I know in some other parts of the world, in cultures different from ours, religion plays a much bigger role in shaping ideas of sex and purity. For some people, sex comes with marriage. It’s not embarrassing to wait, it’s expected. Sex is a demonstration of love, something sacred.

But then, Hannah thought her first time was sacred. She loved Charlie, and he claimed to love her back. She waited for the moment it felt right. When he suggested they spend the night at his lake house, she knew what was implied. It was romantic, special—perfect. Until the next week, when he dumped her for Julie Spencer.

I’m not waiting for marriage. I’m not even really waiting for love. What I want is respect and trust. I want to know that whoever I have sex with will make me feel safe, that they won’t leave me for a junior in their French class, or never talk to me again, or tell everyone at the party in a matter of minutes. I don’t think I could handle a public humiliation as well as Danielle did. For that matter, I don’t think I should have to.

Wait until you’re ready, people always say. But how are you supposed to know when you’re ready? Do you wake up one day and suddenly feel more grown-up, more like an adult? I don’t feel like an adult at all. If having sex means opening yourself up to heartbreak, or ridicule, or pain, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.

“If it’s this bad now, how’s it going to be next year?” I ask miserably. “We’re going to college in the two biggest cities in the country. There probably haven’t been any virgins in LA since the eighties.”

“We have six months until college,” Hannah offers. “You still have time. And next year is our fresh start, remember?”

The little bell above the door jingles and a cold gust of air swoops into the store, blowing a guy inside with it. He looks college-aged, probably an EVmU student coming from the gym next door. I watch as he puffs into a pair of fingerless gloves, rubbing his hands together. He’s all dark hair and clean lines, with warm chocolate eyes and hard cheekbones tinged pink from the cold. And I swear—he’s the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen in real life. Hannah and I gape at him, pausing mid-conversation.

“He looks like James Dean,” she whispers, slack-jawed. Hannah knows this because I’ve had a Rebel Without a Cause poster tacked to my wall since fifth grade. It’s one of my favorites.