We met on the corner – a permed and penny-loafered street gang. Khaki skirts hung uniformly to our knees. Brand new pennies shone in our loafers. Navy socks reached right up to our kneecaps. Powder-blue button down shirts were tucked dutifully into our skirts. Pressed blazers proudly displayed our school’s crest. We were ready for our first day of high school.
“Say cheese!” Tara’s mom demanded.
“Mom!” Tara grumbled, disgruntled that hers was the only mom to insist on showing up and snapping photos. The rest of us grunted along with her.
We shook out our hair and applied last-second lip-gloss. Insisting on tough girl poses, we scrunched up our faces and pumped our fists at the camera.
“Girls, please. At least one where you look like ladies.”
We complied, giving Tara’s mom one shot where we didn’t look like wayward Catholic school delinquents. Satisfied with the shot, Tara’s mom tucked her camera into her purse and headed over to the five of us.
“You girls, sit together on the front of the bus near the driver. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep your legs crossed on the bus.”
“Why do we have to keep our legs crossed?” Kris challenged.
“So no one can see, that’s why. Behave like ladies, and you’ll be treated like ladies. Keep your purses on your laps. You know how those public school kids are. If anyone bothers you, just call the police. 911!”
“Mom! We know the number to the police. We’ll be fine,” Tara insisted.
“Do you want me to drive you? Maybe I should just drive you. Let me get the car….”
“No! We’re going now. Good-bye.”
“Okay,” Tara’s mom relented. “I guess it’s all right. I’m so proud of you girls!”
Tara’s mom squeezed us to her oversized bosom and suffocated us. She then made adjustments to our uniforms – tucking in Jackie’s shirt and straightening Melissa’s skirt.
“We’re going to miss the bus,” I warned, not wanting to be late on the very first day.
“Okay. Be good. Be careful. Remember everything I said. 911!”
We waved good-bye and made our way towards the bus station.
“No offense, but your mom’s a little nuts,” Kris said.
“I know. She thinks we’re all going to be raped or killed on the first day,” Tara said.
“I’d rather be killed than raped,” Jackie admitted.
“What?” Melissa asked.
“Yeah. I couldn’t live with that. Knowing someone stole my virginity. I’d rather be dead,” Jackie explained.
“Not me. I’d rather be raped. At least then you get it out of the way, and it’s not even your fault,” Kris reasoned.
“You’re sick,” Jackie said, looking disgusted.
“No, I’m not. If you do have sex before you get married, then you’re a slut. But if you get raped, it’s not your fault. So you’re not a virgin anymore, and you can start having sex for real whenever you want to. But no one can judge you, cause you got raped. Besides, once you start having sex you have to keep doing it. It’s just natural.” Kris explained.
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“My sister. She’s been having sex for years,” Kris said.
“Yeah, but your sister’s a slut,” Melissa added.
“True. But that means she knows what she’s talking about,” Kris reasoned.
“Rape and sex are not the same thing,” Jackie admonished. “So if you have sex after you get
raped, before you get married, you’re still a slut.”
“You are such a prude!”
“Can we change the subject?” Tara suggested.
“Sure. Whatever. Jackie started it anyway.” Kris shrugged.
“Did not!” Jackie defended.
“Yeah you did. Miss ‘I’d rather be dead than raped’.”
“Let’s just forget it. Okay?” Tara looked about nervously. Her mother’s paranoia must have sunk in somewhat.
“Fine. Forgotten. Next subject.” Kris offered.
The truth was, we were all a little nervous. We had lived in Hoboken our entire lives. We knew the cracks in all of the streets and the kids in each school. Mothers were perched in windows watching our every move. If we committed any kind of sin, it was reported back to our mothers before we even got home.
This was our first time out of Hoboken without the supervision of parents. Our high school was in Jersey City, a dangerous bus ride away. In reality, Hoboken had more than its share of drugs and gangs and perverts. I had come home on several occasions bloodied and beaten from street fights, but at least I had always known the kids who had kicked my ass. Getting a black eye and a fat lip from a stranger seemed entirely more ominous.
“What do you think it’ll be like?” Tara ventured.
“I heard all of the seniors drive Jaguars,’ I offered.
When Mom and I had attended the open house the previous year, we were both intimidated by the mothers in fur coats and their daughters wearing diamond earrings. I had said a prayer of gratitude for our uniforms. My Sears wardrobe could never compete with their designer duds.
“I heard the public school kids will shoot at us if we get too close to their campus,” Jackie nodded solemnly.
“That’s bullshit!” Melissa shot back.
“I heard the nuns check to see if you’re a virgin,” Kris cackled.
“What?”
“How?”
“You know, with their fingers. To see if you still have your cherry,” Kris explained.
“That’s sick!”
“I don’t get it. How do they know if you still have your cherry?”
“If you bleed when they stick their fingers up you, then they know you’re a virgin. If not, then you’re a slut,” Kris said.
A barbed knot of terror sat in my chest. I knew, for a fact, that I had already popped my cherry.
And it had had nothing to do with a boy.
I was riding Tony’s ten-speed up a steep hill, straining with the effort. My foot slipped off the pedal and I landed hard on the metal bar between my legs. A searing heat traveled from between my legs right up to my eyeballs. In that instant, I was certain that my spleen, or some other mysterious organ, had been dislodged.
Once I could finally move again, I walked the bike back to Tony as if I were straddling an elephant.
“What the hell happened to you?” he snorted.
I ignored him and wobbled on home. A throbbing wetness had settled in between my legs. I hobbled past Mom and into the bathroom, where I carefully lowered my pants and discovered that I was indeed dying.
“Mom!” I wiggled out of the bathroom with my pants still around my ankles. “I think I broke something inside. Look!”
I pointed to the bright red evidence on my underwear.
“Noreen! What is wrong with you? Pull up your pants! It’s just your period,” Mom chastised as I pulled my pants back up.
“It is not my period! I hurt myself,” I said, highly insulted. At 13, I had already had my period for a full four months. I knew what that looked like. This wasn’t it.
I explained the accident as quickly as I could, not sure when I would slip into unconsciousness from the blood loss. Mom listened silently to my story, then flipped through her phone book.
“What are you doing? Who are you calling? Don’t tell anyone!” I shouted as Mom picked up the phone.
Much to my horror, Mom explained the situation to some stranger on the other end of the phone. I wasn’t sure if I would die from blood loss or embarrassment.
Mom hung up the phone and grabbed her purse.
“Let’s go. The doctor said you can come in now.”
“Am I gonna die?”
“No, you’re not gonna die.”
“Then, I don’t think I really need to go. See? I feel better already,” I tried to convince Mom by tenderly walking across the kitchen.
“Come on. She just wants to check you.”
“She? Dr. Amato is not a ‘she’.”
“We’re not seeing Dr. Amato. We’re seeing Dr. Alice.”
“Who’s Dr. Alice?”
“My gynecologist.”
“Why do I need a gynecologist? I’m not having a baby!”
My voice mimicked the hysteria of a hyena. I never should have told my mother what had happened. I should have gone straight to bed, pulled the covers over my head and died quietly in my sleep.
“Gynecologists aren’t just for having babies. You hurt your private parts. That’s the doctor you see for that. Let’s go!”
I complied and followed Mom out the door, praying that no one would see my shuffle of shame.
We entered the waiting room, where pregnant women were marooned in plastic chairs, their big bellies anchoring them down. Mom checked in with the receptionist, who said we could go right in. Expectant mothers stared curiously at me.
“I’m not pregnant,” I explained. “I hurt my private parts,” I whispered, my hands resting over the throbbing area by way of explanation. I hoped that the babies they were carrying would never know the horror of this experience.
“Take everything off and put this gown on,” the receptionist instructed once we were inside the exam room.
“Everything?” I asked.
“Yes. Bra and panties off.”
“What about my socks? Can I please leave my socks on?” I pleaded, panic creeping into my voice and shaking my words. For some reason, it suddenly became very important that my socks not leave my feet. That way, I reasoned, I wouldn’t be completely naked in front of a total stranger.
“Yes, you can leave your socks on,” she nodded and left the room.
Mom sat in a corner chair as I crept into the bathroom to change. Once wearing my barely-there paper gown, I rejoined Mom and sat on the exam table. I shivered from the sub-zero temperature in the exam room, hoping that I wasn’t bleeding all over the crinkly white paper covering the exam table.
“What the hell’s that?” I asked Mom, pointing to two metal cups at the end of the exam table.
“Noreen! Watch your mouth.”
“Sorry. What the heck is that?” I rephrased, pointing in horror.
“Those are the stirrups. You lay back on the table and put your feet in them while the doctor examines you.”
I didn’t have time to swoon from this information because the doctor burst into the room like a cyclone.
“Okay. Up on the table. Feet in the stirrups. Come on. You’ll be just fine. Let’s get in there and take a look.” Dr. Alice barked as she positioned me on the table.
I did as she asked, but I kept my knees crazy-glued together.
“Let’s not make this harder than it has to me. Open up your legs for me. Mom, maybe you can help out here.”
“Noreen, open your legs for the doctor. It won’t hurt,” Mom lied.
I cracked my knees apart slightly, and the doctor took this opportunity to spread them wide against my will. I heard the snap of latex gloves and the plop of something squishy being squeezed out of a tube. Holding my breath, I braced against the icy cold invasion of something wet sliding into me.
It felt like the doctor’s arm was inside of me elbow deep. The pressure was so great I expected an alien to rip through my abdomen and spit my guts out. I whimpered and squirmed, tiny tears squeezing out of the corners of my eyes.
“Uh huh. Yep. Okay. That’s what I thought,” Dr. Alice nodded as her slimy gloved hand made a sucking sound pulling out of me.
“What? What is it? Am I okay?”
“Can she have children?” Mom worried.
“She’s fine. She just broke her hymen,” Dr. Alice explained.
“Oh,” Mom sighed.
“Oh my God! What do you do for that? Do I need surgery? Will I have to wear a cast?” I asked, unable to picture how a cast would fit around my girl parts. I had never broken anything before, though I had secretly wished to break my arm. I wanted to ask boys to carry my books and have all the girls sign my cast, decorating it with hearts and flowers. I didn’t think this would be the kind of cast anyone could sign.
“Oh, Noreen!” Mom snorted.
“What?” I asked, angry that Mom found this funny.
“Every girl breaks her hymen. Some girls break it during sports, like bike riding. Other girls break it during their first sexual experience,” Dr. Alice said as she prepared to leave the room.
“You mean, I popped my cherry?” I asked, finally understanding. It wasn’t what I thought it would be. For some reason, I had always expected to hear, well, a pop when my cherry popped. It had been strangely silent.
“Where did you hear such a thing?” Mom demanded.
“Yes. That’s another way to put it,” Dr. Alice admitted.
“So what do I do now?” I wondered.
“Nothing. Go home and rest if you feel sore. You’ll be fine by tomorrow. Anything else?” Dr. Alice asked with the door already opened.
“No. Thank you, doctor.” Mom said, as Dr. Alice flew out the door as quickly as she had blown in.
And just like that, my cherry was gone.
“Noreen! I asked you where you heard that term?” Mom demanded.
Though moments before I had prayed for my very survival, I began to wish that my condition had indeed been fatal.
“Well, can’t you lose your cherry in other ways?” I asked Kris tentatively.
“Like what?”
I don’t know. Riding a horse. Or, a bike.”
“That’s bullshit!” Kris shouted. “That’s what slutty girls say to cover up the fact that they’ve had sex. There’s only two ways to pop your cherry. A finger, or a big, fat penis!” Kris said with finality.
I could never let Kris know that I was without a cherry. She was very unpredictable, and there was no telling whom she might snitch to. If that information got into the wrong hands, my high school career could be over.
“So, the nuns pop our cherries,” Melissa clarified.
“Yup!”
“Perverts!”
“That’s disgusting!”
“Not to them,” Kris said. “They’re mostly lesbians anyway.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Jackie asked.
“Being a lesbian?”
“No! Popping kids’ cherries.”
“Nothing the nuns do is illegal. The pope has his own army for Christ’s sake. Nope. We’re on our own with the nuns,” Kris lamented.
We walked quietly the rest of the way, each pondering our fate at the hands of the lady-loving, cherry-popping nuns. From the worried looks on my friends’ faces, I suspected that I was not the only cherry-less girl in the group.
We boarded the half-empty bus and marched straight to the back, against the advice of Tara’s mother. There were no boys on the bus to distract us, and we let out a collective sigh of boredom.
Our first day of high school was a late opening, with orientation and a picnic. Seniors had been assigned to each of us to act as our big sisters, showing us around and answering any questions. They would also bring us lunch for our first day. I had been too nervous to eat breakfast, and I was weak with starvation. My stomach churned as the bus carried us into the mysterious unknown of Jersey City.
We rode in silence on the bus, staring out the windows and wondering what our first day would bring. As we neared school, we all jumped out of our seats and peered out the left side of the bus. There it was – the boys’ school! We gaped as if we were on safari, spying giraffes in their natural habitat.
“Oh my God! They’re so cute. I love their ties and blazers!”
“I didn’t know they could smoke right in front of school.”
“I wonder if we can smoke.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“I’ll start if we can do it right in front of school.”
“Does anyone see Steve?” I asked, pushing my nose closer to the glass.
“Yeah. There he is.”
“Where? Where?”
“Right there. See? He’s sucking that blonde girl’s face off,” Kris said.
“What? Where?” I shouted frantically, ready to jump off the bus and rip both of their throats out. It took me ten whole seconds to realize that Kris was smirking and making kissy noises at me.
“Real funny,” I admitted.
We gathered our book bags and rang the bell to get off the bus. Walking in a tight knot, we headed down the block towards school. We immediately became lost in the throng of girls who had also been bussed in from all over the county. Swimming in a sea of estrogen and adrenaline, I allowed myself to be carried on the current and guided into school. I clung to my friends as if they were a life raft. I felt the reassuring pressure of their fingers on my arms and was comforted by our mutual terror.
I had fallen in love with the school the minute I had seen it. The building was a converted men’s club. It looked more like a large home than a school. The science labs sat in the sunken space of the former swimming pool. Madonna Hall, the teachers’ lounge, was off limits to students. Its velvety chairs and fireplace beckoned me from the hallway. There were no classroom numbers; each room had a name, such as Elan or Saint Aquinas. This did make navigating around the building more difficult, but what it lacked in practicality it made up for in charm.
The high-pitched squeals of teenaged girls in the packed cafeteria echoed like monkey chatter in the forest. One by one, my friends were sucked away and assigned to other groups of girls. I soon found myself alone in a circle of unfamiliar faces. My heart pounded against my immaculately ironed uniform shirt as sweat soaked my armpits. The cafeteria broiled with a hot desert heat, but I didn’t dare take my blazer off. I would rather melt into a puddle of my own perspiration than show any sign of nerves on the first day.
“Hi, I’m Rebecca. What’s your name? What college do you want to go to? I can’t decide between Harvard and Yale, but my parents say that’s okay I have time and they’re right so why worry about it right now, right? So who are you what’s your story where are you from? Did I mention my name is Rebecca? I think we should be friends. I can just tell about people. My mom says I have a gift for reading people. I got it from my Aunt Ida. She’s a sensitive. Do you know what sensitives are? They’re like, really in tune with the world around them, and they just know things. Anyway, my mom says I’m like that – a sensitive. Wow. You sure are quiet. Are you shy or something? I’m shy, too. It’s hard for me to open up to people. But like I said, I have a sense about you.”
“Uh, uh….” I stuttered as Rebecca stared expectantly into my frantic face. She was so petite I thought she would look perfect on the dashboard of my father’s car, right next to his St. Christopher statue.
“I’m from Hoboken,” I offered, not knowing where to start.
Rebecca’s words banged around my brain like marbles. Was I supposed to know my college preference on the first day of high school? Was I smart enough to be in school with girls who were smart enough to get into Harvard and Yale? What if Rebecca attached herself to me like a jellyfish, and I would be stuck with her as my only friend for the next four years? Did I want to be associated with someone as potentially popularity-killing as Rebecca? What if Rebecca was indeed a “sensitive” and she could read my thoughts this very second?
“Hoboken, huh? My dad took me to a dentist there and someone stole all of his hubcaps,” Rebecca stared at me accusingly.
Maybe Rebecca wasn’t that sensitive after all.
Before I could respond, a bell clanged in the cafeteria, and a teacher advised us to file out into the Senior Lot for our picnic. I turned quickly and dashed away from Rebecca, before she could start pointing me out as the girl who probably jacked her father’s hubcaps.
The Senior Lot was a sad little plot of dead grass that was forbidden to anyone but seniors. Freshman girls milled about like cattle waiting to be roped as our senior big sisters sought us out by our uniform nametags. I watched as one freshman after another was introduced to her big sister.
“Anna? I’m Liz, your big sister. Welcome!”
“Loretta? I hope you like baked ziti. My mom made it special.”
“Hi, Julie. I bought you this locket. It’s exactly like mine. Now we’ll be sisters forever!”
There were hugs and balloons, ham sandwiches and whole pizza pies. Girls who had been strangers seconds before were bonding over BLT’s and swapping make-up tips. My stomach
rumbled in neglect as I realized my own big sister was nowhere to be found.
“Mary? My name’s Mary, too! Wow, we look so much alike! We could be twins!”
Senior Mary and freshman Mary squealed in delight at their identically adorable appearances. Both had bouncy brown curls and big doe eyes. A smattering of freckles sat like constellations across their cheeks. Their perfectly pink lips looked like the bows on top of neatly wrapped presents.
“Mary, Mary, why you buggin’?”
Girls all around the Mary’s began singing the Run DMC lyrics over and over again. Mary and Mary giggled and joined in the chorus. By virtue of having the same names and identical appearances, they had each garnered the immediate affection of the entire freshman and senior classes. I hated them both, immediately and passionately, as they dug into their identical turkey and swiss on rye sandwiches.
I sat down on some dead leaves, drunk on the aromas around me. Melissa noticed my state of starvation, and came over with an offering.
“Want some banana bread? My big sister made it for me. Alexandria. Have you ever heard a name like that? Say it out loud.”
Melissa stared at me expectantly. I realized she was serious.
“Come on. Say it out loud. Alexandria,” Melissa rolled the name off her tongue as if it were chocolate.
“What? No!” I responded.
“Just say it. It’ll make you feel better. Alexandria.”
“Alexandria,” I said with a flourish.
“So exotic! I gotta get back. Alexandria’s going to tell me all about her summer in Greece. Greece! Can you believe it?”
“No, I can’t believe it,” I murmured, munching on the moist banana bread Melissa had shoved into my hand before hopping back over to Alexandria who summers in Greece.
While scanning the crowd for my big sister, I noticed nuns perched like crows all around us. I shivered, wondering which were the cherry poppers in our midst.
“Oww!”
“You’re stepping in my potato salad!”
“Watch where you’re going!”
I strained my neck to see who, or what, was causing all the commotion. She was tall and rail-thin, with corkscrew curls that stood out from her head like the snakes on Medusa’s head. Coal-black eyeliner framed her absent eyes. Headphones were bolted to her heavily pierced ears, and their cord disappeared down her shirt. Her uniform was a tattered mess – untucked shirt, torn blazer and socks that were neither uniform nor touching her knees. Her combat boots stomped over the picnic lunches in her path. I recoiled in fear.
“Are you Noreen?” she asked, clearly bored with me already.
“Yeah.”
“Well, looks like I’m your big sister,” she huffed, plopping down next to me. She smelled like clove cigarettes.
“Oh, okay. That’s great. Really great. I’m so relieved. You should see some of the big sisters my friends got stuck with. Eww. But you’re great. I mean, I don’t know you, but you seem great.”
“Great.”
“Great. Um, what’s your name?” I ventured, sweat turning my uniform into a swamp.
“Trish.”
“Trish. Wow. What a great name. It’s really - great. My name’s Noreen.”
“Yeah. I know.”
I spied her empty hands and realized she had not brought a bag with her. She noticed that I noticed. I tried to look away but it was too late.
“Shit! This was supposed to be a lunch, right? I was supposed to bring you lunch,” she realized with mild irritation.
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess,” I smiled and shrugged. My stomach chose that exact second to shout out the truth of its hunger.
“Sorry. I forgot. I didn’t bring you anything. I don’t really do lunch,” she explained.
“It’s cool. I don’t always do lunch either,” I lied. I hadn’t missed lunch since the week I had had strep throat in first grade.
Trish rummaged through her pockets and pulled out an assortment of items: wadded up tissues, two cassettes, a Zippo, and a melted mound of what once might have been candy.
“Here! I thought I might still have these. Want one?”
Trish offered me a handful of red and green and yellow balls, clinging together in a sticky mess. Navy lint dotted their surface.
“Um, what is it?”
“Life Savers, maybe? I’m not really sure. They’ve probably been in my blazer since last year.”
Trish dumped the mound into my palm and it stuck to me like fly paper. I kept my palm open and my hand outstretched, begging for a vulture to sweep down and steal it away from me.
“Thanks. Maybe later. I had a big breakfast. And some of Alexandria’s banana bread.”
Should I have mentioned that I had eaten the bread of another big sister? Had I already broken some code of big sister/little sister loyalty? Thou shalt not covet the baked goods of another big sister?
“Okay. Cool.”
We sat in unbearable silence while the girls around us shared secrets, complimented each other’s hair and licked the last crumbs of lunch off of their fingers. I wondered if I could scavenge the sun-damaged grass for any forgotten morsels.
Suddenly, it bubbled up in me and I struggled to swallow it down. This had happened to me before, in other equally tense situations, and it had always had disastrous consequences. A panic rose in me as I realized there was no stopping the eruption that was racing up my throat and out of my mouth. I was about to have what my father called “verbal diarrhea”.
“So, do you have a boyfriend? I have a boyfriend. His name’s Steve and he’s really sweet. He’s actually going to meet me at the bus stop after school. How do you like it here? It seems like a really great school. I love it here already. There are lots of opportunities here. Clubs, sports, stuff like that. What clubs are you in? Do you play any sports? I played softball and basketball in grammar school. I want to try out for softball here, but not basketball. Everyone thinks I’d be good at basketball because I’m tall. But I’m not. I mean, I’m tall, duh of course I’m tall, but I’m no good at basketball. I’m just tall.”
I talked and talked until my voice gave out. My speech was met with a wall of silence. Just a while ago, I had run from Rebecca in revulsion after her verbal tirade. Now, I found myself drowning in my own self-made tsunami of words.
“Look. I’m really not good at this. Making conversation, being a big sister. Do you mind if we just sit here and not talk?”
Before I could answer, Trish clicked on her tape cassette, and I detected the low buzz of music coming out of her headphones. At that moment, I realized that she would forget about my very existence exactly five minutes after our foodless farce of a picnic.
I took a second look at the candy piled in my palm. Against my survival instincts, I popped the mysterious clump into my mouth, and was pleasantly surprised. Once I got past the lint, the juicy sweetness filled up my mouth and quieted my hunger somewhat.
The big sisters and little sisters around me were exchanging phone numbers and making future lunch dates. Trish had failed to bring me a card or a balloon or even a breakfast muffin. There was only one thing I wanted from her. A single question had been burning in my brain all day. She had to answer it for me. She owed me that much.
I tapped her on the shoulder, and she reluctantly pried the headphones from her ears.
“So, Trish.” I began. “Which nuns are the cherry poppers?”
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