it wasn’t a problem as far as I was concerned.

I looked around. It was crazy to let TJ in. Nobody had been in here in years, and I was just going to let him climb through the window? I thought about how quiet and a little creepy it was without him here but what a huge risk I’d be taking.

“If I do let you in, you have to promise me that you’ll stay in this room.”

“I promise,” he said, not even asking why. I could hear his feet kicking and scraping at the wood siding on the house. He stopped and looked up at me. “A little help?”

I reached down and grabbed the belt loops on the back of his pants and swung him into the room. He reached over to close the window, but I stopped him. “No, leave it open.”

“It’s freezing out there. Why do you want it open?”

“I, uh . . .” I tried to think of a good reason why I needed the window open in the middle of winter. “The garbage disposal backed up and I’m trying to get the smell out.”

“My mom just uses air freshener,” he said, taking a good look around the room. “Wow, you guys have a lot of stuff. This is totally cool.”

“Ya think?” I said. “Well, I’m trying to get rid of stuff we don’t need. Which is pretty much all of it.”

“I’ll take it.” TJ started poking his finger in some of the cardboard boxes that were stacked against the wall.

I grabbed his hand and looked him in the eye. “What I want you to do is help me grab all of the green plastic bins in this room and the living room over there and we’re going to stack them up against the wall. Under no circumstances are you to go in any other room. You will be banned forever if you do.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I said so.”

“Okay, but why?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I said, knowing it was a lame answer.

TJ shrugged and bundled his jacket tighter. “Can you turn the heat on?” he asked. “It’s just as freezing in here as it is outside.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “we’re trying to save energy, so I can’t do that right now.”

“You’re going to wake up dead then,” he said. “ ’Cause you’re going to freeze to death.”

If he only knew.

He poked at one of the green plastic bins. “So what is all this stuff, anyway?”

“I don’t really know,” I said. “It’s mostly my mom’s.”

He looked at the growing wall of green bins and piles of belongings in both the dining room and living room. “Well, she must be rich, because I’ve never seen anyone with so much stuff before.”

Rich. That was hilarious. “I don’t know about rich,” I said. “She just never gets rid of anything.” I started moving boxes off some bins that were stacked along one window.

“Not anything?”

“Nope. Not anything.” I stacked the boxes on top of some others in the middle of the room and started dragging one of the bins toward our growing stack.

“How about books that you guys have already read?”

I pointed to the overflowing bookcase in the front hallway. If I read one book every day for two years, I’d never get through them all. “Nope.”

“How about a snotty-nose tissue that someone who has the worst cold in the world has blown their nose in until it was dripping with boogers?”

I stopped to think for a minute. “Well, she might throw that away,” I said. “But if someone was working on an art project that could incorporate a snotty, boogery nose tissue, then she would keep it in a bag somewhere until she could give it to them.”

“Ewww!” TJ said. Then he started laughing. “That is so gross. What about a whole sculpture made with snotty-nose rags, belly button lint, and earwax?” He started laughing so hard that he bent over double and had to sit down on one of the bins.

As I watched him laugh, I started smiling too. Somewhere in this mess I just might find a bag full of snotty tissue, belly button lint, and earwax. I wouldn’t put it past her. It was weird telling all this to TJ. None of us ever talked about it outside of the house, but for some reason he felt safe. Even if he said anything to his mom, she wouldn’t believe him. Nobody would believe that the stories he was telling about our garbage pit were true. No one would choose to live like this.

“Okay, okay,” I said. I clapped my hands. “Come help me drag this bin over to those. This one is heavy, so be careful.”

He grabbed the front handle and I grabbed the back, and together we picked the bin up just a few inches off the floor and crabwalked it over to the others. “What’s in here?” TJ asked, and before I could stop him, he pulled the lid off. “Oh, cool!”

I peeked over the edge and was relieved to see it was just a pile of old books she must have had a greater plan for.

TJ picked one up and looked at the spine. “What are they? They all look the same.”

I grabbed one and recognized it right away because we had another set buried in a bookcase in the living room. “They’re encyclopedias.”

He looked at me blankly.

“You know, books people used to use if they needed to find out about something. Kind of like Google, only in real life.” I showed him the side of the book I was holding. “See, this one has everything that starts with V. I used to read these when I was little, like they were regular books.”

He picked up another volume and flipped through it. “Can I keep them?” He shuffled through the books in the box and pulled out two. “I’ll take T and J.” He stuck his hand back in and pulled out another one. “And L too. L for Lucy.”

“Okay, but that’s it,” I said. “We’ll ask your mom about the rest later.”

As I lifted a small mountain of shoeboxes and started to step on them so they would fit into the bag better, I spotted the heavy brass corners and battered black leather of the trunk that I hadn’t seen for years. Grandma had died before I was born, and Mom kept Grandma’s special stuff in this trunk. If Mom and I were alone at night, she would sometimes let me sit with her and look at the yellowing bonnets and tiny lace shoes Grandma had saved from when Mom was a baby. I’d always wanted to put the clothes on my dolls, but Mom said they were too old to play with. The trunk opened with a loud creak that got TJ’s attention across the room.

“What is it?” He came and knelt down by the trunk.

“Some of my grandma’s stuff,” I said. The bonnets and booties were still carefully folded on top.

“Are you going to keep it?”

I nodded. “I think I should.”

Stacked in the corner was a set of gold-rimmed plates with pink flowers on them. Mom always said we would use these plates sometime when the occasion was special enough. As far as I knew, there had never been an occasion special enough. I took one finger and ran it through the thick coat of dust that had formed on the small top plate. In three short moves I made two eyes and a frowning mouth. Poor, lonely plates. Once this stuff was cleaned up, maybe I’d keep the plates. Except that when I was in charge, we’d use them every day.

TJ stuck his head in the trunk. “It smells like old people in here,” he said. He reached in and pulled out something from the bottom. “Was your grandma in the Olympics or something?”

I squinted at what he had in his hand. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, here’s a gold medal from somewhere.” He handed me a heavy medal that hung on a faded red, white, and blue ribbon.

I turned it over. On the back was engraved: First Place, Central Conservatory Piano Competition. I shrugged. “I never met my grandma. She must have been a good piano player.”

TJ was digging in the trunk again, and I was afraid he was going to wreck something. I wanted to put the whole thing aside until I had time to go through it piece by piece. Mom never talked very much about growing up—her stories never started with “When I was a kid” like a lot of other parents.

“Let’s leave this alone,” I said. “I’ll go through it later.” I reached for the baby clothes to put them back in the top of the trunk.

“What’s a ‘prodigy’?” TJ asked.

I looked over his shoulder at the yellowed newspaper he was reading. “It’s a little kid who is really smart or really good at something.”

“Well, this little kid is really good at the piano,” he said, pointing to a photo of a small girl seated on a piano bench, her shiny patent leather shoes dangling above the floor. “Is that your grandma?”

“Let me see.” I took the paper and looked more closely. The caption under the photo read: “Local piano prodigy little Joanna Coles can barely reach the keys, but she performed like a professional at the Central Conservatory of Music Piano Competition, where she beat out all comers to win first prize.”

“Huh. It’s my mom.” I looked at the date on the paper. “She would have been about nine years old.”

TJ hoisted a big black leather book onto his lap. The pages creaked and the plastic sleeves stuck together as he opened it. “Looks like she won a lot of stuff.”

We quietly flipped through the pages that showed Mom’s progress from a cute little girl whose feet didn’t touch the floor to a beautiful teenager seated elegantly in front of a white baby grand piano in a sleeveless ball gown. Her neck was long, and she gazed straight into the camera, as though daring anyone to doubt her talent.

The newspaper clippings showed win after win at local and even national piano competitions—photos of Mom accepting medals and trophies of all sizes. The book was only half full, and the clippings stopped abruptly in 1970. The rest of the shiny, black pages were blank. Mom would have been about seventeen.

TJ shut the book. “Did she quit?”

I felt like I had been looking at pictures of someone I’d never met. Why hadn’t she ever shown me any of this before? Why did she stop playing? She never let me dig in the trunk, and now I knew why. I realized with a jolt that I’d never get these answers. “I don’t know,” I finally said to TJ.

“You should ask her.” He stood up and looked around the room.

I put the book on top of the baby clothes and carefully shut the trunk. “Yeah, I should.” There were so many things I’d never know the answers to now. “Enough of this. You go finish up over by that wall, and I’ll take care of these things.” I needed something to distract me. Something that would take my mind off the photos and the clippings and the trophies that had never made it into this part of Mom’s life. I wondered what had happened to that girl who looked like she could win anything, to turn her into someone who wouldn’t even answer the front door.

chapter 12

6:00 p.m.

“Oh yuck!”

“What?” I prayed there weren’t any maggots, because I wasn’t sure how I would explain those away. High school science experiment? Suburban 4-H?

“This box is all soggy and gross,” TJ said. He had the flaps open and was picking out mildewed bits of paper that disintegrated and fell heavily back into the box as he held them up.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Just shove everything into this garbage bag.”

“Hey, Lucy, this looks good,” he said. “Can I keep it?”

I looked over to see him holding up a plastic bag containing Teddy B., the brown gingham teddy bear I’d made by hand in third grade. I walked over to take a better look at the box.

“Did your mom make it?” TJ asked.

“No,” I said. “I did. It was a Girl Scout project—I even got my sewing badge for doing it. My mom used to make quilts a long time ago—she was a really good sewer, and she showed me what to do.”

I squeezed the bear’s tummy and looked at the small brown stitches that ran the length of his side, thinking about the nights Mom and I had sat with our heads bent over the effort of making the stitches that held him together as tiny and uniform as possible.

“Here,” Mom had said softly, taking the floppy, unstuffed bear from my lap. “Just put the needle in a little ways, like this.” I could feel the warmth of her body straight from the shower, and her wet hair tickled my chin as she bent over our work. We sat in a cleared space on the living room couch, piles of newspapers and scraps of quilting fabric surrounding the small, folding TV tray that held our supplies. “You want to try?”

She handed the brown fabric back to me, the needle sticking up at an angle. “Just put your finger behind the fabric where you want the stitch to go,” Mom said, watching my fingers as I worked. Beside her tight, tiny stitches, mine looked like something that would have held Frankenstein’s monster together. “That’s good. Just try to get them a little bit closer together.”

I tried to concentrate even harder, wanting my stitches to match hers so she’d be proud of me. “You mean like th—? Ow!” I cried, the sharp end of the needle making a searing stab at my finger.

“Oh, let me see,” Mom said, pulling my finger into her lap. She dabbed at it with the edge of her shirt. “I think you’ll live.” Mom smiled at me. “Congratulations. You are now an official member of the top secret quilting society.”

I dabbed at the mark in the middle of my finger. “What’s that?” I was mad that I’d done something so stupid and wrecked what we were doing.

“Hold on a minute,” Mom said, and jumped up to rummage in the big tote bag she kept next to the recliner. “I know it’s in here somewhere.” She pawed through material and thread, and dug way down to the bottom. “Aha! I knew I’d seen it,” she said, and held out something small and round.

I took it and held it up to the dim light. It was like a tiny metal hat with dents all over the top and a pretty painted blue picture of windmills all around the base. “What is it?”

“Lucy Tompkins! Are you telling me that you don’t know a thimble when you see one?”

I shrugged, trying to keep her in a good mood. I held it back out to her. “It’s pretty.”

Mom laughed. “It is pretty,” she said, and took it back to look it over more carefully. “It was my mother’s, and she gave it to me when she taught me to sew. You put it on your finger like this.” She popped it on the end of her pointer finger. “And then the needles won’t stick you.”

I gave her a small smile. “Cool.”

She held up my injured finger and set the little thimble on the end. “Now it’s yours,” she said.

It took a little while to get used to wearing it, but I didn’t poke myself again.

I hadn’t thought of that thimble in years. Somewhere, in some box or bag or green bin, was an antique thimble that I’d probably never see again.

TJ held out his hand for the bear. “So, do I get to keep him?”

I held Teddy B. a little tighter. He was physical proof that things hadn’t always been this bad. “You know what, T? Let’s find something else for you to keep. I think I’m going to hang on to this for a while.”

“Fine,” he said, and started grabbing things out of the box again.

I tucked Teddy B. into the front of my jacket and bent down to see what else was in the box. On one side my name was written in black marker that flowed with my mother’s handwriting.

Taking a handful of soggy papers out of the box, I could see they were a mix of kindergarten drawings, report cards, and those meaningless paper certificates you get for completing a reading program or passing Tadpole swim lessons at the Y. Mom must have put everything in here to save for when I got older. And now everything was destroyed. She had fifty plastic bins in this house full of pristine crap—why couldn’t she actually put something meaningful in them? Like a special silver and blue thimble? Or my childhood?

I was scraping the pieces of cardboard off the soggy rug when I heard a yelp and a crash, as a large stack of books and papers toppled to the floor. “TJ! Are you okay?” I jumped up and ran over to him.

He was sitting on the floor surrounded by an avalanche of books. “I’m okay,” he said, but I could tell by the wetness around the edges of his eyes it hurt more than he let on. “I’m sorry.” He frantically tried to pick up some of the books. “I didn’t mean it, really. It was just an accident . . . I turned around and my shoulder hit the stack and—”

I remembered saying those exact words so many times to Mom as she screamed at me to be careful. In her world, there was no such thing as an accident, just people who didn’t pay enough attention. I bent down and grabbed TJ’s face in my hands. “It’s not your fault, okay?” That’s what I always wanted someone to say to me. “Come on, let me feel where the books got you,” I said. Even though it had just happened, I could feel the start of a big bump on his head behind his right ear. “No blood,” I said. “But I think your mom should take a look.” I stood up and held my hand out for him.

“No,” he whined. “I don’t want to go. We’re not done yet.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But if I send you home broken, your mom’s going to be really mad at me. If I find anything cool, I’ll put it in a pile for you.”

TJ touched one finger to the growing lump on his head. “You won’t even know what’s cool,” he grumbled. “You’ll probably throw out good stuff that I want to keep.”

“I know what you like, don’t worry about it. You need ice on that, so let’s go. I’ll walk you home.”

We picked our way back through the dining room and into the front hallway. “Hold on, I need my books,” he said, and picked them up off the floor. “Don’t forget to save the other ones.”

“They’re yours,” I said. We opened the door and stepped out into the biting air. It was unusually cold, for which I was undeniably grateful. We hurried across the street to TJ’s house, his Christmas tree still sparkling in the window.

His steps slowed as we approached the porch. “He’s still here,” he said. “That’s his ugly green car. He used to go home early, like right after dinner, and now they sit around watching TV and stuff.”

“You don’t like him?” I asked.

TJ shrugged as much as he could with his arms wrapped around three huge encyclopedias. “He’s okay. He’s always trying to get me to go and play ball with him. I keep telling him I hate playing ball, but he won’t listen. Plus, Mom’s always busy now—not like she used to be.”

I nodded, not pushing it any further. I knew how hard it was not feeling welcome in your own house.

The door was locked, so I rang the bell as TJ stood on the bottom step. His mom opened it with a glass of wine in her hand. “Oh hi, Lucy,” she said. “Was TJ with you? I thought he’d gone down to the Callans’ house to watch TV.”

“Well, he’s been helping me move some things around. He said you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she said, smiling at me. “I just hope he wasn’t a bother.”

“No, he was fine,” I said. “But some books fell and hit him in the head. I think he might need some ice.” I grabbed TJ’s arm and guided him up the stairs.

His mom ruffled his hair and inspected the spot he showed her. “It looks okay, but you’re right, it probably does need ice.” She pulled back and looked into his face. “So what were you doing over there that caused books to fall on your head? I hope you weren’t running around and making trouble.”

“Oh no,” I said quickly, “it’s not his fault. The books . . . they were where they shouldn’t have been, and he was just walking by them. Really, he didn’t do anything wrong.”

“If you say so,” she said. “I’d hate to think of him over there making a mess.”

I looked at TJ, but he didn’t seem to think that was funny. Maybe it didn’t look all that weird to him. Kids were sometimes strange that way. “No, really,” I said. “He was great. I hope his head is okay.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. TJ, say thanks to Lucy for putting up with you.”

“Thanks, Lucy,” he said. “Don’t forget about my stuff.” He held his books up to his mom. “They have so much cool stuff over there. Lucy gave me these encyclopses so I can learn about everything that begins with these letters.”

“Wow,” she said. “You got some real treasures.” She backed into the house. “Thanks again for having him.”

“No problem,” I said.

As the door closed, I could hear TJ talking a mile a minute. “They’ve got a whole box of these books, and Lucy said I could have them all. Can I keep them in my room?”

I stood on the porch for just a minute, looking through the filmy curtains at the colored lights twinkling on the Christmas tree branches, before I turned and walked down the steps to my house.

As I reached the end of TJ’s driveway, my heart started pounding, and I broke into a run. Our house was directly across the street from theirs, but it had never looked so far away. Especially with Sara’s car parked in our driveway.

chapter 13

6:30 p.m.

I stuck my foot out to stop the front door from shutting and tried not to look like I’d been running. Sara was still standing in the hallway, so I knew she hadn’t seen anything.

“Hey,” I said, hoping the panic I was feeling was well hidden. Unlike Phil, who had to be dragged back, Sara came over a couple of times a week—not because she cared about me, but because she wanted to make sure she was still Mom’s favorite. “What’re you doing here?”

“It’s still my house too, in case you forgot,” she said, sounding more like Mom every day. “Where were you? The door wasn’t even locked. Anybody could have walked right in.” As far as I was concerned, anybody did.

“Oh, I just had to run across the street for a minute. Babysitting stuff.”

Sara nodded slowly, like she was trying to decide if I was telling the truth. “Well, I called Mom at work to see if she wanted to meet up for dinner, but they said she was sick.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Some sort of nasty flu thing.” I coughed a little for emphasis. “You should probably get out of here before you catch it. I’m sure we’re contagious.”

She held up a shopping bag. “I brought over some Chinese to make her feel better.” Sara stepped back and looked into the living room, but Mom’s recliner was empty. “Where is she?”

I leaned to the side to block her access to the kitchen. I could feel the thoughts whirling through my head as I tried to come up with something that would get her out of here as quickly as possible. If Sara thought that something was going on, she’d call 911 in a second. Sara went along with Mom’s philosophy that there was nothing wrong with the house that a little straightening wouldn’t fix. Mom wasn’t one of those hoarders, she was a saver—saving the planet one stack of newspapers at a time. Now that everything was “eco” and “green,” they had even more backup. It was like she wasn’t even standing in the same house that I was.

“Uh, Mom’s in my room,” I heard myself say. “She was so sick I let her sleep in my room all day.”

“Well, I’ll just stick my head in and make sure she’s okay,” she said. She took a few steps toward the hallway.

“No, wait!” I said, almost shouting. She couldn’t get any farther or it would be over.

She turned around and stared at me. “What?”

“Uh, just be careful when you go in there,” I said, my words coming out just as the plan was forming in my head. “Because of all the puking, I mean.”

That stopped Sara cold. “Puking? You didn’t say anything about puking.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, feeling the idea take shape. “Puking on everything. You know, puking, fever—that’s what the flu is all about. I just now got her cleaned up.”

I could see Sara gag a little from the image. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was other people’s bodily functions, and puking was pretty high on the list.

She turned back toward the front of the house and thrust the bag into my hands. It smelled like pot stickers, and my stomach suddenly started growling. Apparently the eggrolls from earlier were getting lonely down there. “Just tell her I came by, will you?” Sara pulled her coat tighter around her neck. “She is okay, right?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, starting to relax. “There’s really nothing for you to do.” True, in more ways than one.

“It’s freezing in here. Is the furnace out again?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Phil needs to come over and deal with it.”

“Want me to send Mark over tomorrow? He’s pretty good with that sort of thing.”

Sara and her boyfriend-fiancé-whatever, Mark, seemed to have worked out a pact to pretend our house was normal. He’d never spent any real time here, but he’d helped out a couple of times when things were broken, so he was more than aware of what he was dealing with. It made me wonder how she’d done it, because unless she was really good at hypnotism, he was a great actor. Or he was just stupid. “No,” I said. “The space heaters are working okay. I’ve got one in my room.”

“Be sure you keep it on so Mom doesn’t get too cold.”

I followed her to the front door, trying to ignore the irony of that last statement. “Yeah, I will. I’m sure she’ll be okay in a couple of days. Well, I’ll see you later.” I could feel relief flooding my body as she put her hand on the knob.

Sara’s eyes drifted around the big pile in the front hallway to the boxes I had sitting out on the floor by the recliner. “What’s all that about?”

I turned to look at the boxes and bags lined up on the only visible floor space. “Oh, I, uh, . . .”

Sara marched over to them and peeked inside. She raised her eyes to meet mine with her mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Are you throwing her stuff out?” she hissed, her voice barely louder than a whisper. She picked up a couple of the old photos and junk mail I’d tossed into the bag. “Is this for the trash?”

“Just a few things. I thought I’d—”

“Does Mom know?” She pulled the photos out of the bag. “You’re messing with Mom’s photos? Man, she’s going to kill you.” Sara smoothed the edges of the photos that had gotten crumpled in the bag. She waved them at me. “None of this stuff belongs to you,” she said, her voice getting a little bit louder. “You’re sitting here while Mom is sick and can’t defend herself, calmly tossing out her important things?”

After all I’d been through today I didn’t need one of her lectures. I grabbed the top photo from her and held it out to her face. I was so sick and tired of everything, I was starting to lose my fear. “These aren’t important,” I said. “These are junk. You can’t even tell what’s in this photo—it’s just a tangle of arms that are all out of focus.”

Sara looked closer. “No, that picture was taken on the Fourth of July a couple of years ago. See, right there, that’s the red, white, and blue shirt I always wear to the parade.” She poked at it with a manicured finger. “You can’t just get rid of Mom’s stuff whenever you want.”

I tossed the picture at her and it fell to the floor. “Fine, then,” I said. “You take it. Otherwise it’s going in the garbage with the rest of this useless crap.”

Sara glared at me and slowly bent down to pick it up. “Useless crap? What the hell do you know about useless crap? After all Mom’s done for you.” She snatched the trash bag off the floor. “I’d better take this too so you don’t throw away anything else important.”

I could feel the anger bubbling in my chest again. I was tired of pretending nothing was wrong—that every family lived surrounded by head-high piles of garbage. That we didn’t really want to have any friends over, and it didn’t bother us when Mom made it seem like everything was our fault. “Come on Sara, look around this dump! It’s full of nothing but moldy crap. We can’t even live here properly because it’s such a mess. You haven’t slept in your room in years, because Mom filled it with piles of junk the minute you moved out. Same with Phil’s room. Even Dad left this dump and never came back. I’m the one who has to live in it, and I’m sick of it!” I could feel angry tears welling up in my eyes. I hadn’t cried all day, and now a stupid argument with Sara was threatening to make me all weepy.

“Stop being so selfish,” she said. “It’s not always about you, you know. It’s not like I want to move back here or anything, so what do I care what she does with my room? And for your information, Dad didn’t leave on his own—Mom kicked him out because he was constantly nagging her.” Sara loved dropping little information bombs at the worst possible times. The fact that she was almost ten years older than me gave her lots of ammunition. She never let me forget that she was here long before me and that she never wanted to play the role of big sister.

“What are you talking about?” I asked cautiously. I never knew whether she was telling me the truth or not, because she often felt it was her duty to screw with me. “You know as well as I do Dad abandoned us to go live with what’s-her-name. That’s why Mom got stressed out about everything.”

Sara waved that away with a flick of her wrist. “That’s just what Mom says. I was almost your age when they got divorced, and it’s not like I couldn’t see or hear anything. Mom got tired of Dad not helping out. She said he made her life too difficult, so one day she just tossed him out on his ass. He didn’t even meet Tiffany until way after that.”

I stood staring at Sara, waiting for her to say more, but she seemed to have no idea this information completely contradicted everything I’d ever thought. She started filling the plastic bag with anything she could find.

“I can’t believe you’re taking advantage of Mom being sick by going through her stuff. Good thing I came by today, or God knows what you might have done.” She looked up at me from where she was crouched on the ground gathering junk mail. “Mom told me she was worried about you. Always trying to keep her out of your room. What are you hiding in there? Hmm? Probably stealing stuff from Mom and squirreling it away. She always says that she can never find her valuables. You’re probably taking them.”

“Mom can’t find anything because she lives like a pig!” I was practically shouting now, the image of late-night phone conversations between them feeding my frustration. “Are you blind? Look around! Stop defending her and look around. It’s not healthy.” I took a deep breath. “It’s not normal.”

“Well, then, maybe you should help more,” she said. “She’s getting older and can’t do everything for you. Now that she’s working longer hours, she can’t babysit you all day. When I was little, we helped out all the time, and this place was spotless. I’m sure that if you picked up after yourself every once in a while, it would get better.”

“Now you’re blaming me?” I didn’t know why I was surprised—I’d heard it from Mom often enough. How I didn’t help enough, and how if I were a better daughter, things would be okay. I shoved both arms at a teetering pile of clothes and bags until they toppled over onto the next pile.

“This is not my fault,” I said slowly. It was the first time I’d ever said those words out loud, and I liked the way they felt. Sara might want to be just like Mom, but I was going to do everything I could to be different from the two of them. If I had to go and live on a tiny boat with nothing but a toothbrush and a change of underwear, I’d do it—I’d gladly leave all this behind just to have a normal life.

Sara stood up and took a few steps toward the hallway. “I’m going to have to wake Mom up and tell her what you’ve been up to. No matter how sick she is, she’s going to want to know that she’s being betrayed by her own daughter. Real nice, Luce.”

As she began to work her way out of the room, I panicked, my resolve to stand up to them fading fast. Thank God it was too dark for her to see the growing pile of bags on the side of the house, but if she got down to the end of the hallway, she’d see Mom, for sure.

“No, don’t!” I said. “Don’t wake her up!” I flicked my hand and dumped a bunch of clothes on top of the other trash bags to cover them. Sara stopped walking and turned to me with her hand on her hip. There was just enough room in the pathway for her elbow to fit before it bumped the mounds of junk on either side. “I don’t see that I have much choice,” she said. She shook the bag at me. “Not after this.”

I had to think fast. I should have known Sara would do this. “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. I stared at the floor and tried to look as humble as possible. For once I was glad that I’d taken drama as an elective last year. I might not be able to deal with an audience of hundreds, but an audience of one I could handle. “I’m not tossing out Mom’s stuff; I just wanted to make a little more space for her. It’s getting so crowded around her chair, pretty soon she’s going to be sleeping outside.”

Sara looked over at Mom’s chair and at the piles that were growing around it. “This is it?” she asked. She looked skeptical. “You didn’t touch anything else?”

I could see her starting to change her mind. I had to keep talking. “No. Nothing. Only around the chair. I figured that when she was feeling better, it would be nice for her to be able to sleep without worrying that all of this was going to fall on her. You know . . . earthquakes and stuff.”

Sara hesitated, and I could see that half of her still wanted to go tell on me. Nothing made her happier than to be the good daughter in Mom’s eyes. She looked down at the bag in her hand. “Well, I’m still going to take this with me so you don’t throw it away.”

I followed her eyes as she looked around the rest of the room. Luckily, it was in such bad shape she couldn’t tell if I’d done any work in here or not. I just had to keep her out of the dining room and the kitchen—not to mention the hallway. “Go ahead, if you want to,” I said. Without knowing it, she could help me get at least one bag out of here.

“Oh, I want to.” She turned to walk out the front door. As she passed me, she grabbed the bag of food I’d forgotten I was holding. “I’m taking this too. Get yourself something else to eat.” Typical. If there was a way to fix things for me and Phil and leave her out of it, I would.

I followed her out the front door and down the walk toward the driveway. She thought I was just saying good-bye, but I was really making sure she was actually going. Sara had gotten a new car a couple of months ago, and even I was shocked to see what she’d done to it in such a short time.

The backseat was full of those cardboard file boxes I was sure she’d swiped from work. You couldn’t see the floor because of the pile of discarded clothes that reached as high as the seat. The front seat could still hold a passenger, as long as that person was willing to wait for her to clear the empty CD cases, tissue boxes, clothes, shoes, and fast-food bags that covered both the seat and the floor.

Sara didn’t seem to notice me staring. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see how Mom’s doing,” she said as she climbed into the relatively clear driver’s seat and grabbed at a water bottle that was rolling around by the brake pedal.

“Tomorrow?” I asked. I could feel the panic rising in my throat. I could never get it all done by tomorrow. Three days was bad enough. Tomorrow was impossible. “Aren’t you working tomorrow?”

She glared at me. “I have a personal day coming, not that it’s any of your business.”

“What time tomorrow?” I could tell I said it too fast, even as the words burst out of my mouth.

Sara turned the key in the ignition. “That’s for me to know,” she said. “Stay away from her stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I was sure I had enough worry growing in my stomach for both of us.

“Oh, but I do,” she said.

I watched her back out of the driveway and take off down the street. It seemed like I exhaled for the first time since I’d seen her car in the driveway.

As I turned back toward the house, I realized that even when the mess was all cleaned up, it wasn’t over. Mom was gone. But Sara was still very much around—and she was getting to be exactly like her.

chapter 14

7:00 p.m.

I twisted the dead bolt into place and leaned against the secure door. Between TJ, Mrs. Raj, and now Sara, this place hadn’t seen so much action in years.

The smell of Chinese food still lingered in the hallway, and I realized how hungry I was. It was almost seven thirty, and all I’d had was a blueberry scone and a couple of eggrolls. Tomorrow for Sara probably meant somewhere around eleven at the earliest, which meant I had about sixteen hours to put things right in this house. My stomach would have to wait.

The house was quiet even though I could hear the stereo still playing faintly in the kitchen. Mom’s TV sat almost buried in papers and clothes near her chair, but of course the remote was nowhere to be found. It could be buried just about anywhere, so I stood still and tried to think like Mom. If I needed the remote, where would I put it so it wouldn’t get lost?

I couldn’t see it anywhere around the chair or on the boxes that were next to it. Maybe underneath? If I wanted to be sure that I’d know where something was, I’d probably shove it underneath the one thing I knew wouldn’t move.

I sat in the green chair and pushed it into a reclining position with my hands on the armrests, and then reached between the footrest and the chair. Touching something hard, I took a deep breath and stuck my hand as far under the chair as it would go. By flicking whatever it was to the side, I worked a corner of it out until I could grab it with one hand and drag it into the open.

Before I even pulled it out all the way, I realized it wasn’t the remote. It was just a thick spiral notebook with a black cover. I could see from the bulge in the front there was something in it, but there wasn’t anything written on the front. Her diary, maybe? I’d never seen Mom writing in anything, let alone a fairly large spiral notebook, but I had to admit that in the past few years we hadn’t really paid that much attention to each other.

The book was pretty heavy, and it must be important if she kept it separate from all the other piles of junk in this place. If it was her diary, it would be wrong to open it. More wrong than leaving her dead in the hallway for the better part of a day? I shrugged my shoulders as I opened the black cardboard cover. It was all relative.

It wasn’t a diary—not really. Carefully pasted onto the pages of notebook paper were magazine pictures of different houses. There was a picture of a wide, green lawn with a house perched way off in the distance and a family having a picnic on a postage-stamp-sized blanket. There were dining rooms with long tables where people could linger after a meal and talk about politics or sports. A bedroom with a white canopy bed big enough for a mom and kids to curl up on a Sunday morning and read the newspaper. Every now and then on the page would be something written very carefully in her sprawling handwriting. She’d written “cabinets” next to the page with the rustic kitchen and “knobs” next to a picture of some latches.

I flipped quickly through the rest of the book. Every picture showed a house in pristine photographic condition, the people who lived there smiling at their good luck. There were no clogged sinks, no green bins, and no giant stacks of newspapers.

The notebook wasn’t her diary—it was more intimate than that. They must have been pictures of the house she wanted to have someday. Except that someday never showed up. I ran my fingers over a picture of a wide porch with a swing that was perfect for sitting with an iced tea on a hot summer night. She must have been doing this for years—cutting out pictures of what might have been. This book of possibilities completely ignored the reality of what our lives had become. I knew how she felt because I felt the same way when I thought about my after. Hopeful—which was an emotion our house didn’t see a lot of.

I closed the cover and stared at it. How dare she have dreams while making all of us live like this? She was the parent—she could have done something about it. She was the one with the power to make our lives like the people in the notebook, but instead she buried us all under tons of filth and shame.

I crossed the room, the notebook heavy in my hands. It made me angry and sad at the same time to picture her sitting in her chair late at night carefully pasting other people’s rooms into her dream book. It was a small satisfaction when I tossed the notebook unceremoniously into the trash bin. That’s how much her dreams were worth in the face of my reality.

As I walked back toward the living room, my phone rang. “I’ve been trying to call you,” I said as I flipped the phone open.

“What in the world did you do to Sara?” Phil asked without even bothering to say hello.

“Hey, Lucy,” I imitated, ignoring his question. I was so angry at Mom right now that I needed to take it out on someone. “How are you doing? Was the rest of Christmas okay? Sorry I couldn’t stay longer, but I have my own life now and can’t be bothered with you people anymore.”

“Ha, ha,” he said flatly. “Point taken.” I could hear him draw in a heavy breath, and the sound of some music in the background. “Okay, so how are you? And what in the hell did you do to Sara? I’ve spent the last half hour with her on the phone screaming in my ear about how ungrateful you are, and how I must have put you up to it.”

I should have known Sara would call him. There was a green bin over near the wall, so I went to sit down on it. “I didn’t do anything to her,” I said. “She just came busting in here and started freaking out. You know how she always acts like she owns the place.”

“So you’re not doing what she said?” he asked. I could tell somebody was nearby because he was practically talking in code.

I looked around at the half-full garbage bags. “No.” I hesitated for a second. “Maybe.”

His voice cut out, and I could picture him switching the phone to his other ear. “What do you mean ‘maybe’? Have you been . . . messing with her stuff? You know better than that.”

I could hear another voice in the background. “Where are you, anyway?” I asked. “It sounds like you’re at a party or something.”

“I’m with Jen in the car,” he said. “We’re going up to Tahoe for a couple of days. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I was just straightening up a few things around Mom’s chair when Sara came in and did her usual favorite-daughter routine. It’s no big deal.”

“From the way she was talking, it sounded like you were dragging Dumpsters up to the front door and loading everything into them,” he said. “Have you learned nothing? Leave it alone.”

“I can’t leave it alone.” I said. “Not anymore.”

“Less than two years, Lucy,” he said quietly. “All you have to do is sit tight and wait until you graduate. Then you can do anything you want.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” I said, knowing everything had already been set in motion. As I looked around the room, I wished so badly that he would turn the car around and come help me. He was free to go to Tahoe for the weekend with his girlfriend, but I couldn’t even go meet Josh at a party. I was tired of having it be my turn all the time. My turn to take care of Mom, my turn to worry about the house. When was it going to be my turn to get a life?

The resolve that I felt about being able to do this by myself was beginning to crack. I was sure that if I just told him the truth, he’d feel exactly like I did. If anyone in the world would understand how important this was, Phil would.

“How far away are you, exactly?” I asked.

“Placerville,” he answered. “Why? Is something wrong? Sara said Mom was sick.”

“Why haven’t you ever brought Jen over to the house?” I’d met her a few times, and they’d come over to Bernie and Jack’s house on Christmas, but she’d never been closer to the inside of our house than the driveway.

Phil’s voice got lower. “Why are you asking that now?”

“It’s important,” I said. “I want to know why.”

I could barely hear him over the car stereo as he answered. “You know why.”

“Because of the mess? Because of the way we live?”

“Look, I don’t want to get into this right now,” Phil said. “I’ll come over after I get back, and we can talk about it.”

“I want to talk about it now,” I said quietly. Why was I doing this all alone? Phil had just as much to lose—he should be here helping. I needed to tell someone. The pressure of keeping everything in was building, and I wouldn’t be able to contain it much longer. Phil was the only solution. “Phil, there’s something I have to tell you.” I took a deep breath and just plunged in. “Mom . . .” I stopped, swallowed, and then tried again. “This morning I . . .”

My voice cracked as I surveyed the expanse of wall space that was smothered by stacks of newspapers and magazines that were as tall as I was. “I don’t think I can handle this,” I whispered.

Phil laughed a little. I think it was his attempt to sound soothing. “You can totally handle it,” he said. “You’re doing a great job. Just hold on a little longer, and you’ll be living in the dorms at some swanky college somewhere. Have you thought about any applications yet?” He sounded a lot more confident as he tried to move the conversation into less touchy territory.

“Phil, I need your help. Right now. I need you to come home.”

“Did . . . apply . . . summer . . .” His phone started to cut out.

“Phil?” I said loudly into the phone, but he was gone. I felt my entire body deflate. For the first time since he moved out, I felt like he was really and truly gone. He had successfully navigated Mom’s house for his full sentence of eighteen years, and now that he was free, he didn’t want to get dragged back into it. Not that I really blamed him. I’d probably do the same thing. Probably.

I sat staring at the phone until the light went out on the screen and the call ended. A year and a half. It wasn’t that long if you were just trying to get through high school like a normal person. It would be a hell of a long time for someone called Garbage Girl who had no friends at all. The thought of Josh laughing at me along with everyone else was worst of all. I’d gotten so close to actually having what I wanted, but now all the good stuff was fading away.

I spent the next hour shoving trash into black plastic bags, but all of the optimism I’d felt earlier was gone. Who was I kidding? Sara was coming back in just a few short hours, and there was no way she was going to leave here without talking to Mom. The threat of puke had put her off this time, but it wasn’t going to work forever. Everyone in town would know our secret by this time tomorrow.

My mind raced, picking up different scenarios for how my life was going to go. Maybe when Sara called the police, they wouldn’t think the place was any big deal. Maybe nobody at school would even find out about the way we live and stare at me in the halls like the smell of rotting garbage billowed out behind me when I walked. Maybe Josh and Kaylie wouldn’t care, and I’d get to have a best friend and a boyfriend at the same time. Maybe I was completely delusional.

I opened the dining room window and added several more bags to the growing pile. Mrs. Raj had her antennae up about the trash and would definitely come over to investigate. I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that she was the least of my problems at this point.

As I piled stuff into the big trash bags, I started to think about right after. After everyone knew Mom was gone, there would probably be a funeral. All the old ladies at church loved her for holding the rummage sale every year and organizing their senior meals. They would want to come. And the people at work would be there, Nadine for sure. Maybe even some of the families of “her people.” But would they come once they’d found out the truth? Would the little old ladies and the friends from work be too horrified to show their faces at a memorial for Mom once she stopped being Joanna Tompkins and became that freaky garbage lady? I wondered if Dad would come, or if there were too many bad years between them for him to really care. I tried to picture the funeral with the casket and flowers, and me and Sara and Phil sitting in the front row all dressed up and looking sad.

The thing was, I didn’t feel sad like I was supposed to. As I shoveled bags of clothes, work memos, and food wrappers into heavy-duty garbage bags, I felt a lot of things, but sad wasn’t one of them. Angry, irritated, annoyed, lonely, and maybe even a little guilty. But not sad. Maybe after, I could be sad. But not now.

I might be able to survive senior year alone, but it would be so hard to watch Kaylie and Josh live their lives without me. I could just see myself in art class, sitting alone because nobody would want to come close enough to be my partner. Maybe I could graduate early, or do a home study until graduation. I could get a part-time job and live here with Phil until I could go away to college.

My phone was in my pocket, so I reached in to check the time. Seven fifteen. Depending on how late Sara stayed out tonight and how annoyed she actually was, I might have only twelve hours left. Sort of like Cinderella at the ball, only with garbage.

I made my way over to the front door and tried to imagine how the scenario would play out in the morning. I’d probably have to call 911 sometime before Sara actually showed up, and say that I found Mom lying in the hallway. Otherwise, it would look all wrong. Maybe the cops would put up that yellow tape, so Sara couldn’t go sniffing around in here until everyone was gone.

As accomplished as I felt looking to the left of the front hallway, I felt completely deflated looking to the right. I must have spent at least three or four hours in there, and it was almost impossible to tell. Sure, I could see that there was more room around the old, soggy green chair, but nobody besides Sara was ever going to see the difference.

Straight ahead, the hallway narrowed into a two-and-a-half-foot space you could just squeeze through if you turned sideways, put your arms stiffly to your sides, and sucked in your breath. If you’d had a super burrito at El Gordito anytime in the past twenty-four hours, you didn’t have a prayer of making it. I think that’s one reason why Mom stayed so skinny all these years—navigating the house required a BMI of less than twenty.

The hallway took a sharp left at the end, and Mom was lying about four feet from the corner. Why couldn’t she have died on her way out to get the paper? Or better yet, why not on the chair where she spent most of her time when she was home? Then it would be so much easier to get her out. But no. She had to die in the very back part of the very narrowest hallway, where it would be almost impossible for the paramedics to get her out on a gurney without lights flashing and hordes of neighbors straining to see what was going on behind the police barricades. Maybe they would just abandon the gurney idea altogether and just carry her body through to the front? Was there some sort of paramedic code that said that once a body was dead it had to be put in a body bag and strapped to a gurney, or did they have a little more leeway than that? Every dead body I’d ever seen on television had been sealed into black plastic and wheeled out on a bright yellow stretcher, but that didn’t mean it was the rule.

I’d begun pacing in the free space in the front hallway. The constant movement actually helped me feel better—calmed my stomach and gave the butterflies something to do besides slam at my insides. I didn’t know if it was all the coffee I’d had in the past twenty-four hours or just the fact that I could feel Sara getting closer by the minute, but I was starting to feel jumpy. If I could just figure out a way for the paramedics to get her out through the hallway, then maybe they’d be in and out fast enough for the house not to be such an issue. All they needed to do was check her over, make sure she was beyond CPR, get her out, and leave the condition of the house to me. If I could just make her more accessible, then her death would be normal. A woman dying under her own homemade avalanche made news. Somebody dying of lung problems or a heart attack happened every day.

I just had to make her more accessible. Accessible. The word bounced around in my head like a Ping-Pong ball. Accessible didn’t have to mean they could get to her where she was—it just meant that they could get to her, period. Oh my God, what an idiot! I’d been working on this completely backward this whole time. Instead of bringing them through the front door to Mom, I needed to bring Mom to the front door!

I scooted sideways through the maze of trash until I reached the part of the hallway that took a sharp left toward her room. I stood at her feet and took a deep breath, staring at the tiny pink roses on the sheet that covered her. Each one looked like a painting that someone had spent hours and days to get just right—the shades of light and dark pink giving each flower a greater depth and dimension. Someone had to have bought it new at some point—probably not Mom, but someone. I’d bet they never would have guessed where the sheet with the cheerful pink roses was going to end up.

Reaching down to touch her, I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. The only way to get this done was to not think of this as Mom anymore. This wasn’t the person who’d given birth to me and packed my lunches (well, for a few years, at least)—it was just a collection of bones and cells and duct-taped slippers that had to be temporarily relocated for the greater good. Greater good. I liked that. Made it sound almost biblical or something. I wasn’t doing this for me so much as I was doing it for the greater good of Mom, Phil, and even Sara, although she didn’t deserve it.

Blowing on my hands to warm them, I stood at Mom’s feet and tried to find the best way to maneuver her through the narrow hallway. I was a lot taller than she was, but it would probably be too hard to stand her up, even though that would be the simplest way.

I squatted down and wrapped the end of the sheet a couple of times around her ankles so I’d have something to hold on to. Grabbing the sheet, I leaned back and pulled as hard as I could, grunting like a pro tennis player, until I lost my grip and tumbled backward on my butt, slamming into a stack of newspapers on the other wall and scrambling out of the way when they started to wobble.

There was no way she was that immovable. I gathered myself up and pulled again, but as I looked up toward her head, I could see that her shoulders were caught by the corner of one of the still-standing magazine piles. The pile shifted dangerously as I pulled one more time. Dropping her ankles, I picked my way over to the spot where she was stuck, held the top of the pile with my hand, and kicked at the bottom until the stack turned just enough to allow her shoulder to get by.

Taking my position down by her feet again, I pulled one more time, and she moved a few inches in my direction. After a few pulls, the sheet started to get dislodged from over her head, and I could see some of her white-rooted, wiry red hair sticking out of the top. I tried not to look as I pulled. It was much easier to concentrate on the grungy suede slippers. If I allowed myself to stop and think about what I was doing, I wouldn’t be able to finish. I had to concentrate on the how and not think about the why, or it would seem too horrible and creepy.

When we reached the corner, I realized I couldn’t pull her any farther. Because there were stacks of newspapers against all the walls, there was no easy way to get her around the turn and into the straight part of the hallway that led to the front door. If she would bend, it might work, but she’d been dead so long that there was very little give left in her body.

I should have stopped to try out a better strategy, but I felt that I just had to keep moving—I had to get this part over with as soon as possible. Cleaning the house didn’t feel like such a big deal, but moving Mom meant that I had to make it look right. Cops notice when bodies are moved, and I was sure it was some sort of crime.

By picking my way around her body—and stepping on what I think was her left hand in the process—I made it to the other side up by her shoulders to try and ease her around the corner. If she had been alive she would have been really pissed at me right about now.

I could feel myself starting to get frustrated, but I breathed in slowly and tried to calm down. I was so close—only fifty more feet and it might be possible to actually be normal after all. Fifty lousy feet.

Looking at the one sharp corner that stood between me and success, the anger roiled in my stomach, and I so badly wanted to scream and kick the stacks that surrounded us. The turn was so sharp and the path was so narrow—there was no way to get her around the corner. Relocating her was such a good idea and it made too much sense to not work.

Like everything else in this whole stupid day, I had failed again. Just like Mom and Sara always said—I couldn’t do anything right. Even dead, Mom seemed to be laughing at me, lying there refusing to make it easy once again.

It would serve everybody right if I walked out of the house at that moment—straight down the driveway—and left all this crap behind me. Just turned my back on all of it and kept on going. Not that I had anywhere to go, but as long as it wasn’t here, it really didn’t matter. I imagined how it would feel to walk down the street with nothing in my hands and not worry about this house. I bet it would feel amazing. Free. There was nothing stopping me from doing it. It’s not like there was a lock on the door, or someone telling me I couldn’t go. Anytime I wanted to, I could just head out the door and let someone else deal with all this mess.

Except I knew that I wouldn’t. It was up to me to deal with this, just like it had been up to me to take care of us these last few years, making sure Mom ate a decent meal once in a while and had enough clean clothes for work. It was up to me to make sure the plumbing still worked and we weren’t reduced to peeing in buckets again. Up to me to make sure that nobody ever found out how bad Mom was getting. It was still up to me.

My body felt disconnected from my brain as I tucked in the sheet once again. Mom’s arms were flung sideways near her head, but I couldn’t bring myself to grab her hands, so I lifted her under the arms and pulled her back down the hallway just a little bit, so her feet weren’t all jammed up in the corner and she wasn’t visible from the front door. I sat in the hallway a few inches from her head and tucked my knees up under my chin. I told myself that I was just taking a break—I wasn’t giving up—but I wasn’t sure I believed me.

I felt empty and used up. As I sat, gazing at the floor, I noticed her left hand was brushed up against my leg, almost like she was reaching out to touch me. It was such an unusual gesture for her to make that it startled me. I looked at her unpainted fingernails with the ridges that had gotten deeper the past few years and wondered when she’d touched me for the last time. We’d never been a very “touchy” family, but I couldn’t remember holding her hand or even feeling her fingers brush against mine as we passed something to each other recently.

Looking at the hand that had made such an unbelievable mess of things, I realized it was also the hand that had carefully pasted pictures of what she wanted her life to be like into a notebook—the hand that had stroked the feet of a lonely, dying woman.

I reached out and curled my hand around her still, icy fingers. I held it there for a long time as I sat with my knees to my chest, wishing that just for a minute she could squeeze it back and tell me everything would be okay.

chapter 15

8:00 p.m.

It was pointless to keep going but impossible to stop. I wandered aimlessly around the house, trying to decide what to do next, finally sitting down on the arm of Mom’s chair to psych myself up for the long night ahead.

Something was sticking up from the back corner of the cushion. The remote, maybe? I leaned over and pulled out a pair of scissors. Special scissors with black handles. Cautiously, I stuck my hand farther down into that corner and felt something hard and narrow. Another pair of scissors, but these had blue handles.

I finally pulled up three pairs of scissors scattered around the edges where the cushion met the chair. It was just like Mom. She was the one who lost the scissors down here, and when she couldn’t find them, she went out and bought another pair. After she blamed me for losing them, that is. I took the cushion off to see what else had been right under her butt the whole time.

There were a few coins of different sizes and some old popcorn kernels sharing space with over a dozen envelopes that were piled toward the front of the seat. The coins and scissors I could understand, but how would sealed envelopes just happen to fall underneath the front of the cushion? And in a nice, neat stack?

I picked one up and looked at the return address. It was from a bank and it was pretty thick. Maybe she had a secret bank account she didn’t want us to know about. Mom always said we didn’t have enough money for things that I wanted, but I never believed her because she had Dad’s child support plus what she made at the hospital. I had to pay for my own cell phone, and I’d missed the tenth-grade trip to Disneyland last year because we supposedly couldn’t afford it. The main reason I didn’t get my license wasn’t because I had no car, but because Mom said the extra insurance would be too expensive. I always suspected that saying we couldn’t afford it was an easy way for her to get out of something she didn’t want me to do. It would be just like her to be literally sitting on a fortune.

Sliding one finger under the envelope flap, I allowed myself a spark of excitement. There might be enough in here to really make a difference. I could get the car fixed and get my license so I wouldn’t have to rely on other people to get everywhere. Maybe I’d buy a new car instead—one that didn’t remind me of Mom every time I sat in the driver’s seat. One that would take me as far as I wanted to go.

I ripped the envelope all the way open and took out the papers that were inside. Ever since I started earning my own money, I’d been getting bank statements, so I knew one when I saw one. And this wasn’t one. It was from a credit card company. There were pages and pages of charges, and on the first page in big black letters was one of the largest numbers I’d seen in real life. I looked up at the date in the corner of the page. This statement was from six months ago, but even then Mom owed $48,562 to this credit card. With all of the Christmas stuff she’d bought last month, I was sure the total was now a lot higher. I frantically pawed through the envelopes from all the other banks. The next bill I opened was newer and had another huge number in the corner. The next showed a balance of only $9,867. In the space of just a few seconds, $9,867 had started to feel like “only.”

The handle of her purse was sticking up beside the recliner. Mom always kept it in the same spot so it wouldn’t get swallowed up in the tide of garbage. The panic was rising as I reached into it and pulled out her wallet. It was the same worn brown leather wallet she’d carried since I could remember, bulging at the sides, with scraps of paper receipts sticking out the top. Carefully, I opened the snap and looked inside. The slots were filled with credit cards—some were grocery cards or insurance cards, and one was a library card, but most of them were credit cards. As I pulled them out, I examined the expiration dates—it would be just like Mom to carry around a lifetime’s worth of expired credit cards—but all of these were current.

There were two cards with airplanes on the front, one with a panda bear, a Macy’s, a Target, and one from a store I’d never even heard of. When her wallet was empty, there were twelve credit cards sitting in front of me. All of a sudden, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

The mountains of stuff seemed to vibrate as I shifted my glance from one pile to the next. I thought about the ice-skating lessons I wasn’t allowed to take because they were too expensive, and the week at the lake that turned into three days at a Motel 6 in Modesto because it was a lot cheaper. The scholarships and grants I was chasing because there wasn’t enough money to go to a good university without a lot of help. And this is where it had all ended up. Not in trips to the beach, or a remodeled kitchen. It had ended in late-night home-shopping bargains on stuff we’d never use and gifts for people she would never give. That pile of plastic had fueled this pile of worthless garbage. Instead of seeing just piles of clothes and junk, I realized for the first time how much money must have been involved in amassing this much stuff. How much had she spent on things, only to have them sit in a pile for months and years? Whenever I bought a new book, Mom would remind me that there was a library in town, and libraries were free. Thank God I had Dad’s money, because Mom’s was only for stuff that was important to her. Apparently, that included useless countertop mixers, but did not include me.

My stomach was in knots as I thought of having to pay it all back. What if being dead meant that you weren’t off the hook? It would take years—decades, probably—to pay back all the money she owed. There was no way I could afford to go to a good school now. If I was lucky, I might have time for junior college between jobs, if I had to help pay all that money back. Josh and Kaylie would go off to freshman year at UC Berkeley or Stanford and I’d be . . . where exactly? Where would I be?

I grabbed each stack of credit card bills and flung them across the room, as if getting rid of the evidence would make the problem go away. My jaw clenched as I reached for an armload of newspapers and threw them into the middle of the room, only to have them settle on the piles like a small dusting of snow on a glacier. A scream rose from the back of my throat as I lunged toward a stack of books and newspapers next to her chair and brought them crashing down with a vibration so strong the walls shook. I grabbed anything I could reach, enjoying the thud as whatever it was hit the wall and bounced back into the room. The sharp sound of the vase breaking against the brick fireplace was still ringing in my ears when I noticed a small trickle of blood from a tiny gash in the side of my hand. Staring at the smear of red that ran from the cut, I wiped it with my other hand until it started to sting. The pain had a weird calming effect and I doubled over, breathing heavily like I’d been sprinting.

I couldn’t spend another second in that house. I had to get out if I was going to keep hold of my sanity and salvage anything. Stacks of books and newspapers fell to the floor as I raced down the pathways, focusing only on reaching the front door so I could breathe again.

The cold air hit me as I yanked the open door, and I drank it in as I moved toward the darkness. My breath was making little puffs of fog but I didn’t feel cold. Here, I was free from the pathways and the stale decay of the house. Out here, there was no ceiling to trap the mess, only the stars that promised the vastness of space with nothing between me and them but cold, clean air.

I reached the corner and stood under the streetlight watching the traffic signals change from green to yellow to red and back again like they were part of a universal rhythm. I had no plan, only vague thoughts that passed through my head like vapor, only to disappear as quickly as they had formed.

Without realizing I was even moving, I found myself standing in front of Kaylie’s house. I stared at the front door and tried to decide if knocking was what I really wanted to do. The minivan was in the driveway, and I could see a light on in her window upstairs.

“Lucy!” she squealed when she answered the door. “Why didn’t you call? We totally would have come picked you up.”

“It’s okay,” I said, amazed that my lips were moving in a coherent manner. “I needed the walk.”

“Is your mom better?”

“About the same,” I whispered. I felt like I was watching everything happen from very far away. It was safer than being inside my body and feeling empty.

“Well, I’m glad you changed your mind,” she said. “I was just getting ready to go—Vanessa’s sister is picking me up on the way.” She turned her head and looked at me more closely. “You okay? You look like hell.”

I ran my hand over my hair and could feel it sticking up in more than a few places. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I just didn’t have a chance to—”

“Not to worry. You’ve come to the right place.” I climbed the stairs to her room a few steps behind her. “I got this killer new straightener that will work magic on your hair. That and a few swipes of Plum Sable eye shadow should have you back on track.”

We passed the bathroom, and I realized that what I really wanted was to stand still somewhere and let stinging droplets of hot water wash this entire day down the drain. “Actually, Kaylie, could I, uh, take a shower maybe?”

“Okay,” she said, apparently not thinking it was a weird request. “But make it quick.”

My brain whirred on empty as I stood under the pounding water, feeling it flow over my shoulders and down my back. For the first few minutes I just stood there soaking, inhaling the steam and the heat, breathing it deep into my lungs. I grabbed the washcloth Kaylie had given me, lathered with sharp, clean-smelling citrus soap, and scrubbed until my skin was raw. Shampoo was dripping down my face when the door to the bathroom opened.

“Lucy?” Kaylie said as she tiptoed in. I had tucked Teddy B. into my jacket, which was folded on the floor, and I prayed she wouldn’t see him. I’d forgotten I even had him on me, but now that he was here, it seemed important that he stay secret. “I brought you those jeans that are too long for me and that cute black-and-white-striped shirt that made me think of you when I bought it. No offense, but if we’re going to the party, you need something else to wear.”

I rinsed and stuck my head out of the curtain. “Thanks,” I said. All I wanted was to curl up in a ball in the corner of the room and sleep for about a hundred years.

“If you’re going to get Josh Lee, you have to look hot. Hurry up so I can do your hair and stuff before we go.”

I wished I had left my toothbrush over here, as I rinsed my mouth with toothpaste. My clothes were in a heap on the floor, so I rolled them into a tight ball and stuck them behind the door. They were just one more reminder of what I’d left behind, and it would be fine with me if I never saw them again. Holding my jacket to my nose, I sniffed to see if the mold and the garbage and the mess had gotten deep into the fibers. It seemed okay, but just to be sure, I sprayed it lightly with the perfume Kaylie had on the counter. I tucked Teddy B. into my jacket and zipped it up over him. I didn’t know why, but I felt calmer with him pressing into my side.

Kaylie looked me over as I came into her room. “What’s with the jacket? Are you still cold?”

I zipped the jacket up higher. “A little.”

“Sometimes you have to sacrifice comfort for fashion.”

“I’ll take it off when we get there,” I lied. Actually going somewhere, especially somewhere that Josh was going to be, seemed impossible, but I felt like I was being carried downstream in a strong current that had nothing to do with me.

“Okay, sit down here.”

I sat numbly on her bed while she hovered around with a little dash of this and a little dab of that. The blow-dryer felt nice on my neck, and I let her do what she wanted while I sat and thought about absolutely nothing. I came back to the present as she clipped the metal plates on my hair until they sizzled.

“Ow!” I jerked away from the iron.

“Ooh, sorry!” she said. She rubbed my ear. “I do that all the time.” She took a step back and admired her work. “You look awesome. Between the haircut and the straightener, it’s just a little badass. Close your eyes.”

She sprayed a nice-smelling mist over my head. “That ought to last the rest of the night.”

I peeked around her until I could see myself in her mirror. It didn’t look that bad. My hair stuck out like it did before I washed it, only now it looked as if it were on purpose. My eyelids wore a shade of purple so dark they looked vaguely bruised.

“Josh is going to freak out,” she said. “You should wear makeup all the time.”

I shrugged and made a face. I could pile the entire drawerful of stuff on my face and it wouldn’t make any difference. Not after tomorrow, anyway.

“Seriously,” she said as she unplugged the straightener. “I think he’s totally into you, and this is going to prove it.” Kaylie rubbed her hands together. “I promised Vanessa I’d be ready at nine, so we should go downstairs. This is going to be great. Maybe if you hook up with Josh, he’ll ask you to the Spring Formal. You’re so lucky.”

I tried to think that far ahead, but my thoughts ran into a deep black hole. Nothing existed beyond tomorrow when Sara came home and found out what had happened. All of a sudden I knew I couldn’t go through with it. There was no way I could go and be with people and act normal. Not with my entire life unraveling by the minute.

“You go ahead,” I said, my voice shaky. “I can’t. I’m just going to . . . I’m just going to go home.”

Kaylie looked concerned. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

“I just . . . I . . .” I slid to the floor and put my hands over my face. It felt like a wave filled with everything wrong with my life was crashing over me—Mom lying under the sheet, mountains of garbage that I could never fix even if I had months instead of hours, piles of bills that threatened everything we had left, and images of our neighbors shaking their heads as they looked through our open doors at the truth we’d been so careful to hide all these years. I felt myself gasp as the tears started to roll down my cheeks, and I brought my knees up to my chest. I couldn’t believe I was actually sitting on Kaylie’s rug bawling like a baby, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Kaylie knelt next to me. I could feel her arm around my shoulder and smell her perfume, but I didn’t dare take my hands away from my face. What if I broke down and told her the truth? “Lucy,” she said softly. “Hey, Luce, what’s going on? Come on, whatever it is, we can fix it.” One hand patted my shoulder as she held me closer.

“There’s nothing you can do,” I whispered, my voice raggedy with crying. “There’s nothing anybody can do. It’s over.”

“Listen, listen,” she said, trying to pry my hands from my eyes. “I’m your best friend, right? Right?”

I nodded, but the thought brought a fresh batch of tears coursing down my face. For the next few hours she was, but then what?

“Then you’ve got to tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”

“I can’t,” I said. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to get a grip. The back of my hand was streaked with purple and black smudges where I’d wiped my eyes. “It’s just . . . I can’t.” She’d understand soon enough when the news broke. It’s not like she could help me, anyway, even if I told her everything. I should just let her think I’d had a fight with Mom or had a bad case of PMS. She’d never guess what was really wrong with my life. “I’m okay,” I said, wiping the makeup from under my eyes.

Kaylie knelt next to me and grabbed my hand. “You’re obviously not okay,” she insisted. “Is it your mom?” I shook my head. “Is it Josh?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just everything.” Bracing myself against the wall, I pulled myself up. “I’m sorry. That was so stupid. Really, I’m fine.” If Kaylie didn’t think I was a loser before, I was sure she did now.

“You’re sitting here looking like the world is ending, and you expect me to believe you’re fine? Lucy, you have to be honest with me. I’m your best friend—you at least owe me that.”

And for a sliver of a second I thought about it. Thought about telling her everything—about Mom, the house, the bills—but as much as I wished she’d stay concerned and caring, I was just as sure that she wouldn’t. Kaylie was the nicest friend I’d ever had, but she wasn’t a superhero.

“Do you want to stay home?” she asked. “Because I can just call Vanessa—”

I took a deep breath. “No. No, let’s go.” And I meant it. No matter what I was doing, nothing was going to happen at the house until morning. The next twelve hours were going to be the last normal ones in my life, and I didn’t want to waste them surrounded by garbage at my house or sitting in a heap on her floor. This would be the last chance I ever had to be just regular old Lucy, and I might as well go out and make the most of it. I sniffed, and wiped the last traces of moisture from my face. “I must be a wreck,” I said, laughing a little.

Kaylie grinned, but her eyes still looked serious. “You did sort of ruin my work,” she said. “Sit down and I’ll fix it for you, if you’re sure.”

I nodded quickly, and she got out some wipes and the makeup and started repairing the damage I’d caused.

Kaylie’s mom knocked at the same time she stuck her head in the doorway. “Oh, hi, Lucy,” she said, giving me a smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She turned to Kaylie. “Who’s driving tonight?”

“Vanessa’s sister. She’s home from college for vacation. I was thinking one o’clock—it’s break, after all.”

“Twelve thirty,” her mom said. “But no later. And make sure she isn’t drinking. You can always call me if you get stuck.” It always blew me away that Kaylie and her mom could talk about those kinds of things. Mom would freak if I went to a party, forget about one where she thought there might be drinking.

“Are you spending the night, Lucy?” her mom asked me. She never asked why I spent so much time over here—she seemed to know she wouldn’t like the answer.

“Yes,” Kaylie said quickly.

“Actually, I have to go home tonight,” I said. I had to get home before Sara to make sure everything looked right before I ended it all with a simple phone call.

“Well, you’re always welcome here. You know that. I’ll see you at twelve thirty.” She put her arm around Kaylie and kissed her on the cheek—a gesture that neither of them gave a second thought but made my heart ache.

“You really okay?” Kaylie asked, reaching for her purse. “ ’Cause you can tell me anything.”

I shrugged, not trusting my voice, and stared off into the distance, trying to maintain some control. She had no idea what “anything” might mean.

“Listen,” she said, turning off her bedroom light. “The stars are aligning. I can feel it. This is going to be your night. It’s going to be great.” The more she spoke, the more excited Kaylie seemed to get. It was hard not to catch a little bit of her enthusiasm.

“If you say so,” I managed.

“Well, I do say so.” She looked me up and down and brushed some stray hairs away from my face. It was such a caring gesture that it almost made me start crying again.

“Thanks,” I said quietly. At least for tonight I had a real best friend. I stood a little straighter, trying to be one of those people who took chances. “Okay, let’s go.” I didn’t look back as we walked out of the house and into the last normal night of my life.

chapter 16

9:00 p.m.

Vanessa’s sister pulled up just as we got outside. She slid the back door open and then grabbed her phone to answer a quick text.

“Hey, Lucy,” Vanessa said from the front seat as we climbed into the minivan. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

In the split second between when she spoke and when I answered, a million thoughts ran through my brain. Did she wish I wasn’t coming? Had she and Kaylie been talking about me behind my back about tonight? Vanessa and I were like friends once-removed. We wouldn’t have had any connection at all except for Kaylie, and I always felt like she was letting me know that she had been there first.

“Yeah,” I said. “I got done early so I decided to come along.”

Kaylie smacked me on the shoulder. “She got done early and couldn’t stand the thought of Josh Lee being there all by himself.” She sat back hard as the van lurched into the street.

“Are you having a thing with Josh Lee?” Vanessa asked in a tone that said she didn’t believe it.

“No,” I said. “Kaylie’s just hallucinating.” I could feel my cheeks getting warm at the thought of seeing him. Focusing on Josh made my nerves calm down a little. I had to put Mom and the house behind me if I was going to go through with this. This was my only shot, and I had to take it because there probably wouldn’t be another one.

“Not even,” she said. “You should have seen them at the movies last night.”

God, was that really only last night? It seemed like weeks ago.

“That’s funny. I thought he was back together with Cara,” Vanessa said. I was pretty sure she was lying, but the thought made my stomach turn. Still, it wouldn’t be that surprising—they were bound to get back together at some point. Vanessa grinned at me as she sat back in her seat and pulled a cigarette out of her purse. She’d taken a few drags when Kaylie smelled it and popped the back window open.

“Nessa!” she yelled. “My mom will have a heart attack if she smells smoke on me!”

“All right, all right,” Vanessa said, leaning forward to toss the cigarette out the front window. “Calm down. You act like you’ve never seen anyone smoking before.”

Kaylie waved her hands around the interior of the van, trying to coax the smoke outside. “I’ve never seen you smoking before. What were you thinking? You know your mom would kill you for stinking up her van.”

Vanessa reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of Camel 100’s. “She wouldn’t care. Besides, these things totally help you lose weight,” she said. “They’re kind of expensive, but cheaper than diet pills as long as you buy them by the carton.”

“Just stay away from me with those,” Kaylie said. “I don’t need to get grounded.”

Vanessa’s sister parked behind a long line of cars on the normally quiet street. Even inside the van we could hear music coming from a house halfway up the block. I felt a strange thrill run through me at the thought of Josh being so close. “I’m not getting the rest of my winter break wrecked because you need to be skinnier,” Kaylie said.

“Whatever,” Vanessa said and opened the door. “There’s Tricia! Hey, I’ll meet you guys up there.” She hopped out of the van as delicately as someone who is wearing a super-short miniskirt can. “Trish! Wait up!”

I watched Vanessa walk up the dimly lit street, her multihued blond hair waving behind her like a shimmering stream and the three-inch heels she was wearing not slowing her stride a bit. I envied Vanessa not because most of her butt was hanging out of her skirt—that just made me feel colder—but because she truly never cared what other people thought of her. She’d say something mean about someone, something that most everyone had probably been thinking, anyway, but the difference was she’d say it to their face. That kind of behavior didn’t make people hate her like you’d think it would. Instead, it made most people hope that they weren’t the one she was talking about. She had always left me pretty much alone. So far.

Kaylie wriggled out of the backseat and jumped to the ground. “Let’s do it.”

I’d left the house so quickly I didn’t have anything with me, and it made me feel kind of naked. I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets to warm them. Teddy B.’s leg was near the left pocket under my jacket, and I gave it a little squeeze for luck or courage or something.

I tried to be cool as we walked into the party. A few people I didn’t recognize weren’t so much dancing as swaying in the middle of the living room floor. One girl dressed in a pink sweater was draped over the shoulders of a short guy in saggy jeans. She looked like she was sleeping.

“Most people are probably out back,” Kaylie said, and, grabbing my hand, pulled me toward the sliding glass doors at one end of the room.

It was so cold outside that there were puffs of steam hovering just over everyone’s heads as they exhaled. At the back of the patio on a small raised deck, Josh stood with a guitar slung low on his hips and one hand on the microphone. He was wearing a thin T-shirt and jeans, in contrast to everyone else who was bundled in down jackets and scarves. The muscles in his arms were marked by ropy veins that pulsed every time he played a chord on the guitar. Even from back here I could see the sweat dripping down the side of his temples, and the front of his hair was plastered to his forehead. There was a group of people gathered around the makeshift stage, with a bunch of girls lining the front. The waves of desire between the crowd and the band were almost physical as Josh began to sing, his eyes closed with the effort. All of a sudden I wished I hadn’t come. Josh could have any girl here—why did I think he’d want me? That he had his arm around me just a few hours ago seemed suddenly impossible.

I felt like I did the one and only time we’d spoken at school earlier this year—stupid and delusional. I’d been standing by my locker shifting books out of my backpack when I saw him a few feet away talking to Steve Romero. I heard Steve slam his locker and walk away, which is why I was totally startled to see Josh still standing there as I turned to go to class.

“Hey,” he said, smiling at me, either not noticing or ignoring the fact that I jumped a mile. “We have physics together, don’t we?”

“Mmm hmm.” I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to say actual words.

“You’re Lucy, right?” he said, not waiting for an answer. “I’m Josh. Josh Lee.”

“I kn—” I realized almost too late that “I know” would be kind of obvious. “Right,” I finally said, managing a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m Lucy. Tompkins.”

He turned to go and I stood there hyperventilating like an idiot, not believing we had an almost-conversation. After a few steps, he turned back to look at me. “Come on,” he said. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to make it before the bell.”

I took a few quick steps to catch up to him. “Right,” I said. “Physics.” Our strides matched as we walked down the hall, me racking my brain trying to come up with something interesting to say. Luckily, Josh didn’t seem to have the same problem.

“God, Ms. Lucas is killing me this year,” he said. “I thought chemistry was bad, but sometimes it’s like she’s speaking another language.”

“It’s not so hard,” I said. Art was my favorite subject, but I always did pretty well in science too. I watched our feet as they stretched over the worn linoleum floor, not daring to look up into his face. “She usually explains things pretty well. Plus, physics is kind of fun if you look at it the right way.”

“Are you kidding me?” Josh asked. “Fun? No wonder you’re always getting As. We should study together sometime, just so I don’t screw up my GPA. Then you can show me how physics is fun.”

I glanced up to see if he was kidding, but he was looking at me seriously out of the corner of his eye. “Um, we could do that,” I said. “That would be cool.” I couldn’t believe that Josh Lee was actually walking through the hall asking me to help him with physics. Maybe we could go to the café and study, our heads bent over one of the tiny round tables as we ordered coffee after coffee to keep us working until late at night.

Josh’s smile widened. “Maybe—”

“There you are!” Cara squealed, jumping on his back and draping her arms over his shoulders. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” She buried her face in his neck, and I just stared, wishing so badly I had permission to do the same thing.

He reached up and grabbed her by the arms. “Hey, Cara,” he said, laughing a little. “We were just heading to class.”

Cara slid off his back. “We?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He nodded in my direction. “You know Lucy?”

She glanced at me for a second longer than necessary and said, “Um, not really.” Cara turned her full attention to Josh. “Listen, I need to talk to you about Friday night.” She pulled him over to the lockers and leaned in so they could talk quietly, leaving me standing alone in the stream of people heading to class. I watched for a second as they surrounded themselves with the privacy that only long-time couples seem to have—studying each other, oblivious to everyone else around them.

“Well,” I said quietly and sighed. “Guess I’ll see you in class.” I walked slowly toward the science wing, feeling like an idiot but also grateful that I hadn’t made a complete ass of myself. Like Josh would ever choose me over Cara. Or over anyone.

Now here I was doing the same thing again—having crazy fantasies about Josh when he was just being polite. Kaylie stood on her tiptoes surveying the crowd. “I think I see Steve over to the right.”

“I’m freezing,” I said. “I’m going back inside.” I wanted to get out of there before Josh knew I’d come. I couldn’t compete with all of the normal girls in school—there was no use even trying.

“What’s inside?” Kaylie asked. “All the good stuff is out here.” She looked at me and then back to the band. “What you need is some beer. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

With the crowd around the keg as huge as it was, I figured she’d be gone for ages, but she was back in a minute or two.

“Here,” she said, handing me a blue plastic cup. “Careful, it’s a little drippy.”

“How did you do that so fast?”

“I have my ways,” she said. She looked over my shoulder to see if Steve was still there. I wished I could be more like her and look straight at what I wanted. And navigate a keg in under two minutes. “Drink it quick. It’ll relax you.”

I took a tentative sip of the beer. It tasted like vomit. I tried hard not to wrinkle my nose in disgust.

“Is it bad?” Kaylie asked. I handed her the beer and she took a small sip. “Just like them to get a keg full of crap beer.” She handed it back to me. “Doesn’t matter, though, it’ll do the trick.”

Vanessa and Tricia came over with their own matching blue plastic cups. The beer was cold and my hand was getting numb. They should give you those cardboard sleeves like they do at Sienna when the coffee is too hot for the cup.

“Cheers!” Vanessa said, and raised her cup in the air before taking a giant swig. She didn’t even make a face when she was done.

“Are we checking out anyone in particular?” Tricia asked. Her skirt was almost as short as Vanessa’s, but at least she had the decency to shiver and cross her arms in front of her as she tried to ward off the cold wind that cut through the yard.

Vanessa laughed. “Apparently Miss Lucy here has a thing going with Josh Lee.”

Tricia raised her eyebrows. “I knew that he’d broken up with Cara—were you his thing on the side?”

“No way!” Kaylie answered for me. “Get real. Lucy doesn’t have to go for sloppy seconds. Josh asked her to come to the party. He’s totally into her.”

“If he’s so into her, then why has he been flirting with Justine all night?” Tricia asked. She tossed her head in the direction of the stage.

I felt a heavy weight settle in my stomach as I looked back toward the rear of the yard. Sure enough, Justine had planted herself right in front of where Josh was singing.

“He’s not flirting with Justine,” Kaylie said. “Everyone knows she’s been throwing herself at him for months.”

“I have eyes,” Tricia said. “And I know what I saw.” She looked at me. “You don’t seriously think you’d be going out with him? He’s totally going to get back together with Cara—they’re just cooling off until after winter break. They’re meant for each other.”

Each word was like a hammer blow of reality. Kaylie might want to think Josh liked me, but as annoying as Tricia was, she was probably right. I glanced back to the stage where Josh was looking intently at someone as he finished the song. He was looking right at Justine Hildebrandt.

The music stopped, but I couldn’t bear to have Josh see me now, chasing him like all the other girls. What would he think if he saw me standing here? I couldn’t stand to see him put his arm around Justine, to know that she was feeling the warmth of his body next to hers, inhaling his scent. The last normal night of my life was probably going to end like every other one had—with me cold and alone.

Kaylie was still arguing with Tricia, so I inched backward until I was standing next to a tall palm tree in a big wooden planter. I tried taking another drink to see if getting buzzed would make me feel any better, but the beer was so disgusting I could barely manage a tiny swallow. There was no way I was going to be able to choke down enough to make it worth it—while nobody was looking I tipped my cup into the planter and dumped out half the beer.

As I raised the cup back to my lips so it would look like I’d been drinking the whole time, I felt warm breath on the back of my neck.

“I wouldn’t drink that swill, either,” he said with a laugh.

My heart raced and I didn’t know whether to be happy or horrified, because I’d recognize Josh Lee’s voice anywhere.

chapter 17

9:30 p.m.

“Well, well,” Vanessa said. “Look who’s here.”

I bit the edge of my plastic cup and stared down at my shoes, not daring to look behind me. I knew that if I turned around and saw Josh holding hands with Justine, I’d probably run out of there without another word. So much for acting normal.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” Josh said, slightly out of breath. “Can I get anybody anything?”

He was standing so close to me I could feel the heat radiating off his body. He smelled clean and solid as he spoke over my shoulder. One quick glance told me that, at least for the moment, he was alone. I’d never believed the whole “weak in the knees” theory, but right now I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to stay upright.

I looked up in time to see Vanessa cut her eyes at me. She tossed her long blond hair behind her shoulder and raised her eyebrows. I didn’t know what she was up to, but it didn’t feel good. “I’d love another beer,” she said. She rolled her tongue over her lips and giggled as he took her cup.

As far as I knew, she didn’t even like Josh, so the only reason for the theatrics was to get him to notice her. And in that skirt and with those heels, if he didn’t notice her, he was blind.

“What about you, Luce?” Josh asked. “You look like you could use another beer.” I swear he winked at me when he said it.

I pretended to take another sip from my cup. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” If I got more beer, the potted plants on the patio would probably wither up and die before the night was over.

“Well, at least help me carry these.” Josh tucked my arm into his and spun me around.

I was so surprised I started sputtering. “Wait . . .”

Kaylie grinned as I looked over my shoulder at her. “Go on, Lucy—Josh looks like he needs help.”

Josh guided me effortlessly through the crowd and in through the patio doors to the kitchen. His cheeks were bright red from playing and his hair was damp with sweat. “Here we are,” he said, and set the cups down on the counter.

“But the keg’s out there,” I said.

“I’ve got something better in here,” Josh said, and pulled the refrigerator door open. “Rinse those out, will you?” His voice was muffled as he dug through the crammed fridge.

I had no idea what he was doing, but I turned on the tap and rinsed our cups under hot water. The beer in the keg was nasty, and I wasn’t up for drinking any more, but I could always find somewhere to dump it out.

Bottles clanked as Josh emerged from the depths of the fridge. “Here we go. I had to stash them way back there so nobody would drink them.”

“Must be special,” I said. “I didn’t think to bring my own.” I was nervous, so I was monitoring everything that came out of my mouth. It was like there were two people in my body—one who was actually speaking to Josh and one who was hanging back and making sure that the one doing the talking didn’t sound completely stupid.

“Hand me your cup.” Josh took one bottle and put the end of his shirt over the cap as he twisted it off with a sound like air escaping from a tire. He poured some into my cup and handed it back to me. For the shortest of seconds, our fingers brushed and my whole arm began to tingle.

The beer in my cup had a big brown head of foam on it. I sniffed it like I knew how good beer was supposed to smell.

“Try it,” Josh said. His brown eyes crinkled up in a nice way as he grinned at me. “It’s good stuff. Imported.”

I tipped the cup and took a sip. It was good—sweet and spicy.

“Root beer,” Josh leaned in and whispered. He touched his forehead to mine and laughed quietly. “It didn’t look like you were enjoying the keg, so I thought you might want something else. I’m driving tonight, so I brought my own. Keep it in the cup and nobody will know the difference.”

“Thanks,” I said. I grinned and licked the foam off my upper lip. Josh had caught me dumping perfectly good beer into a potted palm and for some reason didn’t think I was a total loser. What was wrong with him? I took another sip of root beer and the bubbles tickled my nose. We stood looking at each other, not saying anything for a long moment.

Josh tipped his cup to mine like he was making a toast. All of a sudden he seemed a little nervous. He leaned in, and it was all I could do not to put my hand out to touch his damp hair. “I’m glad you changed your mind about coming tonight,” he said.

I quickly glanced into his eyes and then down at the peeling vinyl floor. “Yeah, I got done early,” I managed.

“Have you been here a long time?” He probably wondered if I’d seen him and Justine.

“Long enough,” I answered, and got a puzzled look in response. Before he could say anything, a group of guys slid the glass door open and rolled into the kitchen.

“Dude! Good to see ya.” Dylan Roberts shoved his way in between us and gave Josh one of those complicated guy handshakes that ends with bumping fists. He did something on the football team and proved that fact to everyone by wearing his football jersey every day of every season. His broad back was facing me and a bright green number seven was right in my face.

“Hey, Dylan,” Josh said. He spun Dylan around so he was facing me. “You know Lucy. From school.” He said it more like a statement than a question.

“Right,” Dylan said, looking me up and down in the most nonsubtle way imaginable. “You were JV cheer for basketball.”

“No, I—” Instead of finishing, I grabbed a plastic cup from the counter. “You know what? Vanessa’s going to be looking for that beer.” I didn’t want to make Josh look like a weirdo for sitting in the kitchen talking to me the whole time. He’d done his good deed for the night and now I was going to let him off the hook.

Josh touched my shoulder as I headed for the patio door. “What’s the rush?”

I looked back at Dylan standing there with a couple of other football jocks. This was so not my crowd. It was like seeing famous people in real life, and having one of them actually talk to you. At least until they figured out you weren’t one of them. “For one thing, I thought I’d leave you alone to hang out with your friends. And second, I don’t want to keep Vanessa waiting.”

“Vanessa’s fine,” Josh said. He indicated outside with his chin. “Look. She already got somebody else to get her another beer.”

Through the glare of the light outside, I could see Vanessa talking to an older guy, flashing her teeth and tossing her hair. Sure enough, she had another blue cup of beer in her hand.

“And I can always spend a night sitting in somebody’s kitchen talking to those idiots.” He lowered his voice. “It’s not every day I can spend some time talking to you.”

It sounded like a line, and I had to look into his eyes to see if he was telling the truth. He was staring straight at me and not even smiling a little.

“Why?” It came out of my mouth before the censoring part of me had time to stop it.

Now Josh laughed. “Why?” he repeated.

“No, I didn’t mean why, exactly,” I started. “I just meant . . . I guess I don’t know what I meant.” This had started out so nice and I could feel myself blowing it. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down and not wreck it.

“No, no. It was a legitimate question,” he said. He took another sip from his cup, so that he had a tiny fleck of foam on his upper lip, and looked up at the ceiling. “Let’s see . . . instead of spending the whole night listening to the guys detail the plays of every single winning game from last season, I could hang out with a pretty girl and find out why she’s so mysterious.” He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Is that a good enough answer?”

“I suppose so,” I said. “Except for the mysterious part. I’m about as unmysterious as you can get. And you see me all the time.”

“I see you all the time. That’s true. I see you in physics every day, where I’ve sat beside you for something like four months now and hardly heard you say a word. I see you at the café, where you always get a medium vanilla latte and barely even look at me when I hand it to you. You come and go, but I have no idea who you really are. Does that make sense?”

“What about Justine?”

“What about Justine?” he asked. “She’s got nothing to do with me.”

I glanced outside. “Yeah, but I saw you with her. When you were singing.”

Josh flashed another smile. “That was just a show,” he said. “It would have been perfect if you had been the one standing there instead of her.”

More than anything, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be able to look into his eyes and trust that what he was saying was the truth. But the truth was sometimes difficult to come by.

The sliding door opened and Kaylie walked into the kitchen. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said, but she didn’t sound mad. “You two just ran off together and never came back.” She grinned at me and raised her eyebrows at Josh. Subtlety was a skill she was going to have to work on.

I straightened up and took a tiny step away from Josh. “Yeah, sorry. Josh just wanted to get something out of the fridge, so I came in here to help and—”

Kaylie waved her hand in the air. “It’s fine. I’m not your mother. Anyway, Steve told us about this other party over on Hillside, and Vanessa wants to take off.”

“No problem.” I took a last swig of my root beer and put the cup down on the counter. “I’m coming.”

Josh put his cup down next to mine. “I can’t go for a while because I have to play another set. The provisional on my license just ended, so I could, uh, give you a ride home if you’re not ready to leave,” he said.

Part of me was thrilled, but more of me was terrified. Kaylie was like my lifeline in a foreign country, and it was scary to let her go. “No, really,” I said. “It’s fine. I’ll just—”

“Great idea,” Kaylie said. She turned to me and opened her eyes wide. “We’re bringing a bunch of other people with us so the van’s getting a little crowded, anyway.”

I looked at Josh and he smiled, like I would be the one doing him a favor. If this night was going to count, I was going to have to take a chance. I could always get home on my own in time for my life to completely fall apart.

“Okay.” I smiled back at him. “You really don’t care?” I asked Kaylie.

She leaned in and gave me a quick hug. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she whispered in my ear, and with a smirk, she was gone.

I felt unmoored as the only person I really knew vanished into the crowd. Josh brushed my hand with the back of his, and I noticed, not for the first time, how strong his fingers were.

“You look like you could use another drink,” he said, and grabbed my cup from the counter. I stood leaning against the sink as he poured more root beer into both of our cups. While he was busy, I allowed myself to enjoy his broad shoulders and easy smile. Not a bad way to spend the last normal night of my life, really.

“Are you spending the night at Kaylie’s?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Not tonight.”

“What time do you have to be home, then?” he asked. I followed his glance to a clock above the stove. 10:06.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Tonight? Tonight, it really doesn’t matter.” For once, I was telling the absolute truth.

chapter 18

2:30 a.m.

I glanced over my shoulder as the keys rattled in Josh’s hand. “Are you sure it’s okay?” I whispered.

He held the key ring up to the light of the lamppost on the corner. “Yeah, it’s fine. Angie totally trusts me—that’s why she made me assistant manager.” He found a big square key and fit it in the lock. “Wait here one second,” he said as he swung the door open and punched some numbers into the alarm system that hung by the front door.

I didn’t know what time it was, but I figured it was way after midnight. I’d like to say that we spent the rest of the time at the party in meaningful conversation, but that would be a big fat lie. I spent the rest of the time at the party watching Josh as he played on the little stage out back. A couple of times during a song, he would look over, catch my eye, and smile at me. I stayed way in the back of the crowd rather than up in the front with the other drooling girls, but each time he smiled, a little thrill ran through me and I couldn’t help smiling back.

The car ride here had been amazing. Once it was just the two of us, it was like the whole world dropped away. We sat in the car out in front of the party for what seemed like hours, talking until the windows were steaming and it looked like we’d been doing a lot more. I had trouble regulating what I was saying about school and the future and not touching on the past. I wanted to live right here and right now—not tomorrow and not yesterday.

“There,” Josh said as he pulled me through the front door. “If the alarm system went off, then she’d be pissed.”

We stood in the darkened café. It was weird being in there with the lights off and nobody sitting at the tables or waiting in line to order a drink. The only light came from above the sink in back of the counter.

“This thing takes forever to heat up,” Josh said, flicking buttons on the espresso machine. “You really don’t have to be home?”

I shook my head and grinned. “Nope. Not tonight.”

“Your mom must be really cool,” he said. “Mine gets mad if I’m out past one, even during vacation.”

“Let’s just say my curfew isn’t high on her priority list right now,” I said. My mind flashed quickly to the sheet-wrapped figure in the hallway.

“Is your dad around?”

I just shook my head. I really didn’t want to talk about me.

Josh was fiddling with stuff behind the counter. “My mom is on husband number three, and I think they get higher on the asshole scale every time.”

“And you don’t want to go live with your dad?”

He pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge. “Don’t really know him. He took off when I was a baby. Last time I heard, he was living in New York, but that was a long time ago. Besides, I like it here. I figure I’ve got less than two years before I’m out of here, and I can put up with anything until then.” For some reason, it made more sense when he said it.

“Do you know where you want to go to school?” I loved picking up little pieces of his life and putting them together to make the picture whole.

“I was thinking about Cal, but it’s so close, you know? Mom is trying to get me to go someplace a little farther away, like UCLA or maybe Santa Barbara. Sometimes I think she’s trying to get rid of me completely.”

I laughed a little. I always wanted to go someplace as far away as possible. I was thinking about the East Coast, maybe Boston. I’d go farther than that, but you run out of country someplace around New York.

“Come here, you’ve got to take a whiff of this.” Josh lifted the lid off a big gray garbage can that was sitting behind the counter.

My heart skipped a beat, and I could feel a shiver of fear run through my body as I stared at him with the garbage can lid in his hand. He knew. All this time and he was just setting me up for this moment. This whole thing was too good to be true. “Why?” I asked warily. I looked around, half expecting Justine and Cara to jump out from behind the counter pointing at Garbage Girl.

Josh laughed. “Stop asking so many questions and come over here. I promise you, this is one of the best smells in the world.”

“Are you making fun of me?” I asked. I could feel my throat closing up, and the last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of him. I took a step back toward the door.

“No,” he said, a look of concern crossing his face. “Why would I make fun of you? I just wanted to show you these.” He reached into the can and pulled out a handful of shiny black coffee beans.

Relief flooded my body. I took a step forward and immediately the strongest, thickest coffee smell I’d ever imagined filled the air around me. The plastic can was filled almost to the rim with beans.

Josh laughed and took a deep breath. He stuck his face down close to the beans and inhaled again. “Oh my God, I love that smell. Sometimes when I have to work really early, I just come in here and stick my head in the can and breathe for a few minutes. I swear, you can almost get a buzz going off the smell alone.” He took a scoop of the beans and put them in a big red machine. “Now, what can I get for you, miss?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what would you like? Anything. On the house. If we’re going to stay up late, we’re going to need some assistance.”

“I thought you had to be back by one o’clock,” I said. “That was probably a long time ago.”

“I said they get mad if I’m not home by one o’clock,” he said. “I didn’t say that I always do as I’m told. I’m working the early shift tomorrow, but I’m not about to abandon a girl with no curfew by going home on time.”

“Well, thanks for risking it,” I said.

“So, what’ll it be?” he asked. “Medium vanilla latte, or would you like to go for something completely different?”

“Something completely different sounds exactly like what I need right now,” I said. I leaned on the countertop and watched him work.

“So glad to hear you say that, Lucy Lu,” he said. He turned on the red machine, and the noise of the grinding beans filled the empty space.

The last bit of my coffee was lukewarm as I tipped it out of the bottom of the paper cup. “That was awesome,” I said. “What do you call it?”

“It’s not on the menu,” he said. “It has a little of this and a little of that, and I only make it for very special customers.”

“So what do I have to do to get you to make it again?”

“All you have to do is show up,” he said. “I’ll call it the Lucy Special. But you can only have it made by me. If you go to any other coffee guys, you will definitely not get what you want.” He tried to hide his grin by downing the last of his drink. “Hey, all we’ve been talking about is me—what about you?”

I shrugged. “What about me?” He was dangerously easy to talk to.

“Well, I know that you’ve seen every Johnny Depp movie ever made and that you like Shel Silverstein.” I blushed, not expecting him to remember back that far. “Let’s see—you live with your mom, who is religious but very cool with the curfews. Does your dad live around here?”

“No,” I said. “He lives in Michigan with the new family.” I couldn’t believe all of this was sliding out of my mouth. It took months for me to tell Kaylie this much.

“That’s a drag,” Josh said. “Your mom never got married again?”

“Nope. She didn’t . . . she doesn’t even date or anything. Not since Dad left.” I realized too late that I was already thinking of her in the past tense. Josh didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “My mom was never a good single person, which is why she makes such horrible choices. She’s cool now, but before this last husband, she was drinking pretty heavy. I used to wake up in the morning and find her passed out on the couch from the night before, a couple of empty wine bottles on the floor.”

It was hard to picture perfect Josh Lee coming from a broken home with an alcoholic mother. It didn’t seem to bother him that much, though, and he talked about it like he was talking about what his mom did for work. Casually. Like it had nothing to do with him.

“Is that why you don’t drink?” I asked.

“No. I wasn’t drinking because I’m driving tonight. My mom got a DUI a few years ago and almost killed someone in an accident. It was a mess to undo—it still isn’t all the way taken care of. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

I smiled at him. “Is that the big family secret?”

Josh shook his head. “Not much of a secret,” he said. “Not sure who knows, but it doesn’t bother me. Just because she screwed up doesn’t make it my problem.”

I couldn’t believe that it really wouldn’t bother him that much. “Didn’t you worry what people were going to say about her? About all of you?”

“They probably didn’t say anything worse than I did at the time.” He thought for a minute. “I guess at first I was pretty pissed off and embarrassed by the whole thing. Luckily, nobody ever saw her totally messed up, except for us. When she had the accident, it sort of blew the whole thing wide open, so we couldn’t hide it anymore. It must have been before you started at our school, or believe me, you would have heard about it.” Josh looked at me from under a strand of dark, shining hair. “The funny thing is, it was almost a relief in a way. We were all forced to deal with it, instead of pretending everything was okay. She even met this husband at AA. He’s a lot of things, but at least he’s not a drunk.”

I swallowed hard, thinking about what he’d said. Despite what everyone always said about “getting it all off your chest,” I didn’t buy it. Maybe someone could forgive an addiction, but nobody was going to understand how we lived under a mountain of garbage for so long. It was different. It made us too different.

“Are you the youngest?” I asked, wanting to absorb every scrap of information I could gather about him.

“Nope,” he said. “Oldest. My brother’s in eighth grade.” He banged his hands on the table. “See, we’re back to talking about me again. I think we need a little distraction.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me up from the table where we were sitting. “Come with me.”

I couldn’t concentrate on where we were going because all of my attention was focused on where our skin was touching. He didn’t let go, even when we were already standing up.

We walked through the dimly lit kitchen area to a large walk-in freezer on the back wall. Josh lifted the latch and pulled the door open, so a huge draft of cold air blasted us in the face.

“In there?” I asked.

“Just for a second,” he said. “You still have your jacket on—you’ll be fine.”

I’d totally forgotten about my jacket and Teddy B., who was still stuffed in the bottom. I pulled it tighter around me and felt his softness cling to my side.

“Are you going to trust me this time?” Josh asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do,” he said. “Hold out your hands.” He handed me a white box and grabbed a silver canister. “Let’s go back out front. It really is freezing in here.”

Josh put the white box on the dark granite counter and opened it. It was full of small yellow cakes covered in chocolate. “Madeleines,” he said. “Chocolate-covered madeleines.” He handed me one of the shell-shaped cakes and shook the canister. Tipping it upside down, he made a perfect cloud on top. “Made even better with whipped cream.”

I bit into the cake. It was cold and sweet and chocolaty—perfect after a hot cup of coffee. “Oh my God,” I said. “This is awesome.”

Josh jumped up and sat on the counter. I jumped up beside him.

“Tilt your head back,” he said.

I did, and he squirted whipped cream right into my mouth. Laughing, I tried to shove it all in without making a huge mess, but I was sure I looked like a rabid dog. Josh tilted his head back and filled his mouth with whipped cream too. I watched him, suddenly conscious that we were alone in this dark, warm space.

“Come here.” He smiled at me. “You have whipped cream on your nose.” He leaned in and wiped the tip of my nose with his finger. Our heads were so close they were almost touching, and for once in my life I knew exactly what was going to happen next.

Josh tasted like whipped cream and chocolate and something else spicy and mysterious. Our lips touched tentatively at first, testing to see if we would pull away and then adding more pressure as neither of us did. Without saying a word, Josh jumped down from the counter and stood in front of me so he could reach up and run his fingers through my hair. For just a second, the sensation of his fingertips on my scalp was the only thing in the universe, and I had to open my eyes to regain my balance and sense of reality.

I reached out with my legs and wrapped them around his waist, pulling him closer to me as we explored each other’s lips. Tracing his ear with the tip of my finger, I could feel him shake against my body.

After a few minutes, Josh pulled away just slightly and took my face in his hands. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. He traced my bottom lip with his finger and then leaned in to kiss the corner of my mouth. “You’ve got the most beautiful lips, Lucy Lu.”

I laughed. I’d never thought of my lips as beautiful before—too big for my face, maybe, but hardly beautiful. This moment was so perfect I didn’t want to say anything. I just pulled him close to me again and buried my face in the side of his neck, inhaling his scent so I would remember it forever. I felt so safe here in the dark of the café. Right here and right now, I could be the mysterious girl that Josh liked with the beautiful lips and no curfew.

As I leaned into him, I could feel Teddy B. bunched up under my jacket. I jumped down from the counter to face Josh, keeping one hand on my side so Teddy B. wouldn’t slip out. I could explain away a lot of things, but having a homemade teddy bear under my jacket would really be pushing it.

I’m tall, but Josh had a good three inches on me as we stood facing each other in the dark. I eased my hands up his shirt and felt his back muscles moving under his warm skin. We were swaying slightly, like we were dancing to music only we could hear. I wanted to stay here and do this very same thing every day for the next hundred years.

“Can we do this again?” Josh said, like he was reading my mind. He put both arms around my back and kissed me behind one ear.

The sensation was so strong that I pulled back slightly. “Which part?” I asked.

“All of it,” he answered. “I have to work until noon—will you meet me after?”

I started to say yes, and then the reality of what would be happening by noon hit me. By then, Sara would have found out what had happened to Mom, and the police would have been there for hours. Probably they would still be trying to get her out of that mess—amid curious neighbors and television crews who would want to document the process for the late news. By noon tomorrow, I’d be Garbage Girl again, for sure, and I’d lose all of this . . . all of him.

Josh pulled back so he could see my face. “Is that a yes, or a no?” he asked. To his credit, he looked genuinely worried.

“I really want to,” I whispered. Even in the dim light, his face blurred as tears sprung into my eyes. I wanted it to be yes with all my heart. But I knew that by noon tomorrow it would be no. Josh reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and smiled at me, his dimples flashing and the warmth in his eyes making me feel safe and protected. I tried to make this one of those moments you can go back to forever—the feel of his skin under the palm of my hand, the throb of his heart beating at the base of his neck. I inhaled again to try to imprint his scent on my memory, but remembering these things was going to make them even harder to lose.

I tried to stay focused, but the image of the crowds in front of my house wouldn’t go away. I wondered if Josh would be there too—gaping through the open door at the piles of filth that would always be a part of me. Even a guy like him wouldn’t be able to get over my big secret. I didn’t know if I could stand to see the look of disgust in his eyes and know that I’d lost the safety of his arms forever.

A digital clock above the espresso machine said 4:23. If I could just be me, alone, without the weight of Mom and the house hanging around my neck and pulling me down, everything would be perfect. In the movies, this would be the scene where the screen would fade to black—the house would disappear, leaving me untouched and able to face my future with Josh. If only this were one of those movies.

I traced my finger along his jawline, losing everything but the sensation of his body as it pressed against mine in the dark. The ache in my heart was so heavy my breath came in short, quiet gasps. Josh planted his hands firmly on my hips, his lips reaching for mine again, and I began to melt into the moment, the final moments of the last normal night of my life. If only the house would disappear—vaporize into the night until there was nothing left but Teddy B. in my jacket and my memories locked safely away where nobody would ever see. I’d gladly give up every single thing in that house, every ticket stub and handmade quilt, to be a regular girl with a best friend who really cared, and this boy whose touch left me speechless.

I pulled back from Josh’s arms as the image hit me. I’d watched it a million times, but never thought of it as the answer until now. It was perfect. There was a way to save us all, but I had to work fast.

Josh’s fingers were interlaced with mine as I stepped backward. “I have to go,” I said. I let go and zipped my jacket up tighter.

He grabbed my hand and kissed my palm. “Are you sure? I have to be back here at seven, so I was thinking we could just hang out until then. I don’t care about losing a little sleep.”

Turning around, I kissed him hard on the mouth. He didn’t know it then, but it was a promise. Maybe someday I could tell him what really went on tonight. Someday after. Right now, I had to keep this version of Lucy real for him and for me. “I’m sure.”

I waited nervously while he put everything back and turned off the light. Now that I had it all figured out I didn’t want to waste any time. His car was freezing, and I huddled in the front seat blowing on my hands while he warmed it up.

“I live just around the corner,” I said, pointing up ahead.

He glanced at me while he drove. “I know where you live, Lucy Lu.”

“You do?”

“Yep,” he said, and grinned.

We kissed for another minute parked in front of the house. “I’ll walk you to the door,” Josh said, unbuckling his seat belt.

“No, really,” I said quickly. “It’s fine. You stay here—it’s freezing outside.”

“I’m not cold,” he said, and reached over to kiss me again. It was going to be so hard to climb out of the car and walk away. I untangled myself from his arms and opened the door. I had to stay focused and not lose my nerve.

“Later? After work, okay—meet me there?” he asked. “I’ll take you to lunch at the Paradise.”

I nodded, kissed him one last time, and turned to walk quickly up the front steps. I had never felt so good and so bad at the same time. As I reached the door, I could hear his car idling, but I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to see the tears that had started rolling down my face. I didn’t have time for tears once I got inside. If I wanted any more nights like this, I had no other choice.

chapter 19

4:45 a.m.

I pushed the front door open gently and stuck my head around into the hallway. I don’t know what I expected to see, but it looked just the same as when I’d left.

I picked my way through the dining room to the back hallway. The light from the kitchen shone just enough to see the lumpy sheet. I looked at Mom lying there and tried not to let the lonely, helpless feelings wind around my body again. There was only one way to fix this—and standing here feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to make it happen. I just hoped it would work like it did in the movies.

As I dragged the space heater from my room, I could hear a faint beeping sound from far away. I followed the sound, walking back toward the front door. It was coming from somewhere near Mom’s chair. As soon as I saw my bag on the floor, I realized what it was. My phone was ringing. At four something in the morning, my phone was ringing. As soon as the beeping stopped, I flipped open the phone and saw that I’d gotten seventeen text messages from Kaylie since I’d been out, and one from Josh. The last one. Sleep tite. J. I stared at the text, imagining him on the other end of this phone, the light from his cell shining on his skin in the dark. The longing was a physical ache in my chest, but I shut the phone and set it on the chair. Everything good would have to wait.

I crossed to the dining room and stuck my head out the window, inhaling the sharp, cold air. The clouds had vanished overnight, leaving a surprising number of stars twinkling in the space between our roof and the trees that separated our yard from the Rajs’. There was about half of a football field between our house and theirs, which was perfect.

I wasn’t even nervous as I made my way back toward my room. Now that I knew what I had to do, it seemed almost easy. I wouldn’t be able to explain why I was in jeans in the middle of the night, though, so I had to change into the T-shirt and sweats that I usually slept in.

As I passed the corner to Mom’s room, I spotted those scabby suede slippers sticking forlornly out of the sheet. It would only take a minute, I told myself. For some reason it felt like the right thing to do. I inched my way back toward the front of the house and found the box where I’d left it yesterday. Tearing through the tissue paper, I pulled out the new slippers, tucking them under my right arm as I made my way back through the kitchen. I knelt down at her feet and gently pulled the old, worn slippers off, trying not to look at her yellow toenails or her mottled bone white skin while I slipped the new ones on. As I stood up, I squeezed the right foot with my hand. It was as close to a good-bye as I was going to get. I had to keep telling myself it was better this way. I had to believe it.

Setting her old slippers down on my bed, I took a long look around my room. I’d never lived anywhere else, and I knew every crack in the ceiling and worn spot in the carpet. As much as I couldn’t wait to get out of here, I was going to miss it. This was where Mom taught me to sew and where once upon a time we all lived together as a family. I reminded myself that this was also where I lived without a door to my room or hot water for years. I ran my hand over the quilt on my bed and looked at the lunchbox that held my tickets. If I started to think about all the things I wanted to save, I’d never get it done. I had to get started.

I changed into Phil’s old AC/DC concert shirt and gray sweatpants as fast as I could because it was so freezing in here. Grabbing the stinky slippers off the bed, I stood in the doorway and took one last look around. Everything else had to stay. Teddy B. was in a heap on the floor with my jacket, and I felt a pang in my chest. I hadn’t seen him for years, but I felt like he was one link to the past that I wasn’t ready to give up. I grabbed him and stuck him in the waistband of my sweats. I’d stash him someplace safe until it was all over and he could be with me again.

I took a deep breath and turned toward the door. Time to start my after.

chapter 20

5:25 a.m.

Starting the fire was harder than I thought it would be. When Johnny Depp and his sisters burned their house down in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, they took what they wanted out of the house and then poured gasoline over everything else. Gasoline wasn’t part of my plan—I had to use the natural layout of the house to make this place burn beyond recognition while making it look like an accident. And I couldn’t take anything with me.

I plugged the space heater into the extension cord by Mom’s chair, and to my surprise, it started whirring without even needing a smack to get it started. As soon as the coil inside was glowing orange, I placed the heater next to a stack of newspapers and kicked it over just enough so that it was pressed against the flammable pile. I stood back and waited for the flames to burst from the heater and blaze up the wall.

Nothing happened.

I’d always thought that the smallest thing would burn this place down to the ground. We were always worried that a spark from an electrical short or a stove malfunction would send the place up in flames in seconds. Apparently it took a little more effort. I pushed the heater deeper into the stack and stood back, watching for the smallest wisp of smoke to signal success.

I smelled it before I saw it—that faint campfire smell when something starts to burn. Just as the smell registered in my brain, there was a brief burst of smoke before the edge of one of the papers caught fire.

It didn’t roar and it didn’t jump to life—the fire unfolded purposefully before my eyes as if it were an animal that was slowly coming out of hiding, creeping forward and waiting to see if I was going to chase it back into its cave.

I’d been concentrating so hard on starting the fire that once it caught I wasn’t sure exactly what to do. It had to be going really strong before I went for help, so I just watched the flames creep up the stack of newspapers as if they were the yule log we always watched on TV on Christmas mornings. I could see it, I could smell it, and eventually, I could feel the heat from it, but it was like it didn’t really have anything to do with me.

The smoke was starting to gather and swirl at the ceiling as I stepped back into the dining room. It invaded my nostrils and I tried to take short shallow breaths so that it wouldn’t go deeper. I crouched down a little where the air was clearer and hoped that I could still get out easily.

In a fairly short time, the fire knew it was beyond any decision I could make and was quickly spreading in this part of the house. A little zing of panic raced through me as I realized I’d actually done it—the house was really on fire and nothing I could do now would stop it.

The front door was totally blocked by the flames that had streaked across the living room, up the curtains, and were now curling around themselves where the walls met the ceiling. Squinting against the heat and smoke, I stood in the dining room at the edge of the flames, like I was at a bonfire on the beach. I ran my hand over the bottoms of Mom’s old slippers, worn smooth by years of trudging through the pathways of our house. Once they were new and full of promise, but after Mom got through with them, they were beyond repair. One by one I tossed them into the fire like an offering.

The smoke was rolling across the ceiling toward the open dining room window, so I followed it, climbing onto the ledge and landing in the pile of garbage bags below with barely a sound. I crawled out of the pile, my leg momentarily sinking between some of the bags until I pulled it free, the plastic cold and damp against my skin.

I stood outside under the tall, bare trees, watching through the open window as the fire coursed through the living room and raced down the hall. Fingers of flames started to lick the walls of the dining room, and I felt a pang of regret as they reached my neat, four-high stack of green bins. Soon they’d reach Grandma’s trunk and devour all of the evidence that Mom was once something special. Petey’s cage would be next, followed by TJ’s set of encyclopedias.

When the heat grew too intense and I could hear windows popping in the back of the house, I knew it was over. I backed away from the flames, through the line of trees, and then ran across the wide expanse of dewy, well-tended grass to the Rajs’ front porch. I could see the orange glow at the back of our house near Mom’s bedroom and knew that the fire’s appetite was total.

I remember banging on the front door and the panic around me as the fire department was called, frantic shouts, and nodding numbly when they asked if Mom was still inside, the fire now spewing from every available orifice in the house, preventing even the bravest attempt at rescue.

A blanket appeared over my shoulders, and as I pulled it around me, my fingers felt the lump of Teddy B. where he was still curled up safe and warm inside the waistband of my pants. I’d meant to hide him somewhere, but I’d forgotten. The edge of the blanket was scratchy, and I vaguely wondered why people were always wrapped in blankets at the scene of a tragedy. Whether it was loved ones waiting on shore for news of someone lost at sea or surveying a house that had been demolished in a hurricane, every photo always had the survivors wrapped in a blanket, even if it wasn’t particularly cold outside. There was something in the gesture of having a blanket wrapped around you that signaled that you were safe and that someone cared enough to make sure you were wrapped up and warm.

I was just a normal girl watching her entire life burn to the ground, hoping that she’d never have to explain the feeling of relief that was rising from the pit of her stomach and threatening to lift her into the air. As I heard the sharp sound of sirens growing louder in the distance, I pulled the blanket tighter around me, safe in my cocoon.

Someone handed me a tissue, and I looked at it blankly until I realized my face was wet and tears were beading on the edge of the blanket I was wrapped in. I stood for a minute, watching the arcs of water from the fire trucks that beat down on the remains of my life. Mom was gone, and there would be no house to fix up and live in happily ever after. The after that I’d pictured was going to be a lot different than I’d thought it would be. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

The crowd of people around me shifted, and I was suddenly enveloped in a warm, wool jacket that smelled of soap and perfume. “Oh my God!” Kaylie’s mom released me long enough to look me over. “I was on my way to work when I saw the fire. Lucy, honey, are you all right?”

I nodded slowly, watching the flames climb higher and higher. Mrs. Raj leaned over and whispered something in her ear, and I watched Kaylie’s mom’s eyes fill with tears. She put her arm around me and sniffed, shaking the sadness off and standing up straighter. “Whatever you need,” she said. “We’re here for you. I’ll stay here with you as long as you like, and then we’re going straight home to find you some warm clothes.”

Leaning into her shoulder, I felt her strength as she propped me up. I turned away from the fire then, not because I couldn’t stand to watch it anymore, but because I was done with it.

In the distance, over the hills, a pink, streaky, hopeful glow was emerging that rivaled the hot angry glow behind me. The skeletal trees pulsed with the red beat of the flashing lights, and neighbors gathered on their driveways, hands to their mouths in disbelief. As I looked at individual faces, I saw concern, not disgust, and wondered how different it would have been just a few hours from now if it were news camera crews instead of fire trucks in front of our house.

Mom had made the mess, and I was the only one left who could clean it up. For sixteen years, I’d gone along with it all, until I finally took control. I kept the secrets safe.

acknowledgments

From first inspiration to the book you hold in your hands, it took a lot of people to make it a reality. It would just be a file on a laptop without my agent, Erin Murphy, who read it, believed in it, and then made it happen. Thanks to my editor, Mary Kate Castellani, whose gentle nudges resulted in big improvements, and to everyone at Walker who supported this concept from the start. Big thanks go to my critique partners who read it and steered me in the right direction: Natalie Lorenzi, Ami-Joan Paquette, Julie Phillips, Kip Wilson, Lindsey Levitt, Maurene Hinds, Shelley Seeley, and Angela Cerrito. I’m grateful to Cassandra Whetstone, who sat up late into the night tossing ideas around and who gave me one of Lucy’s best lines. Writer-mentor Karen English should have laughed at my first feeble writing attempts, but her encouragement kept me going.

This book wouldn’t exist without my personal support system. My boys are the best—Bayo, Jaron, and Taemon dutifully ignored me when my characters carried on conversations out loud and supported me despite my constant distraction. Mom, Joe, Dad, Sue, Jessica, and Wendy collectively gave me the tools I needed to find my voice. Jessica Romero and Barbara Stewart screamed when the news was good and fed me chocolate when the news was bad. The biggest piece always came from Karen Ryan, my blindly supportive friend and very own personal publicist.

Finally, this book is for every child who grew up with a shameful secret. Donna Austin, Elizabeth Nelson, and Tracy Schroeder shared scraps of their lives and weren’t afraid to tell me when I was getting it wrong. If you or someone you know is affected by compulsive hoarding, seek help—this psychological disorder touches millions of people worldwide, and you are not alone. The Web site www.childrenofhoarders.com is a great resource for ideas and a supportive community of people who have shared the experience and truly understand.

Copyright © 2010 by C. J. Omololu

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by anymeans, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First published in the United States of America in February 2010 by

Walker Publishing Company, Inc., a division of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.

E-book edition published in August 2010

Visit Walker & Company’s Website at www.bloomsburyteens.com

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to

Permissions, Walker & Company, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Omololu, Cynthia Jaynes.

Dirty little secrets / by C. J. Omololu.

p. cm.

Summary: When her unstable mother dies unexpectedly, sixteen-year-old Lucy must take control and find a way to keep the long-held secret of her mother’s compulsive hoarding from being revealed to friends, neighbors, and especially the media.

ISBN 978-0-8027-8660-9 (hardcover) • ISBN: 978-0-8027-2233-1 (paperback)

[1. Secrets—Fiction. 2. Compulsive behavior—Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters—Fiction.

4. Death—Fiction. 5. Self-reliance—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—

Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.O54858Dir 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009022461

ISBN 978-0-8027-2254-6 (e-book)

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