As if it couldn’t get worse, another thought punches me in the gut and beats me down to the point where I consider I might never get up again.
It’s hazy—a long time from now—but I do remember being pregnant.
What if it’s my child?
Isolated and terrified by what I remember, I pull the covers up tighter under my chin, because it’s all I can think to do.
My mom isn’t here; my dad is long gone. The only person in my life right now is a boy I can’t remember. And someday in my future, I will bury a child.
It is all too much.
25
On the way to Spanish, I check out the Winter Formal posters peppering the hallways; the event is tomorrow night. I know from notes that Luke is taking me, and after spending the last class period with the boy I’ve apparently been dating for nearly four months, I’m fine with that.
Tense, but fine.
In Spanish, we have a substitute teacher, and Jamie partners with Amber Valentine for pronunciation drills, leaving me to fend for myself against an angry senior TA named Andi who clearly had other plans for the period. I’m not sure what the prerequisites are for obtaining a teacher’s assistant gig, but obviously they don’t include being good at the subject you’re assisting with; Andi’s accent is worse than mine.
She’s rolled her eyes at me seventeen times and counting, according to the scratch list on my notepad. My revenge is not telling her about the green food particle wedged between her two front teeth.
After class, I rush to catch up with Jamie.
“Hi,” I say, when she realizes that I’m walking next to her toward the lunch hall.
“Hey,” she says flatly.
“How are you?” I ask, hoping to start mending fences.
“Fine,” she says, in an even flatter tone, if that’s possible. This is not the day for reconciliation.
“Listen, Jamie, I just wanted to thank you,” I offer.
“For what?” she asks, disinterested and avoiding eye contact. I think she just stepped farther away from me.
“For the number. My dad’s,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” Jamie says as she turns in the opposite direction and leaves me standing still in the middle of the busy hallway.
26
Squeaky-clean, and clothed in a red cocktail dress that shows a little more skin than feels natural today, I tap the tune of “Chopsticks” on the antique table.
“You’ll wreck your polish,” my mom cautions from across the kitchen, nodding in the direction of my freshly painted nails. She’s leaning against the counter, watching me as she sips tea from a steaming mug.
I stop tapping but don’t reply.
“Are you nervous about the dance?” Mom asks, making conversation.
I hear the grandfather clock in the living room chime once for the half hour. He’ll be here any minute.
“I guess,” I say, tossing a curl over my shoulder. In truth, it’s not the dance I’m nervous about. It’s my life.
Trying to push away the darker thoughts, I focus on the notes before me, spread across the table like the diary of an amnesiac. I used the afternoon to study up on Luke as best I could, cramming more for this date than I will for the SAT later this year. Even still, I could forget something. That thought makes me uneasy; I read on.
My mom and I both jump at the sound of the doorbell.
“Want me to get it?” Mom asks when I stay frozen in my seat.