"Um, Mom," I said, as I followed her into Rocky's room, where she'd apparently been engaged in putting away his clean laundry before Mamaw's blow fell. "Can I talk to you about something?"
"Sure." Although my mom didn't exactly sound like she was much in the mood to talk. "What?"
"Uh . . ." Well, she HAD told me once that I could talk to her about ANYTHING. "How old were you the first time you had sex?"
I fully expected her to say "I was in college," but I guess she was so busy trying to cram all of Rocky's my mommy is mad as hell and she votes onesies into his tiny dresser, that she didn't think about what she was saying beforehand. She just went, "Oh, God, Mia, I don't know. I must have been, what, about fifteen?"
And then it was like she realized what she'd just said and she sucked in her breath really fast and looked at me all wide-eyed and went, "NOT THAT I'M PROUD OF IT!!!"
Because she must have remembered at the same time I did that I am fifteen.
The next thing I knew, she was blathering a mile a minute.
"It was Indiana, Mia," she cried. "It's not like there was so much else to do. And it was, like, twenty years ago. It was the eighties! Things were different back then!"
"Hello," I said, because I've fully seen every episode of I Love the 80s, including I Love the 80s Strikes Back. "Just because people wore leg warmers all the time --- "
"I don't mean that!" Mom cried. "I mean, people actually thought George Michael was straight. And that Madonna would be a one-hit wonder. Things were DIFFERENT then." I couldn't think of anything to say. Except, moronically, "I can't believe you and Dad Did It for the first time when you were FIFTEEN."
And then, noticing my mother's expression, I was like, "Oh, my God. That's right!" Because she didn't even meet Dad until she was in college. "MOM!!! Who WAS it?"
"His name was Wendell," my mom said, her eyes going all dreamy, either because Wendell had been a total hottie, or because Rocky had finally quit crying, and was instead drooling all over the lion patch on my uniform blazer, so that for once, the loft was filled with blissful silence. "Wendell Jenkins."
WENDELL???? The man my mom gave the precious flower of her virginity to was named WENDELL????
I seriously would NOT have sex with someone named Wendell. But then, I am having grave reservations about having sex with anyone, so my opinion probably isn't worth much.
"Wow," my mom said, still looking dreamy. "I haven't thought of Wendell in ages. I wonder whatever happened to him."
"You don't KNOW?" I cried, loudly enough that Rocky kind of gave a little start in my arms. But he calmed down after a quick verse of Pink's "Trouble."
"Well, I mean, I know he graduated," my mom said, quickly. "And I'm pretty sure he married April Pollack, but --- "
"Oh, my GOD!" This was shocking. No wonder Mom is the way she is! "He was two-timing you????"
"No, no," my mom said. "He started going out with April after he and I broke up." I nodded knowingly. "You mean he loved you and left you?" Just like Dave Farouq El-Abar and Tina Hakim Baba!
"No, Mia," my mom said, with a laugh. "Good grief, you have an uncanny ability to turn everything into a country western song. I mean he and I went out, and it was great, but I eventually realized . . . well, I wanted out of Versailles, and he didn't, so I left, and he stayed. And married April Pollack."
Just like Dean married that other girl on Gilmore Girls!
"But . . ." I stared at my mom. "You loved him?"
"Of course I loved him," my mom said. "Gosh, Wendell Jenkins. I haven't thought of him in ages."
GEEZ! I can't believe my mother is not still in contact with the boy who relieved her of her virginity! What kind of school did she GO to back then, anyway?
"Why are you asking me all these questions, Mia?" my mom finally wanted to know. "Are you and Michael --- "
"No," I said, hastily shoving Rocky back into her arms.
"Mia, it's perfectly all right if you want to talk to me about --- "
"I don't," I said, fast. Real fast.
"Because if you --- "
"I don't," I said again. "I have homework. Bye."
And I went into my room and locked the door.
There must be something wrong with me. I'm serious. Because you could totally tell when Mom was remembering having sex with Wendell Jenkins, that she'd had a good time. Doing It. Everyone seems to have a good time Doing It. Like in movies and on TV and everything. Everyone seems to think Doing It is just, like, the pinnacle of experiences.
Everyone except for me. Why am I the only person who, when she thinks about Doing It, feels nothing but . . . sweaty? And not in a good way. This can't be a normal re-action. This has to be yet another genetic anomaly in my makeup, like absence of mammary glands and size-ten feet. I am totally lacking in the Do It gene.
I mean, I WANT to Do It. I mean, I guess that's what I want, you know, when Michael and I are kissing, and I smell his neck, and I get that feeling like I want to jump on him. Surely this is an indication that I want to Do It.
Except that to Do It you actually have to take your CLOTHES OFF. In FRONT OF THE OTHER PERSON. I mean, unless you're one of those Orthodox Jews who do it through a hole in the sheet like Barbra Streisand in Yentl.
And I do not think I am ready to TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF in front of Michael. It is bad enough taking them off in front of Lana Weinberger in the locker room first thing in the morning. I don't think I could ever take them off in front of a BOY. Especially not a boy I am actually in love with and hope to marry someday, if he ever asks me and if I ever get over this whole spastic not-wanting-to-take-my-clothes-off-in-front-of-him thing.
Although, I definitely wouldn't mind seeing Michael with HIS clothes off.
Is this a double standard?
Princess in Training: The Princess Diaries, Volume VI
- Genres: Fiction
- hardcover: 288 pages
- Publisher: Harper Collins Publishers
- ISBN-10: 0060096136
- ISBN-13: 9780060096137