Confessions of a Teenage Canadian: PruCan

Meg always knew that she was a horrible drunk.

Well, she had a feeling.

She was never actually sure of the fact.

But after losing her memory after two beers at last year's Christmas party, waking up naked on top of someone's fancy red car, and puking uncontrollably all over herself, she had this distinct hypothesis that she and alcohol didn't get along very well.

Meg had asked her brother Alfred what had happened during those blank moments of drunken memory loss, but he would just shake his head with a serious expression on his face, and declare that it was best left unsaid.

After that, Meg made sure to keep at least fifty feet of space between her and a can of beer.

So…why the hell did that change? Even if it was just for ONE night?

Meg reflected on the reasons why she found it to be such a good idea to drink that night. What had she been doing earlier that day?

Hmm…let's see…oh yeah! That day had been absolutely crappy. More crappy than usual.

Some things didn't change.

She was generally ignored by everybody at school, but that was a given. Meg can't recall a time where she wasn't in the background.

Then, that rude "holier-than-thou" British bastard Arthur Kirkland smacked right into her in the school parking lot, causing her to fall forward and scrape both her elbows and knees; he didn't even bother to stop, look back, or acknowledge her presence.

During lunch a few hours later, someone knocked her chocolate milk carton over, and it spilled all over her white shirt; she didn't have an extra change of clothing.

And of course, she missed the bus home, which resulted in her having to walk fifteen miles back to the house; Alfred had already hitched a ride with someone else, and her cell phone had broke a few days earlier because she accidentally dropped it in the toilet.

How convenient.

Meg remembered slamming the door to her room that day, and looking at herself in the mirror. She remembered seeing a plain, dainty girl with large glasses, wide violet-hued eyes, long uncontrollably thick blonde hair, pale skin, and a pitiful face expression.

Plain. Bland. Boring. Forgettable.

So that's what it was.

She decided to let herself go into extreme angst mode…oh woe is me. Boohoo, my life sucks. No one understands me.

Then, she decided to take it a step further, and accompany her brother to Francis's huge party. A huge party swimming with teenage hormones, sweat, booze, drugs, lack of parental supervision, and sex.

Meg wasn't one to go to these things. But she was feeling a bit rebellious. So she decided to go, and she drank. And drank. And drank.

Then…it was all colors and dizzying flashing lights and screaming and dancing. Then…it was…piercing red eyes, and a sexy smile, and the touch of hands, and best damn make- out session ever. After that, it was stumbling, the slam of the door, the hungry kissing and touching of flesh, the stripping off of clothes, and…and…

That laugh.

That fucking laugh.

"Kesese…"

When Meg woke up that morning, she found herself stark naked, tangled in a myriad of white sheets, her body covered in sweat and other…stuff. And when she tried to move, she realized how sore she was. The lower area of her body ached like a bitch, particularly around the inside of her upper thighs.

And with mortified realization, Meg just realized she had lost her virginity.

But to who? To who?

No one was in the bed with her. But she was sure…absolutely sure…

And then she remembered. Tousled silvery hair, piercing devilish red eyes, a wide smirk…that laugh…

Gilbert Beilschmidt.

That gorgeous albino. That bad boy. That dude that every girl fawns over and dreams about and drools about and has weird sexual fantasies about. That guy who doesn't give a shit, whose very presence screams dominance and majesty and awesomeness. That guy whose face spells out, "I'm going to take your virginity, and you're going to like it."

Yeah, that guy.

He and his "Bad Touch Trio" of gorgeous "sex god" bastards.

Meg knew that the best thing she could do about this was just let it go. Forget about it. Keep it to herself. Not mention it to anyone. Pretend it never happened.

And it worked for a while.

But not now. It wouldn't work anymore.

Fuck no.

Meg was screwed.

Beyond screwed.

She was fucked in the ass.

Because that stick was showing a little plus sign.

Meg, sweetheart…welcome to the world of teenage pregnancy, you irresponsible bitch.