The first time I drank coffee, I was seventeen. It was the night before the first day of my senior year of high school – a bunch of us brought tents and the country kids drove their trucks out and we stayed the night in the field behind the school, where the JV football players do their practice when they can’t be bothered to drive to their actual field. I went with my best friend, we had a tiny little tent between the two of us. And there were a bunch of our friends there, and one of them was one of my exes, which was a little awkward because he was flirting with another girl the whole time who he had no chance with, and another guy who hated my guts at the time, but we pitched our tent in their corner, and then got up and walked to the coffee box a few blocks away. I’d gone through before of course, with friends, getting hot chocolates or lemonades or water, or nothing, but never coffee. Couldn’t drink coffee. Wasn’t going to subject myself to coffee. But I was already a sinner, could already feel it encroaching on me. And besides, I knew the things I was going to say that night. Might as well.
So we walked to the coffee shop. One of those drive through ones, a chain. There was a group of maybe fifteen of us, making ruckus down the side of the road, adrenaline already pumping through us. We were starting our senior year of high school. We were doing what big kids did. We were drinking coffee.
I can’t remember what was ordered for me. I’d grown up loving walking down the coffee aisle in grocery stores; it’s a dark, nutty aroma. I’d always known I’d love coffee. And the coffee jelly beans in the 49-flavors pack were ones I’d pull to the side, save for last. I knew I’d love coffee. Couldn’t drink coffee.
It was large, blended, sweet, and creamy. I do remember that much. Meant to work my palette to it, warm me up. Didn’t need it. Didn’t like the drink, besides the coffee. But it didn’t feel bad, drinking it. Didn’t feel like the sin I’d always been told it was. Didn’t go to bed until two that night either. Didn’t wake up until four.
The first time I got drunk, I was eighteen. It was the first day of October in an October that meant everything and feels like a fever dream. It was with the guy who hated my guts the first night I drank coffee, but he didn’t hate my guts then. We had it all planned out, that I was going to try it out, because I’m not so big and I didn’t want to end up at a party and fall victim all over again. So he drove me around, picked up a bottle of whipped Smirnoff from his best friend who gave me a big ol sip from his styrofoam taco bell cup. I made a face. My best friend got me this shot glass as a graduation gift painted with the insignia from my college because it’s one of those big party schools, even though I don’t really party, and I especially don’t now, because I can’t hold my alcohol, and I don’t wanna fall victim again. But we were trying it out, and now that this guy didn’t hate me anymore I was back to trusting him, and I let him get me drunk, and we used that shot glass. Took my first shot and walked into a grocery to buy a water, and could already feel my head moving around, feel the lights getting all fuzzy. Took my second on the overlook we always parked at on late nights, and then we drove to a park, but not the one where we started hating each other’s guts. Took another, tried running away, somehow made it a straight line. Took a fourth. Kissed his neck. He ran his hands under my sweatshirt and told me about another girl he loved. I was sober enough to remember that, and the other things I said that night that I shouldn’t have. Said I didn’t, though. It felt easier, than the coffee. Less bad, somehow. I wouldn’t have even thought it was a sin at that point. Came home almost sober. Went to bed at midnight. Woke up at ten. No hangover.
The first time I had sex, I was nineteen. It was the night the guy I was with got back from Christmas break, and maybe it was three weeks of pent up whatever, but it felt right to do it then. And it did feel right, and didn’t feel like a sin. He’s attentive. He’s kind. He understood when I left him for the guy who didn’t hate me anymore. He somehow took me back when I couldn’t be with him anymore, too. He understood I was a victim. He understood I thought it was a sin. That I used to think it was a sin. That I was nineteen, that I had been waiting, that it was important, even though part of me didn’t want to care, wanted to throw it back like that coffee, like that vodka. But we didn’t. He turned on music right before, and the first song was Horses by Maggie Rogers. He held me so close. And for a relationship that was initially built on sex, that was all hookups and craze, it was perfect. That was the first night I stayed the night, too. We went to bed by eleven thirty. We were up at four to do it again. Got out of bed at eight thirty.
I was a victim at sixteen. I’ve already told that story.
I lost my faith at sixteen, too. Or maybe it was seventeen. Or maybe fifteen.
I was fifteen when I had my first kiss. There’s a guy who comes into my department at work when swing shift takes over who looks like the guy I usually consider my first boyfriend, even though he wasn’t, technically. See, I was fifteen. Not sixteen. If I had actually dated him, It would have been a sin.
There was this little booklet you got when you entered the Youth program, for our strength, that gave rules and outlines for what you should and shouldn’t do, what was wrong and what was a sin and what the behavior God expected from you was. And I only marked my bibles when I felt like I’d be a better person for marking my bibles, but that booklet, those informal, vital statutes, I marked and highlighted and annotated like my life depended on it – which it did. My strength was that book, that book was my bible. And in it, of course, was a list of rules for what you should, and shouldn’t, and should avoid, with other Youth. No passionate kissing. No horizontal kissing. No hands, above the clothes, under the clothes. Under your sweatshirt. Don’t arouse any feelings. But I knew as soon as this boy started talking to me I would kiss him. And maybe I could tell he was a sinner. Maybe I knew he drank coffee, drank alcohol, had had sex, before I kissed him, maybe it added to the danger of it all.
It was a terrible kiss. Made me think of the way the bodies of jellyfish move, against each other, a movement I didn’t understand and didn’t think was right. It wasn’t. But he kissed me, outside the old highschool, and then it was impassioned, and then later it was horizontal. He touched me. I didn’t tell him he couldn’t but I didn’t really mind it. Feelings were aroused. I thought about sex. And I thought about sins. I knew it was a sin, then. It bothered me. I hated it. I hated hiding it, it gnawed at me from the inside, clashed with the horrible adrenaline of being kissed. Kissed me at four. Told me he loved me at five. What was I to do but say it back?
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