good. Leaning back against my pillow,
my stomach goes all the way flat, but
my boobs don’t. For sure they grew
over the summer. I cup them gently, and
they overflow the bowls of my hands.
Wow. How did that happen? Suddenly,
my cell buzzes. WELL? I’M WAITING.
Part of me wants to keep him waiting.
The other part doesn’t want him mad.
I let one hand slide to the crotch
of my panties, pull the lacy material
just a little to one side. I keep my fingers
covering the most personal part, take
a quick picture that I hope will do.
While I wait for his response, I leave
my hand where it is, just above a soft
pulsing between my legs. I have never
touched myself there before, not the way
he wants me to. But now I do. Just to see.
Just to know. I move my middle finger
slowly along the slick strip, discover
the nub hiding beneath my pubic bone—
the source of the building throb.
My Cell Buzzes
But I ignore it for the moment.
This is something I need to know
more about. Something I must learn.
Unbidden, my finger starts to move
faster and, unbidden, my body rocks
against it. It’s like I’ve been possessed
by something—someone—I have no
control over. I can’t stop. Wouldn’t
even if I thought I could. So I give
myself up to the woman inside me.
Let her move my hand. Teach
me what to do. She is instinct, pure
or filthy, and I listen to her, follow
her direction. Some urgency begins,
grows like surf moving toward high
tide. Breaks that can’t be harnessed
or slowed or stopped. That swell
into a tidal wave, and with it a crash—
and a bolt of understanding.
If There Ever Was an Eve
This must be how she felt
right after she first figured
out what orgasm meant.
Enlightened.
Embarrassed.
Excited to try it again.
I will. But not now. Why
don’t they teach you this
in school? That you really
don’t need someone else
to make you feel this good?
Satisfied.
Contented.
I mean, they sort of mention
it, but not as a means to an end.
And some people even call it a sin.
No making that element happy,
I guess. Ask me, self-pleasure
could be the key to abstinence.
Listen to Me
Like I’ve suddenly become
an expert on self-pleasure.
I put on my clothes. Go wash
my hands. And when I get back
to my room, I finally check
my cell for Lucas’s text message.
AWESOME. BUT NEXT TIME I WANT
TO SEE EVERYTHING. GOT IT?
I’m not quite that brave. I’LL
THINK ABOUT IT. WILL I SEE
YOU THIS WEEKEND? It’s only
Wednesday. Friday seems like
such a long way away.
His return text takes a while.
Tit for tat, right? I made him
wait while I . . . My face sizzles,
white hot. Finally, the buzz.
ARE YOU OVER YOUR PERIOD?
Guess I’ll Have to Be
Sooner or later. Problem is, it’s going
to start for real at some point soon.
What can I use for an excuse then?
Or should I just come clean, admit
I wasn’t ready and couldn’t think
of another way out? The problem
with lies is they start to pile up, one
on top of another, until it’s hard to find
your way out from under the heap.
I wish I could talk to Bri about it.
But she’d just lecture me. Mom? Yeah,
right. She still thinks I’m her little angel.
Can’t believe she hasn’t noticed my
wings are long gone. Chloe? Maybe, but
I know what she’ll say—No excuses.
No apologies. Just live in the moment.
One other person comes to mind.
I dial her number. Hope she’s home.
She is. “Hey, Cassie. I, uh, wanted
to talk to you. I’m kind of seeing this guy. . . .”
Boy problems? Already? School
has barely started. Okay, what’s up?
“Well, um . . . See, he’s sort of pushing
me to have . . . you know. And I’m not . . .”
Ready? I would think not, especially
if you just started dating. You remember . . .
Someone—Dad? Chad?—interrupts,
says something I can’t quite make out.
Okay, Cassie says to him. Now, to me, Your
dad says to tell any guy who bothers you
he’ll have to answer to your father. Listen.
I have to run. We’ll talk Saturday, okay?
It’s Not
But I say, “Okay.” We’re going
shopping for my bridesmaid’s dress.
Guess it will wait till then. Meanwhile,
maybe biology homework (regeneration)
will take my mind off Lucas
A door slams and Mom calls
out that she needs help unloading
the groceries. I close my notebook,
stash every deviant thought and try to
regenerate some hint of angel wings.
Chloe
Deviant
Some people seem to think
“deviant” is my middle name.
Okay, I may be the kind of girl
who truly believes
life
is totally much more amazing
when you straddle its edges.
First, always, is self-preservation,
but once you get a handle
on the challenges that
presents,
you can take control. And
isn’t that really the point?
To choose your path, veering
around anyone who insists
you’re wrong, from the
endless
shortcuts and switchbacks
along the straight and narrow
way. To avoid the tried-and-true
in favor of imagine-this
possibilities.
Mikayla
Straight
I’ve gone completely straight
for my baby, and that makes
being pregnant even harder.
No booze, no weed, no pills
except for prenatal vitamins.
Nothing to take my mind off
my slowly expanding belly
or how lonely I am without Dylan.
Wednesday is Halloween, and as
October fades into November,
the ever-shortening days seem
to grow longer. And the snap-cool
nights are longer yet. You’d think
I’d be really tired, but apparently
that isn’t so until the last trimester.
At twenty weeks, I’m halfway
there and at my next doctor’s
appointment, I’ll have the ultrasound
that will show if the baby is a boy
or a girl. Halfway there, and so far
I haven’t told anyone. Not Emily.
Not Audrey. None of my teachers,
though I’m pretty sure a couple
of them know, which m
eans
apparently there is no counselor-
student privilege. Before long, though,
the baggy shirts I’ve taken to wearing
won’t hide my belly bulge. I might
as well spill to my friends first.
Find out if they are, in fact, friends.
Today being Nevada Day, it’s a no-
school Monday, so I wait until after
eleven to call Emily. “What’s up?”
Not much. Going to the carnival
in Carson later. Want to come?
Rides? Don’t think so. “Nah.
Been to one carnival, you’ve been
to pretty much all of them, you know?”
I Almost Invent an Excuse
To hang up. I used to feel close
to Em, but recent distractions
have lodged us apart. She only
asked about Dylan once and I kind
of went off. Okay, totally went off.
We haven’t talked much since.
“Listen. First, I apologize about
the Dylan thing. I was just so pissed.”
Hey. It’s okay. I would be pissed, too.
Can’t believe he broke up with you.
“There’s more. I . . . I’m pregnant.
That’s why he broke up with me.”
Silence. One-one thousand. Two . . .
Wow. I’m kind of speechless. What . . .
“I’m keeping the baby. Dylan wanted
me to get an abortion. But I couldn’t.”
Wow. But how . . . ? I mean, I thought
you were getting on birth control.
“I was going to. But I hadn’t made
the appointment, and we were out
one night and he didn’t bring
a rubber and he swore it would
be fine. That he’d pull out. And he
did, but not soon enough, I guess.”
Wow. I’m sorry. Or, I’m happy for
you. I don’t know. What should I be?
Good question. “Don’t be sorry.
Not about the baby. You can be
sorry about Dylan if you want.”
Just please don’t say wow again.
We talk for a while, and by the time
we hang up, I’m glad I told her.
I can’t do this alone. I really need
support from my family and friends.
Courage Bolstered
Now I want to fess up to everyone
else I think should know. I send
an email to Sarah Hill, ask her to share
my good news with Aunt Tia. If I keep
thinking of it as good news, will that
make it less scary? I’ll have to tell
my other grandparents in person.
I go find Mom, who is in the guest
room, which is now her bedroom.
She told Trace, Bri and me it’s because
Dad snores, but we know that’s bullshit.
My parents are on the verge of divorce.
And I’m partially to blame. Mom
defended me, which only drove
Dad further away. They barely talk
at all, and when they do, every word
is hard-edged and hurtful. Dad stays
at work later and later. Mom runs.
Lifts. Spends hours at her computer,
writing. Building her own career.
I Knock on the Door
And her terse Come in says I’ve
interrupted her train of thought.
But I can’t stop now. “I wanted
you to know that I emailed Sarah
and told her about the baby.”
Mom turns to me. That’s good.
But, by the way, she already knows.
How? “You told her? Because
that really wasn’t your place.”
Anger crackles like lightning.
I didn’t tell her. She guessed. Maybe
she’s psychic, or maybe it had to do
with all those questions you asked.
“Oh. Sorry.” A day for apologies.
And confessions. “I want to tell
Grandma and Grandpa Carlisle.”
She considers. Talk to your father
first. He should go with you.
Dad took Trace and Bri to the Nevada
Day parade. And, “I don’t want to wait.
Will you come with me? Please?”
I wait for her to refuse. Instead,
she says, Okay. If they’re home. But
I would not anticipate it going well.
She calls. They’re home. Expecting
us, but most definitely not what I have
to tell them. It’s a short drive, with
butterflies dancing around in my
stomach. Wait. That’s not butterflies.
“Mom. I just felt the baby move. I think
it was the baby, anyway.” Alive and
kicking, as the old saying goes, even
if this is a whole different context.
Mom actually smiles. Babies
have a way of doing that. Just wait
until she starts doing push-ups.
She?
I kind of thought it might be
a boy. Masculine like its daddy.
She. What if it’s a girl like me?
Thinking in such concrete terms
makes me even more determined
to admit to the world I’m pregnant.
We arrive at my grandparents’
monstrous home. Why do they need
such a big place for the two of
them? Some people, I’m sure, find
it beautiful, with its marble floors
and giant columns, outside and in.
It reminds me of a mausoleum.
Not that I’ve ever admitted such
a thing to anyone. Not even Mom,
who I’m pretty sure feels the same,
if not about the house, about
the people who live inside it. I love
my grandparents. But they’ve never
exactly been affectionate to Mom.
Curly and Larry
Announce our arrival with gruff
Newfoundland barks. The dogs
are big and slobbery, but puppies
at heart. I want a dog someday.
Mom says they’re too much work,
and maybe they are. But I want one
anyway. Just not a hundred-fifty-
pound behemoth like these two.
Grandma Carlisle opens the door
before we reach it. She scopes out
Mom’s running shorts. Scowls. Come
on in, then. Henry! They’re here.
She leads us into the family room.
The living room is reserved for special
guests—ones who won’t stain the white
carpet and furniture. Grandpa appears
like a magician’s assistant, from thin
air, it seems. He waves us to the leather
sofa. Make yourselves at home. Can
I get you something to drink? Pretty sure
Mom would like something strong
to drink, and I would, too. A giant
glass of alcoholic courage. But both
of us shake our heads. “No thanks.”
Grandma gets right to the point.
Okay, then. Tell us. What is this
important news? She looks at Mom,
who looks at me with a silent It’s
not my place. And she’s right.
I clear my throat. “Ahem. I don’t
know how to say this except to come
straight out with it. I’m pregnant.”
Grandpa turns the color of pickled
beets. Grandma goes more toward
blanched almonds. Their heads rotate—
toward each other. Away. Toward Mom.
Away.
But neither can quite look
at me. “I’m five months along, and
I have decided to keep the baby
and I wanted you two to know.”
Sixty Seconds
To the barrage. At me:
graduation
college
prepaid college!!
marriage
child support
stepping up to the plate!
programs
staying home
what will the neighbors think?
Unbelievably, at Mom:
supervision
or lack of
where the hell were you?
moral fiber
or lack of
chip off the ol’ block.
And now I blow it.
“How dare you blame Mom?
This isn’t her fault. It’s mine.”
Emily
Fault
Is easy enough to assign.
It’s Dylan’s fault for taking
the easy way out. It’s Mikki’s
fault for going along. The only
innocent
is the baby, who has no choice
at all. And here, friendship
becomes murky. I kind of want
to yell at her. I mean, I might be
guilty
of casual sex. Maybe even with
a friend’s boyfriend. But, damn,
at least I’m smart about it.
The last thing I want is an infant
who
needs a blood test to determine
paternity. Mikki knows who
the father is. But is it fair to push
him into that role because she
decides
to play mommy? Should I be
mad at him, like a good friend
might, when I think he’s right
to walk away, leave her behind?
Shane
A Good Friend
Listens to what you have to say.
And then tells it like it is, or at least
how it appears to be. Today Mom’s