Stormy leans in close and says, “Lara Jean, just remember, the girl must always be the one to
control how far things go. Boys think with their you-know-whats. It’s up to you to keep your head and
protect what’s yours.”
“I don’t know, Stormy. Isn’t that kind of sexist?”
“Life is sexist. If you were to get pregnant, you’re the one whose life changes. Nothing of
significance changes for the boy. You’re the one people whisper about. I’ve seen that show, Teen
Moms. All those boys are worthless. Garbage!”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t have sex?” This whole time, Stormy has been telling me to stop being
such a stick-in-the-mud, to live life, to love boys. And now this?
“I’m saying you should be careful. As careful as life and death, because that’s what it is.” She
gives me a meaningful look. “And never trust the boy to bring the condom. A lady always brings her
own.”
I cough.
“Your body is yours to protect and to enjoy.” She raises both eyebrows at me meaningfully.
“Whoever you should choose to partake in that enjoyment, that is your choice, and choose wisely.
Every man that ever got to touch me was afforded an honor. A privilege.” Stormy waves her hand
over me. “All this? It’s a privilege to worship at this temple, do you understand my meaning? Not just
any young fool can approach the throne. Remember my words, Lara Jean. You decide who, how far,
and how often, if ever.”
“I had no idea you were such a feminist,” I say.
“Feminist?” Stormy makes a disgusted sound in her throat. “I’m no feminist. Really, Lara Jean!”
“Stormy, don’t get worked up about it. All it means is that you believe men and women are equal,
and should have equal rights.”
“I don’t think any man is my equal. Women are far superior, and don’t you forget it. Don’t forget
any of the things I just told you. In fact you should probably be writing it down for my memoirs.” She
starts to hum “Stormy Weather.”
There was never a threat of things going too far when we were fake. But I see now how fast things
can change without you even realizing it. It can go from a kiss to hands under my shirt in two seconds,
and it’s so feverish, so frenzied. It’s like we’re on a high-speed train that’s going somewhere fast, and
I like it, I do, but I also like a slow train where I can look out the window and appreciate the
countryside, the buildings, the mountains. It’s like I don’t want to miss the little steps; I want it to last.
And then the next second I want to grow up faster, more, now. To be as ready as everyone else is.
How is everyone else so ready?
I still find it very surprising, having a boy in my personal space. I still get nervous when he puts
his arm around my waist or reaches for my hand. I don’t think I know how to date in the 2010s. I’m
confused by it. I don’t want what Margot and Josh had, or Peter and Genevieve. I want something
different.
I guess you could call me a late bloomer, but that implies that we’re all on some predetermined
blooming schedule, that there’s a right or a wrong way to be sixteen and in love with a boy.
My body is a temple not just any boy gets to worship at.
I won’t do any more than I want to do.
singke
(singke)
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