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Priceless
Driving Her Wild
By Jennifer Armstrong


The first time is supposed to be special. Not everybody understood that, but Cheryl did. Some people just went ahead and did it randomly, without forethought. Just. Like. That. Ask them afterward what it was like and all they could say was, “Great. It was awesome,” with a dazed look in their eyes. “Kinda scary, but cool.” Too many kids were just that casual about it. But by the time Cheryl was sixteen, she had planned every detail about how it would be for her, right down to what she would wear and what music to have on.

She had been planning it, revising it, changing and refining the details of her plan since she was thirteen, since she first realized that of course there would be a first time, and she wanted to be able to remember every detail when it actually happened. Because it changed people. Cheryl understood that. It was obvious really. The kids who had already done it-they held themselves differently, like they knew other people were looking at them and enjoyed having people look at them. A way of holding their heads, a kind of breathless laugh in the hallway between classes. They even seemed to move in slow motion, like people moving through water, forcing ripples out ahead of themselves and behind themselves and on all sides as they moved. It was separated kids from grown-ups. There were the ones who hadn’t done it-the babies, the children, the pathetic losers- and then there were the ones who had: Them.

When Cheryl’s sixteenth birthday finally arrived, her best friend, Amanda, put a Sweet Sixteen banner up across her locker and made a point of telling everyone it was Cheryl’s birthday. All day long boys would stop Cheryl in the hall outside the auditorium or on the way to the media center and sing that goofy song, belting it out while they sank to one knee: “Girrrrrl! You’ll be a womaaaaan sooooon. Soooooon, you’ll need a man.”

And that evening her parents, after the presents and the cake and all, had sat her down for the Talk, Cheryl’s mother saying, “We just want to be sure you understand the consequences-“ and Cheryl interrupting, “I know all about it,” so patiently, so maturely. “We’ve been talking about it in health and safety class since seventh grade. About being responsible, knowing your limits.”

Cheryl’s dad had clearly been a little uncomfortable, rubbing his palms across his knees, probably thinking his little girl was suddenly becoming a woman-frightening, really-and saying with a blush, “If you’re ever at a party and some boy gives you some alcohol to drink, and I’m not saying we expect you to be Little Miss Prissy,” he rushed on, his voice rising as if he was trying to convince himself, “but if you find yourself in over your head, you can call us. No matter what time it is. You don’t have to be embarrassed. We won’t be mad at you.”

So of course Cheryl had been a little indignant, saying, “I’m not going to get drunk and do something stupid, Dad. You know me better than that.”

There probably weren’t any parents in the world who thought the typical teenager was old enough, but if they were honest with themselves, they’d have to admit that they all did it as soon as they could, some of them probably even younger than sixteen. The ones who grew up in the country for example. But Cheryl wasn’t really upset with her parents. It was to be expected.

Because it was big. It was a big thing. Sometimes in the middle of the day-in physics class, maybe or standing in line for lunch-Cheryl would look around and wonder how many kids were thinking about it at the exact moment. To be honest, she thought about it almost all the time, desperate to grow up. At the end of school sometimes she’d see twelfth graders leaving the parking lot, driving away in their cars, so cool, and she would just be aching for it, standing there feeling like a puny little infant but feeling so ready for it in every single atom of her being. Standing there waiting for her bus and feeling that a mistake had been made somewhere.

One day Cheryl was sitting with Amanda in the cafeteria and some boys at the table behind them were talking about it, this one guy talking about his first time, how far he went and how fast, and for how long, with sounds effects even. Cheryl felt her back prickling with the intensity of listening in, and she knew Amanda was listening too. They caught each other’s glance and Amanda rolled her eyes as if to say, “Boys, they’re obsessed,” but Cheryl realized her mouth was open, she was breathing through her mouth, and her cheeks felt flushed, and her lips were so fry she wanted to lick them-but then she felt so horrifyingly self-conscious, as though everyone would know what she had been thinking about, that she just ducked her head over the copy of Silas Marner and reached for her soda with a fumbling hand. If people only knew what was going through my mind, she thought, amazed that it wasn’t flashing in neon over her head. The door shuts. Finally, you’re alone…

Her fantasy was remarkably elaborate, but not that remarkable, perhaps, given how much time she spent polishing it. Some kids would rush into it, so totally psyched they wouldn’t be able to see straight, but Cheryl wanted it to be slower than that, more deliberate. The current version of the fantasy involved going home after school, maybe having a bit to eat and watching a little TV, then so calmly, so nonchalantly, standing up, stretching-it’s time. She knew how it would be, the turning, the hesitation and the yielding, the stopping, and then going on going faster, this rush, this intoxication of finally, finally driving the car on her own, free, the chains of childhood spinning off at last into the ditch at the side of the road.

She couldn't wait.