Free Beautiful by Amy Reed Page A

ridiculous: the messy hair; the forest of zits on his chin; the thin, pathetic attempt at a mustache; the white thigh; the penis laying against it, shriveled and small with the condom still on.
    â€œI love you, too,” I say because it’s the only thing I canthink of, because it’s the only thing you’re allowed to say when someone says they love you first. Maybe that’s all love is—one person saying it because they think they’re supposed to and the other person feeling too guilty to say anything else—and everyone’s delusional who believes it’s anything like Shakespeare, because Romeo and Juliet were just crazy and horny and the same ages as me and Ethan. Maybe this is all love is and all it will ever be—boys fucking girls and pretending it’s love, girls getting fucked and pretending they like it, saying “I love you, too,” and wanting to throw up.
    I open the door and run to the bathroom. I lock the door and hug the toilet. My mouth is open and watering and the drool is going drip, drip, drip. I wait and nothing comes. I am empty inside so nothing comes.
    I brush my teeth. I splash cold water on my face. I pee and wash myself with a wet washcloth. I want him to leave so I can take a shower. I want to take the hottest shower I have ever taken.
    When I get back to my room, he is sitting up and pulling his shorts on. Something on his face is wrong.
    â€œHey,” I say.
    â€œHey.” He is not looking at me.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I say, trying to sound calm, but all of a sudden I can’t breathe. I have done something wrong. I lethim do everything he wanted, but I missed something. I did everything but it wasn’t enough. He is not happy with me. I have done something wrong.
    He looks at his lap, searching for the right words. Finally, he says, “You didn’t bleed,” in a small voice. He does not seem angry, but I don’t know what else he could be.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I say.
    â€œVirgins are supposed to bleed,” he says, and I realize he is pouting, looking at the white sheets like they let him down, searching for blood like it’s some kind of trophy.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I have done something wrong but I don’t know what it is. I am trying not to fall apart.
    â€œYou’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes.” Of course I’m a virgin. Why wouldn’t I be a virgin?
    â€œThirteen is pretty young to not be a virgin.”
    â€œI
am
a virgin.” Of course I’m a fucking virgin. My hands ball up into fists and my eyes get watery and I can’t make the tears stop. It feels like the world is ending, like someone has found the perfect way to kill me, like some hole inside me has opened up and all my guts are falling out. I am trying not to shake. I cannot let him see me cry. Why am I crying? It’s only blood, the absence of blood. I let him do everything he wanted. That’s what matters. He is not mad. He is not mad at me.
    He looks at me, repentant, like he suddenly understands that he misspoke. But that is not it. I don’t know what it is, but that is not it at all.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he says. He pats the space next to him on the bed. I sit down. I breathe. I count to ten. I push the feelings away.
    â€œIt’s just that I always thought girls were supposed to bleed their first time. I was just wondering because, like, you didn’t bleed and there’s, like, supposed to be that thing that breaks.”
    â€œNot all the time,” I tell him. I am breathing. I know this. I read it in the book Mom gave me to teach me about sex. Sometimes it breaks from other things. Horseback riding. Accidents.
    I pick one. I say, “Horseback riding.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI used to ride horses. That’s what did it.”
    â€œOh,” he says. He looks skeptical.
    â€œAll the bouncing,” I tell