The Virgin

Chapter Eight - High School

Four hours of sleep later, I wake up to the sound of laughter coming from the living room. What is Lacy doing now? Did she bring a guy home from that bar? I'm going to kill her.

I drag my butt out of bed and wander toward the kitchen. Sitting at the counter with his back to me is a man. He is feeding a scone to Lacy, who is wearing only a tiny tank top and boxers.

She is stuffing the huge bite into her mouth when she sees me. "Oh, good morning sleepy head! Who did you end up going home with last night?"

I wave her off, hoping her male friend doesn't turn around and see me, but it's too late.

"I know who," a familiar voice says, as he turns on the barstool to face me.

And here I thought today was going to be better.

"Mark? What the . . . what's going on?"

Mark waves "hello" to me. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me, and the night shift staff, and the day shift staff."

"What secret?" Lacy asks, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

"Before you get your g-string in a knot," Mark says, "you left your purse at the hospital and knowing what a long night you had already had, I figured I'd save you the trouble and drop it off on my way home."

"You don't live anywhere near me," I growl.

"So, it was even sweeter of him to bring it over," Lacy adds. "And he brought coffee and scones, too."

Mark smugly holds up my purse and his cup of coffee, "Purse and coffee."

I'm still going to kill him.

"It's a clutch, Mark," Lacy says, giggling.

"Right," he laughs, knocking himself in the head for being such a silly. "Lacy has been educating me on the intricacies of women's accessories. This is a clutch and that," he says, pointing to her top, "isn't a tank top. That is actually called a camisole."

"There is a distinct difference," she adds, nodding in complete agreement.

Yes, there is a distinct difference. One is worn as a shirt and the other is worn as an undershirt. I know this because right now I can see her nipples fairly easily, and by the look on Mark's face, so can he.

"Oh, and look," Lacy squeals, noticing the large eighteen stenciled on my oversized t-shirt, "you're wearing your birthday shirt!"

In my exhaustion this morning, I undressed and grabbed the softest and most comfortable shirt I could find in my drawer. It just happens to be a shirt my mom made for me.

"I always thought birthday shirts showed more skin," Mark says, desperately trying to be clever.

Lacy giggles uncontrollably like a ten-year-old girl in a tickle fight. "No, silly! Our mom made them for us every year, but she said eighteen was the cutoff. So that was the last one she made you. And you kept it?"

Is it so weird that I kept something that my mom made for me? It's not like I wear it in public. It's a sleep shirt. And it's soft. Am I even more of a nerd now?

"I think my eighteenth birthday t-shirt was left on a golf course one night after my friends and I found a twelve pack of hard lemonade . . . " she says, stopping to snort from laughter.

"I love that stuff!" Mark yells,over her giggling.

"You do? O-M-G! We have so much in common!" Lacy yells back, grabbing his hands.

"We totally do!" Mark yells. The two are holding hands and jumping up and down. Lacy is completely enthralled with him, and he glances over at me wearing a sly grin on his stupid face.