Normal

That summer, all I wanted was to lose my virginity, but the thought of asking any of the guys I knew made my stomach queasy. I wanted it to happen quietly, to get the deed done, without any damage to my reputation, as a good, smart girl. Hillary would have known who to choose, but she wasn’t around to guide me. Tucked away in my bedroom, I turned to the only males I confided in: the life-size posters of Donny Osmond and David Cassidy. Hillary was also there in an 8x10 school photo perched on my nightstand, her framed perpetual smile always near. She looked radiant that day at school, her light brown hair curled to perfection, her new purple sweater with its crisscrossed tassels framing the V-neck and the faintest hint of her developing cleavage. She rejected dating anyone seriously, but recently had sex with Marty Burkhart and she had a glow, a knowingness in her eyes from that day on and it was immortalized in that photo.

I sprawled on my white beanbag near the window, where the light was best for journaling. If I stood on a milk crate, I could just make out the roof of Hillary’s old house. My nebulizer sat on the other crate, half-hidden under a Celtics towel that Jayson Tatum had handed me at a fundraiser. I would have shoved that machine way in the back of the closet if it didn't need to stay plugged in. My room was redecorated last year, trading pink for more mature, yellow-based walls. My twin bed stayed, but now it had a blue swirl comforter and a pile of orange-patterned pillows. I probably shouldn't do “it” on a twin bed. I think Hillary was on a pull out sofa.

One night I fell asleep on my bean bag, and dreamed of a giant, black, extra-hairy gorilla who reached in my window and held me in his clenched hand. His head was rather small and rounded compared to the massive size of the rest of his body, especially his heaving, grunting chest. I remember seeing police and firefighters lined up on the street below staring up, standing helpless, as my legs kicked wildly. I looked for Hillary but she was not there. Eventually the gorilla put me down, an odd rejection of sorts. Surprisingly, I had the lung power to actually scream, so I did not classify this under “Nightmare" in my Journal.

My Journal was the most beautiful thing I owned, white linen covered with a slightly off-white satin ribbon. I wrote precisely in black cursive, taking my time so every page looked uniform and elegant, text only, no doodling. I titled this day’s entry “Fear of missing out,” a phrase ahead of its time. I began with a list of potential boys. At Hillary's funeral, Marty cried profusely, hiccupping, eyes red raw, and he could barely speak. Only I knew that his “thing" had actually been inside her “hootchie-noochie” which I imagined was a pretty intense feeling. Should Marty be on my list of potentials? Ick, No! I honestly don’t understand why Hillary chose him as her first.

Unable to nudge myself to write any names on the list, I stood up and pressed my cheek to Donny’s poster, looking into his oversized brown eyes as I’d done many times for comfort. If only it could be him—sweet, innocent, beautiful, and devout. He was Mormon, not Catholic but at least he believed in Jesus. I knew everything: his birthday, his favorite color, his dream date on a beach with chocolate-covered strawberries and piña coladas. Hillary and I preferred vodka mixed with grape juice, stolen from my father’s bar downstairs. Maybe my Make-A-Wish connections could have hooked me up for a meet and greet with Donny when he was at Boston Garden that July, but the thought of him crying at my funeral one day was too disturbing.

I worked diligently at filling the pages in my journal each day. Hillary was on almost every page. No one thought it wise that she and I became friends, I wrote, because my lungs harbored nasty superbugs and she was on chemotherapy. We were defiant from the day we met in the hearing eval clinic. Hillary broke the ice by introducing herself to me in the quirky German accent of the audiologist. We giggled and whispered, sitting in adjacent chairs in the waiting room as our mothers checked us in. We were inseparable after that day. Only in the pages of my Journal did I confess that I didn't always cover my cough with my elbow when we were together and I wondered if any of my bad germs got inside her and killed her.

If only Hillary were here, I wouldn't even have to lose my virginity. I was happy spending all my time with her, listening to her stories, laughing at her jokes and living vicariously through her sexual exploits. It was safe and exciting. Some days I wish I could just wake up and be normal. Worrying about what clothes to wear, how to do my hair, instead of focusing on taking my pills and inhalers. Hillary wasn't sick her whole life like I've been so her perspective was different. Sometimes she skipped her pills, hiding them in her cheeks until her mother left the room, then spitting them into the trash basket like it was a contest. Maybe she would still be alive if she were more compliant. Now that she's gone, I have to focus on finding the right guy to show that I am normal. Of course, no one with Cystic Fibrosis is actually normal. Hillary had such a hard time remembering the term and often told people I had halitosis. My journal often whispers that I had a crush on her. She would have kissed me if I asked but I never did. So much has changed since she left.

And what if I have a coughing fit in the middle of losing my virginity?