Page 2 of The Wickedness of Man

I bit my tongue so hard I was afraid I would taste blood, but then answered obediently. “Of course, Mother. Is… everything all right? You seem worried.”

Again, several moments of the muffled sounds, like they were covering the speaker and whispering. Neither of them had ever gotten the hang of using the mute button on their phones. I was grateful, though, since their inability to figure out electronics meant they never discovered the “track location” option on any of my devices growing up. I’d even managed to disable it on theirs under the guise of “fixing” things after updates installed.

Finally, Father spoke again. “It’s just that… you missed your… appointment last week. At the university’s clinic.”

I felt my hand clench into a fist at my side. I’d just signed off all the paperwork to update my new insurance at the OB/GYN’s office, since as of my twenty-sixth birthday, I was no longer covered under my parents’ insurance. I’d specifically marked, circled, and notated in the new documents that no one—and I meantno one—was allowed to have any information about my medical history, conditions, or appointments. Maybe they’d only allowed that one to slip through since the appointment had been a longstanding check-up initially made under my parents’ insurance starting when I was twelve.

I made a mental note to call the office and ream them out over it—and then to find a new one. Considering how terrified my parents had made me of the prospect of having sex, they’d certainly subjected me to a long series of strangers looking and prodding the very insides I wasn’t supposed to letanyonenear. If I had to count the number of OBs I’d been to over the yearsand the number of strangers who’d been through my vagina with a fine-toothed speculum, I was sure it would have horrified most women—people, really—in general.

“I didn’t ‘miss’ it, Father. I rescheduled. The only available appointment was next month.”

“You rescheduled? Without telling us?” demanded Mother, her voice reedy and pitched.

“Magdalene, you know that part of our agreement for you to live on your own is that you will have your prearranged visits with your obstetrician to ensure that everything is… well.”

You mean to check if I’m still a virgin. Don’t have to worry about that!I thought miserably, trying to force the images away of what had happened only two weeks ago on my one-year anniversary with Danny, which had led to us taking a break. Anger and humiliation flooded me. I felt myself on the verge of tears. I needed this call to end. Now.

“I was on my monthly cycle, Father,” I stated, calmly, imagining the horror passing over their faces at my openness. “I decided it would be best to go when it was over, but if you would prefer, if this happens in the future, I can call and tell you first?—”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” he interjected hurriedly. “Please just tell your mother when your next appointment is. We’ll talk to you later. Enjoy your birthday, Magdalene.”

“Remember to be a shining beacon of purity before the Lord,” Mother interjected.

“Of course.”

I ended the call and resisted the urge to throw my phone against the wall, then went to the bathroom mirror and tried to settle myself. I couldn’t splash water on my face—Katie had done my makeup, and she tended to cake it on thickly, even though I preferred a more natural look—so even a single tear would leave me looking like a raccoon. I wiped some of the concealer off, even though it revealed a couple pimples, then reappliedmascara around my dark gray eyes, softening the smoky eye Katie had insisted on. I thought it made me look a bit like a cadaver, given my pale skin, but she swore it was a hot look.

My black hair, which Katie had insisted should be done in gentle beach waves, had escaped the hold of what had to have been nearly an entire canister of Aqua Net hair spray, and now lay limply against my shoulders and plastered to my forehead. The bar was too hot and confined to maintain a nice hairstyle anyway. I reached into my bag, grabbed a small bottle of dry shampoo, and went to work fluffing the dark mess into some semblance of a proper ’do.

I studied my reflection in the mirror, running my hands along my slim hips and small breasts. Katie’d picked out my outfit—a shiny black tank that tied in the back with thin straps, exposing a large amount of skin. Given my upbringing, a shirt this revealing filled me with terror about being ogled. Other than that, I was wearing some thin jeggings that hugged my thighs and highlighted what little bit of ass I had. Even stilettos couldn’t boost it up much, so the shoes were mostly just there to torture my feet, I assumed.

I hated the way my body looked; it was more like a teenage boy’s than a woman’s, but there was little I could do about that. Both my parents were stick thin as well, so I assumed if their whisper-thin genes were theworstpart of my genetic inheritance, I couldn’t complain.

About the mental and emotional trauma I’d inherited though… now that Icouldcomplain about, and frequently had over long discussions with both Katie and Danny. I slumped over and placed my hands on the side of the sink, letting my chin drop against my chest. I forced a smile to my face, touched my lipstick up—Katie’s lipstick, actually. If my parents ever discovered any makeup in my apartment, they’d have me committed.

Kinda wish I was kidding about that concern…

I did one last check, forced a smile onto my face, and pushed the sticker-covered bathroom door open to the bar.

The room was stock full; Friday night in a downtown bar would definitely do that, but it made me feel even more out of place. I could feel the electric currents in the air of people drinking, relaxing… I could sense the desire spilling out from the crowd on the dance floor—and also, at my own table. Katie had invited our friend Concepción, whom we’d met at university, to come out and celebrate with us, and she’d brought her latest beau—a gorgeous French man who had so far spent most of the night with his hand up Concepción’s skirt.

I was halfway surprised we hadn’t been kicked out yet, but judging by the sexual tension rolling off the dance floor in front of the DJ booth, they weren’t the only ones pushing the envelope of “appropriate” displays of affection.

I made my way over and sat down with a flop into the chair. Beside me to my right was Katie, my best friend since grade school, and to my left was Danny, her brother and myotherlong-time friend, now turned awkward boyfriend-on-break. Each of them shared the same ginger-pale complexion, a star scape of freckles across their noses, and red hair attained from the heavily Irish O’Leary side of the family. While Danny’s hair tended toward deeper tones, Katie’s was closer to a strawberry blonde, heavy on the strawberry.

On the other side of the table was Concepción Achebe and her new “friend”—Derek, I thought his name was?—who were hardly paying any attention to us at all, but this wasn’t surprising. Concepción, who had been a model before moving behind the camera, stood nearly six feet tall without heels. She was a stunning beauty with a lithe frame and the grace of a classical ballerina. Her father had been a cameraman fromNigeria, her mother a Mexican model, which explained both her career choices and her drop-dead gorgeous looks.

“Let me guess… your parents?” Katie asked, leaning toward me to be heard over the music. When I nodded, she wrinkled her nose, and adopted a piss-poor English accent. “‘Oh, hullo daughter, are you stillpure?’”

She cackled like this was a hysterical joke, but neither Danny nor I laughed in response. I looked down at the glass of water in front of me on the table, tears stinging my eyes. I’d already told Katie the most humiliating parts of the story—leaving out the details of her brother’s role, forobviousreasons, but she didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong at all. She waved over to get the bartender’s attention, and then grinned back at me.

“Anyway, we have a surprise for you?—”

“Oh no, tell me you didn’t.”

I saw the flaming cake come through the crowd, and the raucous belting ofHappy Birthdaybegan as I plugged my ears until it came to an unseasonably bad off-tune finale, its tone somewhere in the pitch of “cat getting its tail stepped on” and “nails on a chalkboard.”

Many of the patrons from around the room joined in, clapping as the waitress placed a cake so tightly packed with candles itliterallyappeared to be on fire. Everyone at my table burst into applause and well-wishing as I desperately tried to blow every candle out, but after nearly catching my hair on fire, it wasn’t long before Katie, Danny, Concepción, and even Derek had to assist. By the time we succeeded in putting them all out—while the bartender stood quietly on standby with a fire extinguisher—the whole top layer of cake was practically melted wax.

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