“But then the downside is . . . you have to play a sport,” the Shark said, assuming we were in agreement when it came to a sport being worse than PE, which we were not.

I had played field hockey at Mt. St. Theresa’s, but I wouldn’t say I was athletically inclined. However, I was the only one who didn’t mind mile-time day in gym. I never finished first, but it seemed like I could just go and go and go without ever getting tired (Mom said I’d gotten my good wind from her), so I opted to join the cross-country team. The fact that it was coached by Mr. Larson had nothing to do with my decision. Nothing at all.

I couldn’t wait for all the running to carve all that baby fat off my frame. My flirtation with Liam was burgeoning, and trimming down could only help whatever it was we were building to. Liam played lacrosse, which was a spring sport, so at the moment he didn’t have a team to join, and without all that sweaty boy bonding he was also residing in popular kid limbo right along with me. You could tell he had been cool at his old school, and it was obvious he belonged with that table of Hairy Legs. It seemed he would get there eventually, the sharks already circling him, smelling him, trying to decide if he was prey or playmate.

Even though Liam and I were in the same chem class, he was a sophomore. He’d moved to the area from Pittsburgh over the summer, his father a sought-after plastic surgeon with cheek implants that made him look a little like a Star Trek gul (source: Arthur). Liam had gone to public school in Pittsburgh, which was appalling even to me, and from what I’d gathered, the administration refused to transfer a lot of his credits because they weren’t “applicable,” which is administrationspeak for, “gross, public school.” He’d already slept with two seniors at his former alma mater, which made him seem dangerous to girls like the HOs. And dangerous was good. We’d all seen Leonardo DiCaprio lose his shit for Claire Danes in Romeo + Juliet just a few years ago, and we were waiting for our own tortured heartthrob who would risk life and limb to climb between our legs.

You may think that because I went to Catholic school, I would have reservations about premarital sex, and I did, but none of them included the fear that fornication would send me to the fiery depths of hell. I had the opportunity to see firsthand what raging hypocrites nuns and priests could be. Preaching about kindness and acceptance and showing none of it. I’ll never forget how my second-grade teacher, Sister Kelly, warned the class not to speak to Megan McNally for the rest of the day because she’d wet her pants. Megan just sat at her desk, in a pool of her own rotten-tooth-yellow urine, hot tears of humiliation curling down her droopy red cheeks.

I came to the conclusion that if a woman of the cloth could be so sure she was going to heaven despite being such a massive asshole, God must be more lenient than I’d been led to believe. What was a little impurity of the mind and body?

My reservations had more to do with the technical—will it hurt, will I bleed everywhere and embarrass myself, how long until it stops hurting and starts feeling good, and the biggie, what if I get pregnant? Secondary to those concerns were STDs and the threat of acquiring a bad reputation. I was learning from Arthur that lots of girls slept around at Bradley, but only a handful of them were shamed for it. Chauncey was a prime example. Even though she pissed on the student president’s hand, she generally had a boyfriend, and therefore didn’t seem to be judged harshly. It seemed to me that as long as I was having sex with a boyfriend, I could escape any social ire too. And that was preferable to me anyway. I didn’t want sex to get off (I’d figured out how to do that on my own long ago anyway). No, I wanted the cool sheets against my back, to cradle his body with my knees as he whispers, “Are you sure?” A nod, the expression on my face frightened but wanting, the push that would change it to pain, signaling to him how much I was giving to him, him wanting me even more for my sacrifice. I could have an orgasm any day of the week—underneath my covers, in less than a minute—but there was something about this, about a guy wanting my pain, that strummed me deep inside.

Bradley required that all students take a two-hour annual computer seminar, and when Liam walked into the tiny lab he chose to sit next to me, even though there was a seat wide open next to Dean Barton and Peyton Powell, both juniors, both flashing idols on the soccer field.

The computer science teacher led us through a series of complicated instructions in order to set up our school e-mail address. I was deciding between the name of my suicidal cat and “lithium” as my password when Liam nudged me and motioned to his screen. I squinted at the page. “The Purity Test: 100 Questions to Determine if You’re a Prude Who Needs to Get Laid or if You’re a Dirty Whore Who Needs to Close Her Legs.”

Liam aimed his mouse at the first question, “Have you ever French-kissed someone before?” and looked at me, like, “Well?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not in the fourth grade.”

Liam laughed quietly and I thought, Good one, Tif.

And so this went on, ninety-nine more times—Liam pointing to a question, looking to me for my answer. When we got to the part that asked how many people you’ve slept with, Liam hovered his arrow over the answer “1–2.” I shook my head, and he inched to the right, “3–4.” I shook my head again, and, grinning, he moved it again, “5+.” I punched his arm lightly. Dean’s head swiveled.

“We’re going to have to change that,” Liam said softly as he swept the arrow all the way to the left and clicked on a button, the word “Virgin!” blinking in bubblegum pink.

The lab ended and Liam quickly exited out of the page, but not before Dean and Peyton paused at our table and Dean asked, “What’s her score?” A big grin stretched his homely face wide. I got Peyton’s appeal—with his fluffy blond hair and cerulean eyes, he was prettier than any Bradley girl. But Dean. Sure, he was tall and had a good body, but with his large ears and flat face, his coarse muddy hair, he looked like the middle monkey from the March of Progress illustrated in our biology books.

“Low, man.” Liam laughed. “Low.”

No one bothered to consult me, even though I was sitting right there and it was my test and my score, but even so, an inexplicable thrill shimmied through my body. My purity score mattered, for whatever reason, and that meant I mattered too.

After that, Liam started sitting with the Hairy Legs and the HOs at lunch.

My invitation came a couple weeks later, nearly October by then, after thunder and lightning drove all sports teams to the gym. Mr. Larson claimed the stairs, the ones that ran from the locker rooms in the basement to the basketball court, which the soccer team had immediately monopolized.

“Two steps,” Mr. Larson said. His thick thighs split wide as he demonstrated the drill. He jogged back down and blew his whistle, and we hiked the stairs in sets of two, again and again, sweat coiling the hairs at the napes of our necks.

“Two-foot hops.” Mr. Larson glued his legs together and bounced up the stairs like a pogo stick. He turned around at the top and looked down at us as if to ask if we had any questions. When no one spoke, he blew the whistle looped around his neck and shouted. “Go!”

I still had another flight of stairs before me when I looked up and saw Dean and Peyton and a few other members of the soccer team, their backs against the wall, their gazes menacing. With each step I cleared, my huge breasts slammed against my rib cage, forcing my breath out in a fat-kid grunt. This was not an activity I wanted anyone to witness, let alone an assemblage of prep school Adonises.