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The First Time

Heather Sager

    It wasn’t until fifteen that I learned about shaving. Maybe I had been told before, by my mother or aunt, but their instructions didn’t stick. I fantasized often, lived in the world of my mind. I sat on the bleachers, my exposed thighs embarrassingly fuzzy as the girls on the court knocked the volleyball to and fro. I tugged at my shorts.
    “Don’t you want to play?” Alison sat next to me.
    “No,” I shrugged. “It’s too hot.” The bleachers stuck to my skin. I watched my teammates. I dreaded playing. I would have rather been playing Dungeons and Dragons with my little brother.
    Alison stacked fluffy white towels on her lap. She’d been sorting them. She glanced at the rule binder that sat closed between us. I should have been studying the rules; I often forgot positions, got lost when it was my turn. I just couldn’t focus on the game.
    Alison smiled. I considered her a friend. I had been to her house before, we messed around in the backyard and shared lunch—I vividly recalled canned chicken soup, an apple.
    But she didn’t say anything nice, like I hoped. “Aren’t you supposed to shave your legs?” Her eyes went judgmental as she goggled my thighs and calves. I squirmed. I hoped she wouldn’t notice.
    “I wasn’t planning on wearing shorts. I didn’t think today was a shorts day,” I offered.
    Because I didn’t know how to shave, I always wore jeans. Today felt like a hundred degrees. I changed into the spare shorts I kept in my locker. We were supposed to wear the full uniform including shorts, but back when volleyball started I said I preferred long pants and the coach waved me away.
    I touched my head nervously with both hands. My frizzy hair had turned into an unruly, thick brown chaos. I felt like a mess. I touched gingerly—as if trying to hold my head on.
    “Doesn’t your Mom teach you about shaving?” Alison insisted. I noticed her legs were smooth.
    “Oh, buzz off,” I snapped.
    I heard my anger burst out. My ears flushed; I didn’t mean to sound that way.
    “Hey, don’t yell at me just because you lost your childhood,” Alison fumed. She stood and stomped off the bleachers.
    I sat, watching the team listlessly. I studied coach Andy’s movements. Will you stop playing with your hair and watch the ball? he cursed at me once, after I missed a serve.
    I eyed the girls on the court, legs silken as Olympians.

#

    After dinner, I found a razor in the bathroom. I sat on the toilet lid and raked the razor over my dry legs, up and down, until the thick hairs fell. Why did I hide in jeans all summer?
    I felt a stinging sensation. Drops of blood beaded on my legs. I stood. I wetted a chunk of toilet paper in the sink and used it to wipe my hairs off the floor. I flushed them.
    I opened the door to leave. My dad was standing there. I guessed I’d been in the bathroom a long time. “Why are your legs bleeding?” he said.
    “I shaved.”
    “Didn’t you use soap or lather? There are spots of blood all over.” He gave me a nervous frown I hadn’t seen from him before. He looked worried.
    I shook my head.
    “Here, this will help stop the bleeding.” He reached into the closet and gave me a tin of blue-colored salve to rub over my legs. I did. Then my legs looked stupid and blue.
    “Come on.” He gestured with a nod.
    “Where are we going?”
    “The grocery store. You need better razors and stuff. Come on,” he said.
    “Just me and you?”
    “Just me and you,” he replied.
    And we went.

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