The Submerged
When I was 14, I lost my virginity to David Flower, the future congressman.
My parents had moved us, the summer before, from Cambridge to West Virginia. They were junior co-hires in public health at WVU, but they wanted to live way out in the country, in a hamlet named Glory, to be closer to their research: obesity and its correlation with diabetes, cancer rates, and other misery. Of course, Glory was also, as the locals said, real beautiful.
That fall, I started at Glory Unified High. There he was in homeroom. “Welcome, Dave,” the teacher said, and David Flower corrected him. The other boys wore camo jackets, lewd novelty T-shirts, their crimson and gold football jerseys. David had only khakis and an oxford, tucked tightly in. Sometimes he came in the uniform of the Royal Rangers, a Christian scouting organization. By the end of that October, we were going steady. Lonely finds lonely.
The next several months were all handholding, kissing with the barest flicker of tongue, and David risking quick touches of my breasts or butt like he was going for a cactus. I never went to Glory Baptist with him, though I did twice see the inside of his house. The first time, his mom was passed out on the couch. The second, I witnessed his dad hurl a softball trophy at her. I asked my parents if we should call the cops. My dad frowned and said, well, there was more to an education than AP scores.
After David got his learner’s, we drove to the Monongahela River in his father’s pickup, which had a crunched front bumper from a crash with a parked car. Beneath a black willow, in a spot selected for its beauty and seclusion, David laid a blanket out. “It’s okay,” he said, “because I know we’ll always be together.” After, I found that I hadn’t bled. I felt flush all over, like when I sat close to a campfire. In a husky voice, David told me he loved me. Then he got up, ran to the river, and, with a whoop, launched himself into the water.
I didn’t have to break up with David. I just made new friends. While he stayed after school to study or attended prayer meetings, I shot off in smoke-filled cars to smoke-filled parties. Junior year, I got my septum pierced, and he received a medal for his Ranger achievements.
One humid April evening, I was sitting on my porch watching lightning bugs. David Flower came out of the muggy dark with his ash blond bangs plastered to his forehead. “Hey,” he said in a strangled voice, “I was just walking by.” For an odd, stray moment, I was sure he was going to ask me to marry him. But he only wanted to talk to my parents, about Yale, where they’d done their PhDs. He’d been accepted to WVU. Or he could go into the armed forces, see what the GI Bill would pay for after. My dad, who wouldn’t even watch war movies, told David to go into the Navy—better food, less chance of getting killed—and that, in five years, he’d write him a letter of recommendation. My parents always liked David Flower. Or maybe they were amused by him.
My friends threw a graduation party, and I was surprised to see David there, wearing a faded orange polo and drinking a beer, wincing with every sip. “I can hardly believe it now,” I told him, in reference to our year of dating. “Crazy!” he answered, wincing again. In that basement, David and I had sex for the second time. I’d been with six boys and one girl since, but I played with his hair and thought of that afternoon by the Monongahela. “Did you get a merit badge for losing it?” I teased him. “Or did they take one away?”
TWELVE YEARS
