The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

If only the grey carpet beneath my feet was sand, and the faint noise from the news station on the television screen was crashing waves. Instead, I uncross and cross my legs again as I slouch further down in the uncomfortable, tweed grey chair.

     The pregnant lady sitting across from me continues to rock her two year old daughter in a small black stroller, who's red, tear stained cheeks are nothing compared to the screaming she was doing only a few minutes ago.

     "Laney Emerson."

     My mom pats my leg as she stands up beside me. She trails alongside me the first few steps before we part ways where the carpet changes to hardwood floor.

     "Caramel?" my mom asks around a mouthful of a big black claw clip as she re-twists up her hair. 

     "Macchiato—Iced!" I smile. "Please and thank you!"

     We trade smiles before the door to the office clicks behind her black puffy vest, while I follow the woman in navy blue scrubs down the hallway.

     "The doctor will be right with you," the lady chirps as she places my file in the plastic bin hanging outside the door.

     "Thank you." I nod, catching the door from her outstretched arm. The walls are the same light grey almost white color as they are in the waiting room, but the smell of sterile chemicals hits me instead of sweat.

     Once the door clicks behind me, I pull my cross body bag up and over my head, tossing it on the floor. I kick off my shoes before reaching for the hem of my t-shirt. My black leggings are next and a little fussier to pull down, but I still manage to toss them on top of my bag along with my shirt. I reach for the light pink paper hospital gown and slip it over my shoulders before climbing up onto the light green examination chair that is always just a little to shiny and always reminds me a little too much of a lobster. If only the flat yellow ceiling lights over my head were the sun, I could soak in some much needed vitamin D while I wait. Instead, I remain hunched over, picking at my dry cuticles.

     "Hello," my doctor hums as she walks in. "How are we today?" her voice is low and calm, like a lullaby, but her dark eyes seem too heavy to blink. Her mocha skin crinkles in the corners as she smiles, and wisps of dark hair appear to be falling out of her small ponytail. She clicks around on the computer, updating my file with the basics, before glancing back over her shoulder once more with an eyebrow raise and the million dollar question. "Are you still?"

     "Yes." I nod.

     "And you're still on the pill?"

     "Yes."

     "Are you sexually active?"

     "No." I used to sputter out with a laugh time and time again, year after year once I hit puberty, at my annual physical with my pediatrician. Not just because my mom was in the room, but because it was the truth. But they'd always whisper it again when my mom left the room as they were checking my boobs for lumps. "No." I'd laugh lightly, solemnly shake my head, look them dead in the eyes, and sometimes all of the above, yet it still felt like they didn't believe me.

     Boys are just cute with sweaty gym socks and baby faces until they aren't. We just borrowed pencils and wrote little notes on gum wrappers until we didn't. Training bras are just training bras, training for what—push up wire, until "your bra strap is showing," "cover those shoulders," "those shorts are too short," and "you don't know what an eggplant means?" and "please don't eat that banana in front of me, or do—pretty please do, do it just for me," and "just this one time, I promise, I won't tell—just this one time, I promise, I won't show anyone," and "yeah we hooked up," when really all they did was kiss, but then "yeah we hit second base," when really they went straight home, and "that girl has big boobs," and "damn that ass," and "drooling for abs," and "your nothing unless you have a nice rack," and "can you press me on the bench with those biceps," and "he has to be tall, taller than me," and "your legs, girl, your legs are long, why don't you wrap them around me," and "he better be large and long" because "no one wants to be small, god forbid you call him short" and even if you don't prefer the opposite sex, you still know what the opposite expects. Once you hit a certain age everyone just expects and expects and expects.