Unpregnant Page 2

  “Sorry, that sucks.”

  I wanted to glare at her, but couldn’t even meet her eyes. “Can you not tell anyone? Please?” I barely managed to whisper the words. Even to me they sounded pitiful and unconvincing. Who would hold back on this piece of gossip? I knew my reputation. Straight As. Varsity volleyball. Captain of the debate team. Clear skin, nice hair, cute nose. Most Liked and Most Likely to Succeed. Which meant that as much as everyone pretended to love me, most of them couldn’t wait for me to mess up. I could just picture Hannah Ballard’s smug face when she learned she would be valedictorian. I was pretty sure pregnancy was an automatic disqualification. Which was so unfair. It’s not like this would affect my grades and—

  “God. Whatever you’re thinking right now, just stop. You look like you’re about to poop. I’m not gonna tell anyone.” Bailey’s voice jerked me out of my panic spiral.

  “Why not?” The question slipped out before I could stop myself.

  Bailey shrugged. “Because everyone in this school is an asshole.”

  Buzz. My phone vibrated in my backpack. Again. And again, my stomach twisted in on itself. I couldn’t relax. It was like there was a giant neon sign on my forehead flashing PREGNANT. Every time I saw my reflection as I walked through the halls, I imagined what it would look like in a few months, my stomach jutting out over my toes, the outline of my belly button poking through my T-shirt. I wasn’t sure if the nausea I was feeling was an early symptom or nerves. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the reason my phone was buzzing in my backpack every three and a half minutes. The worst part was Kevin.

  I wasn’t ready to tell him. I’d managed to avoid him all day. Luckily we didn’t have any classes together. And during lunch I’d hidden in the library, a place I was pretty sure he’d never stepped foot in. But that hadn’t stopped the texting. I pulled out my phone.

  Kevin:

  Kevin:

  Kevin: ?

  Kevin: ?

  Kevin:

  Kevin:

  Kevin:

  I sighed, stuffing my phone into my backpack. I couldn’t avoid him forever. But what was I supposed to say? Hey, sweetie, despite using a condom every single time and sometimes more than one, I still managed to wind up pregnant. It was every teenage guy’s nightmare. Luckily, school was over for the day. In five minutes my carpool would be here and this would be a problem for Tomorrow Me. I scanned the parking lot, looking for Mrs. Hennison’s dented Toyota Sienna, ready to make an Olympic-speed sprint when I saw it.

  Suddenly my vision went black as two hands covered my eyes. I yelped.

  “Guess who, babe?”

  Clearly, my luck was continuing to suck. “Hey, Kevin.” He took his hands off my eyes and spun me around. Gray-blue eyes, hair that naturally swooped and curled in a glorious mess, and a smile that made me melt. It was the sort of smile that said every time he saw me, he couldn’t believe his luck. He studied my expression, concerned.

  “Whoa. Did I scare you?”

  “No. Well, I mean a little.”

  He reached toward me and began rubbing my arms. “Is everything okay?” He searched my eyes. I looked away, sure they would reveal my secret. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

  “Sorry. I . . . uh . . . got busy.” Before Kevin could probe further, a friend of his patted him on the back as he walked past.

  “See you at Conner’s?”

  “Hell yeah,” Kevin assured him with an elbow bump, and turned back to me. “Did I tell you Conner got into University of Florida? Quinn’s going to Arizona State. Hudson’s joining the Marines. Everybody’s freakin’ leaving.”

  “I know. Senior year. It’s crazy.”

  He glanced down. A flash of annoyance crossed his face. “You trying to rub it in?” he asked. I blinked, momentarily confused. Then I remembered I was wearing my new Brown University hoodie.

  “No. My parents got it for me. You know. They’re super excited.”

  He toyed with the zipper for a moment, then grinned. “You could always fail your finals. Then you could go to Missouri State with me.” It was my turn to get annoyed. We’d been over this before. I squirmed out of his arms.

  “Can we not . . .”

  He made a pouty face. “Aw, come on. I was only teasing.” He pulled me back toward him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I couldn’t tell him. Here in the parking lot, in the middle of all our classmates, with Mr. Contreras directing traffic nearby, was not the right time or place to break this sort of news. Though I had no idea what the right time or place would be.

  “Seriously, I was just teasing. You know I’m totally going to drive to Rhode Island to see you every weekend.”

  “I know.”

  “I love my hot Ivy League lady,” he said with a playful grin. His charm was hard to resist. My heart twisted. I was going to ruin everything.

  “I love you, too.” My voice sounded flat, even to my ears.

  “You sure?” He looked down at me, searching.

  “Yes.” I put as much conviction as I could behind the words, hoping later he would remember.

  Kevin grinned, pleased. “That’s all that matters.”

  I hoped so. But I doubted it. He kissed me again. But as his mouth met mine, the familiar swooping sensation, the giddy rush of feeling, never came. Instead it was just a mishmash of lips, teeth, and tongue. I was too nervous. All I could see when I closed my eyes were those two pink lines.

  “Ronnie! Stop being gross and get in the car!” Emily’s voice carried across the quad. I yanked myself away from Kevin and ran.

  I watched the string of box stores and fast-food restaurants slide past the smudged back-seat window of Mrs. Hennison’s minivan. Emily, Jocelyn, and Kaylee, my best friends since freshman year, were busy on their phones. We all went to the same church and Mrs. Hennison had been driving us to school since the second week of ninth grade, after Joey Mitchell pulled out his penis on the bus and waved it at Jocelyn. Joey got sent to military school shortly after, but the damage had been done. Our parents collectively decided carpooling was the only safe option.

  And that’s how our little group was formed. I had my driver’s license but no car, and I could count on one hand the number of times my parents had let me borrow theirs. This, along with AP classes, Academic Decathlon, debate team, and the school paper, should have killed our social lives, but with Kevin as my boyfriend we were welcome at all the parties. We weren’t the coolest kids in school, but everyone knew who we were. And now we were all accepted to good colleges and were getting out of our boring little forgettable town. Assuming we passed our finals. And assuming I . . . my thoughts skittered away from the truth I was going to have to face if I wanted to be ensconced in a dorm room on the East Coast by fall.

  Kaylee looked up from her phone. “It’s all set. My dad agreed to move his fishing trip.”

  Jocelyn grinned. “Did you use ‘puppy eyes’ or ‘lip tremble’ to convince him?”

  “I used facts. I told him we’ve been using the cabin every year to cram for finals, and it was our last time so the bass would have to wait. Then I cried a little.” The girls laughed.

  Cram weekend. I’d totally forgotten. Every year before finals we spent Friday night through Sunday in Kaylee’s dad’s fishing cabin studying for our tests. At first, one of our moms went with us, but last year we’d been allowed to go alone. Jocelyn’s parents let her borrow their car. Which probably wasn’t the best decision on their part. She could barely stay in her own lane. And left turns made her nervous. But we had managed to get there in one piece. We’d gone over our notes, drunk too much soda, and watched cheesy romantic movies. It was awesome. Emily nudged me.

  “You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

  I looked at her, startled. How did she know? Did my face look different? Was I fatter already?

  “Two whole nights away from Kevin,” she continued. I relaxed. I was the only one in the group with a boyfriend and they always teased me about it. But I was also their only direct source of sexual information, so they never took the teasing too far.

  “You could always bring him with you,” Kaylee suggested innocently.

  “Yeah, what exactly are your feelings on polyamory?” Emily asked.

  “I bet he could really help us relax between study sessions.” Jocelyn grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

  “GIRLS!” Mrs. Hennison reprimanded from the front seat, and they dissolved into giggles.

  A sharp honk startled us. I looked out the window. It was Bailey. One arm dangling out the window of her beat-up Camry, her seat leaned way back, she gave me a lazy wave. Emily wrinkled her nose.

  “Ugh. What does Walmart Greeter Class of 2020 want with us?”

  “Right there’s the reason I’m not leaving that cabin until I’ve got my calc notes memorized.” Kaylee pulled out her textbook. “No way am I ending up like that.”

  Jocelyn turned to me. “Weren’t you, like, friends with her in junior high or something?”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “I totally forgot! Didn’t she get arrested on our field trip to the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum last year?”

  “I heard she carved her name on a wagon,” Kaylee added.

  “No, she stole a bonnet,” Emily countered.

  “Who cares? You were friends, right? She came to your birthday party freshman year.” Jocelyn persisted. I felt my friends’ eyes on me, waiting for an answer.

  “Only because my mom made me invite her. But we weren’t, like, close. Because, you know, she’s a total psycho,” I said, making a little twirly gesture with my finger around my ear. The girls laughed.

  I immediately regretted my words. There was no good reason I shouldn’t have told the truth. My friends wouldn’t have cared. So why
did I?

  Ten minutes later, I climbed out of the back of the van and trudged up the cracked asphalt driveway to my front door. My dad was already home. His Ford was in the driveway, its bumper plastered with “My child is an honor student at Jefferson High” stickers.

  Carefully opening the front door so it didn’t squeak, I tiptoed through the foyer and up the stairs to my room. I flipped open my laptop and quickly scanned through every social media platform I could think of, searching for Bailey’s profile. But it turned out she really was a rebel. The only thing I found was an old Facebook page, and the only thing on it was a picture of Bailey giving the finger. I sighed, feeling some of the tension in my stomach unspool.

  Then with trembling fingers, I typed the two words I’d known I’d type as soon as I saw those little pink lines.

  Abortion. Clinic.

  The sun had set and my room was lit only by the glow of my laptop screen, bathing my hands in an eerie blue light. I was limp with exhaustion. Typing those words had been the easiest part of the process. I’d spent the last few hours wading through outdated information and misleading sites. Finally, I had my answer.

  There was a clinic two hours away. I was saved.

  I could see my future again. Meeting my new roommate at Brown. Studying late in the library. Debating with my professors. An eventual internship. Graduation. A career in a big city. A downtown loft. Fancy shoes. A roomful of people listening to me as I led them through a meeting. Drinks after work. My own Netflix account. But my phone lay beside me untouched. I couldn’t seem to type in the number. What would happen if I didn’t?

  A baby cried. I jerked away from my laptop, startled.

  “Ronnie, come down to dinner. Your sister’s here,” my mom called. I slammed my laptop closed and hurried downstairs.

  At the dinner table I sat in the seat I’d been sitting in since I could remember, right under the sign asking God to “Bless This Mess,” next to my dad. My gingham cushion on the old oak spindle chair was stained and so thin I might as well have been sitting on wood at this point. The room smelled of the thousand casserole dinners that had been served in it over the years. The whiff of chicken and cheese was faintly comforting, especially since at that moment the decibel level in the room was somewhere between rock concert and airport tarmac.

  My little brother, Ethan, was on my dad’s phone, blasting sounds blaring from its tiny speakers. My five-month-old niece was screaming as Melissa, my sister, tried to shove a bottle in her mouth. Next to her, my two-year-old nephew was throwing goldfish crackers on the floor, yelling, “Find Nemo! Find Nemo!” My brother-in-law was chasing their oldest kid, Logan, around the table, begging him to sit down. Logan had some sort of robot that was flashing lights and making laser noises. Through all this my dad just sat there, sipping his beer.

  My mom entered wearing a bright smile and carrying a creamy chicken noodle bake.

  “Shall we say grace?”

  We all held hands, my oldest nephew wrangled into his chair by his father threatening to take away Mr. Roboto. My dad held my hand firmly. It was big and rough and familiar.

  “Dear Lord,” my mom began, “thank you for this meal—”

  “Logan! Get back in your seat!” Melissa screeched. My nephew had slid under the table. I could feel him playing with the laces of my shoes.

  “And thank you, Lord,” my mother continued unperturbed, “for blessing our daughter Veronica with her acceptance to Brown. The first in our family to go to college.” My dad squeezed my hand, his eyes sliding over to meet mine, a small smile twitching his lips upward.

  “Logan! Right now! One! Two!” my sister counted.

  My mom yelped and grabbed her leg. “Logan, don’t bite Grandma. It’s not nice.”

  “Just give him a kick,” my dad muttered, but I think I was the only one who heard him.

  “Pete! Control him!” my sister snapped as the baby took that moment to spit up on herself. My dad laughed, then tried to turn it into a cough.

  “Amen,” my mom finished, and dipped a serving spoon into the casserole. “Who’s first?”

  The rest of the dinner went reasonably well, with only a minimum amount of noodle bake thrown at the wall by little Logan. We’d moved on to ice cream sundaes when my sister stood, clearing her throat.

  “We have a little announcement to make.”

  “You’re finishing your nursing degree?” I asked.

  “No,” my sister giggled, then added, beaming, “We’re pregnant!” My mom immediately jumped to her feet with an ear-piercing screech of joy. My dad exhaled, long and slow, and seemed to sink a little farther into his chair. I saw his eyes slide over to my hand, as if reassuring himself my purity ring was still there, before pasting on a smile and managing a hearty “congratulations” for my sister.

  I twisted the ring on my finger, feeling its familiar whorls and grooves. It had been my dad’s idea. I’d leaped at it, eager to stand in front of my church and make a promise that had meant next to nothing when I was twelve, just so I could show him I was better than my sister.

  I wasn’t supposed to know, of course, but I’d heard the arguments. Our house was small and the walls thin. Vision of devoted motherhood that she was now, Melissa got started a little earlier than anyone in my family would care to admit. When she’d cried to my parents that night, she’d only known Pete a few weeks, and she’d just started her nursing degree.

  Dad didn’t yell. He left that to my mom. No, my dad was calm but immovable. As far as he was concerned, my sister was a parent now, and her needs would always come second to her children’s. That’s what he and my mother had done for us.

  Every argument Melissa made, my dad countered with love. With comfort. He promised help. Money, babysitting, whatever they needed. Finally, he’d begged, his voice thick with tears. By the weekend my sister was engaged and smiling, whatever plans she’d had for her life forgotten. How can someone’s dreams withstand that much love?

  I knew mine couldn’t.

  Of course, my dad probably didn’t anticipate my sister’s complete lack of parenting skills.

  I felt a tug on my jeans and looked down. Logan was under the table, grinning, a baby carrot shoved halfway up his nose. I stood, my chair scraping the wood as I shoved it back.

  “May I be excused?”

  Five minutes later I was sitting in my closet, my laptop on my knees, phone in hand. A high school career’s worth of formal dresses surrounded me like a cocoon, the scratchy lace of my homecoming dress brushing my cheek, the smooth satin of my prom dress sliding against my arm. They still smelled faintly of perfume and hairspray. I breathed in the scent and tried to slow my pounding heart. I was hoping my closet would provide a little extra soundproofing for the call I was about to make. I pushed the final digit of the number and held the phone to my ear. An automated voice answered. I was relieved. Maybe I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. I selected the appropriate number and waited.

  “Planned Parenthood. How may I help you?” My breath caught in my throat. The words wouldn’t come. “Hello?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.

  “Hi, I, uh, need to make an appointment.” I cringed at how small my voice sounded.

  “And what is this appointment regarding?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that would somehow keep me from hearing the words I needed to say. “I need . . .” But I couldn’t say it. If I did, it would make it real. “I’m doing a report on abortion and I, uh, wanted to speak to a doctor.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. It seemed to go on forever, but couldn’t have lasted more than a second. Within that second I could feel the shame and terror I’d stuffed down deep inside me well up, ready to burst out. Luckily, before I could dissolve into a puddle of choking sobs, the operator spoke.

  “Honey, how old are you?”

  “Seventeen.” There was another pause. A longer one.

  “You can get an appointment to see a doctor for your ‘report,’ but in the state of Missouri you need a parent’s permission if you’re under eighteen. Is that going to be possible for you?” For a long moment all I could do was sit in my cocoon of sequins and satin, taking quick, shallow breaths while something inside me shattered.

  “No. I don’t think that will be possible. Is there, uh, any way . . .”