Virgin 4 Life

Chapter 6

I barely make it three steps out of first period before Mia grabs my arm and yanks me into the girls' bathroom with the force of a hurricane. She checks under every stall, making sure we're alone, then whirls on me with eyes practically shooting sparks.

"Okay, spill. Everything. Now." She's bouncing on her toes like she might actually explode if I don't start talking immediately. "Did Caleb Voss really kiss you? On the neck? In front of everyone?"

She doesn't even pause for air. "I heard Stacy Wheeler almost cried. Is that true? Did he really bring up how she begged him to stay? Oh my God, Evie, this is insane. How did it happen? When did you two even start talking? Was it before or after Noah dumped you? Did he approach you? Is that really his mark on your neck?"

The questions hit me like machine-gun fire. My head spins trying to keep up. "Mia, slow down—"

"Slow down?" Her voice climbs an octave. "My best friend went from V4L to making out with the hottest bad boy in school in one weekend and you want me to slow down?"

She grabs my shoulders, shaking me slightly. "I'm so proud of you. You're finally living! No more hiding behind textbooks and rosaries."

Her eyes drop to my outfit, taking in my ankle-length skirt and buttoned-up cardigan. A frown replaces her manic grin. "Though we need to talk about this." She gestures at my clothes like they personally offend her.

"Talk about what?"

"Your wardrobe, babe. You can't be Caleb Voss's girlfriend dressed like you're teaching Sunday school." Her voice is gentle but firm, the way my mom used to sound when explaining why I couldn't wear my princess costume to church.

"I'm not saying go full slut or anything, just... maybe update things a bit? To match your new lifestyle?"

My face burns hotter than hell. "My lifestyle hasn't changed. I'm still the same person."

"The same person with Caleb's mark on her neck." Mia reaches toward the bruise, and my hand flies up to cover it. The skin still throbs when I touch it, still feels branded.

"Look, we don't need a whole shopping trip," she continues, already planning. "Just let me pick out one thing. A blouse for tomorrow? Something that shows you actually have a body under all that fabric? Maybe something that doesn't scream 'I have a purity ring'?"

"Absolutely not." The words come out sharper than intended. "I'm not changing who I am for some fake—"

I catch myself just in time, biting my tongue so hard I taste copper.

"For any boy," I finish weakly.

Mia sighs like I've disappointed her on a fundamental level. "Fine. But when you realize those ankle-length skirts are killing your sex appeal, I'll be ready with options. I already have a Pinterest board started."

The bell rings, saving me from whatever Pinterest horror she's created. I practically run to AP Calculus, sliding into my usual front row seat. The classroom smells like dry erase markers and anxiety, the same as always, but today it feels suffocating.

Mr. Peterson passes out test papers face down, his footsteps methodical. "You have fifty minutes. Begin."

I flip my paper over and stare at the problems. The numbers might as well be hieroglyphics. I know this material—studied for hours last week, made color-coded notes, practiced every problem type twice. But the numbers swim on the page like they're underwater.

"That's the girl paying Caleb Voss," someone whispers behind me.

"How desperate do you have to be?" another voice responds.

My pencil shakes in my hand. Focus. First problem: find the derivative. I could solve this in my sleep normally. But my mind keeps drifting to Caleb's mouth on my neck, the way his teeth scraped against my pulse, the way everyone stared like I was someone else entirely.

I read the problem three times and still can't process what it's asking. My hand moves on autopilot, writing something that looks like math but probably isn't.

"I heard she's been failing everything since Friday," a girl whispers.

"Good girls always fall the hardest," her friend agrees. "Remember when Christina Park started dating that dealer? Went from valedictorian to barely graduating."

Problem two: integration by parts. I know this. I literally taught Noah this exact concept last month, spent two hours explaining it while he played with his phone.

But all I can think about is whether my father will find out, whether the mark is still visible, whether I've destroyed my entire future for a stupid nickname that doesn't even matter.

The mark throbs like it has its own heartbeat. I can feel people staring at it even though I'm facing forward.

Time's running out. The clock on the wall ticks louder than gunshots. I scribble down half-remembered formulas that look wrong even as I write them. My work makes no sense—steps out of order, numbers that don't connect, answers that can't possibly be right.

When Mr. Peterson calls time, I've only answered six of ten problems. The last four stare at me blank and accusing.

Students file out, chattering about how easy it was, comparing answers. I'm shoving my calculator into my bag when Mr. Peterson's voice stops me cold.

"Evelyn, please stay."

My stomach drops through the floor. I approach his desk like I'm walking to my execution.

He waits until everyone's gone, then holds up my test. Red marks bleed through already, angry slashes across my pathetic attempts.

"This is unacceptable." The disappointment in his voice cuts deeper than anger would. "You scored below seventy percent, possibly lower once I finish grading."

He sets the paper down like it personally offends him.

"One more result like this and I'll have to contact your parents. You know how much your academic record matters for Yale. For any college."

His eyes flick to my neck, to the mark everyone's been staring at all day. I see the judgment there, the assumptions he's making.

"Whatever's going on in your personal life," he says slowly, "don't let it destroy your future. You're better than this, Evelyn. Or at least, you used to be."

The past tense hits like a slap. I nod, unable to form words, and practically run from the classroom.

The nearest bathroom is mercifully empty. I lock myself in the furthest stall, chest heaving like I've run a marathon. The failed test crumples in my fist, red marks blurring together.

This can't be happening. Three days ago I was on track for Yale, had perfect grades, had a plan. Now I'm failing tests, wearing another boy's mark like a collar, and my brain won't work properly because all I can think about is him.

Last night I tried to study. I really did. Sat at my desk with my calculus book open, my color-coded notes spread out, my lucky mechanical pencil in hand.

But every time I tried to focus on derivatives, I remembered the way his teeth scraped against my pulse point, the way his hand gripped my hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.

Two hours at my desk and I hadn't solved a single problem. Just sat there pressing the bruise and replaying that kiss at the party—his tongue invading my mouth, his hands gripping me like I might disappear. The way I melted against him like I'd been waiting my whole life for someone to kiss me like that.

My father knocked to say goodnight and I had to cover the mark with my hair, had to pretend I was deep in study when really I was drowning in thoughts of Caleb Voss.

The way he smells. The way his voice drops when he calls me ‘baby’. The way he makes me feel like I'm burning from the inside out.

I press my forehead against the cool metal of the stall door.

This fake relationship was supposed to fix things, supposed to stop the humiliation. Instead, it's ruining everything I've worked for my entire life.

My phone buzzes.

Caleb: Meet me after school. Parking lot.

Then another buzz.

Caleb: Unless you want to go back to being V4L.

The threat is clear. I'm trapped between two impossible choices—keep playing his game and watch my future crumble, or go back to being the school's Virgin for Life.

Either way, I lose everything that matters.