I shouldn’t even have gone to prom with Bryan. Just a couple of weeks prior he had made out with another girl and told me the purple marks on his neck came from soccer. Like the lovefool that I was, I believed him — until his best friend tattled on him over Instant Messenger. Oh, the acute heartbreak of a first love: I scribbled Ben Harper lyrics — “please bleed so I know that you are real, so I know that you can feel the damage you have done” — on my bedroom wall and devoted pages and pages to this fresh wound in my journal.
Still, I wanted to go on as if none of this had happened. I had just delivered a bouquet of roses to his class on Valentine’s Day. I had just lost my virginity on his bedroom floor while listening to Dave Matthews Band. I had just tanked my grades in Algebra II ditching class with him. What’s more, his mother actually baked casseroles for dinner and grounded him when he flunked AP calculus tests! That is to say they were so blissfully, utterly normal. Given the drinking, prescription drug use and daily acts of familial terrorism at my house, I clung to my first real, serious boyfriend like a life raft. Keep reading »