They looked at Liz, too. I bet they thought she was my mom. She held my hand. She asked me if I was OK. I kept nodding and nodding.
“Yes. Yes. I’m OK,” I said. “Stop asking me.”
I didn’t want her to be like my mother. To cry and look worried. I didn’t want her to fall apart and make me feel like my life was over. I wanted her to be strong. I wanted going there to feel like any other doctor’s appointment.
So when she put her arm around me and tried to hug me close while we waited in the tiny exam room, I pulled away. I couldn’t handle anyone being nice to me. Not there. Not when I was about to do this thing. To spare everyone else the pain. To make it all go away.
Only I knew it wouldn’t. I knew I couldn’t ever make it go away.
And then the nurse came back and smiled at me. “Ready?”
Liz got up — too fast. Too fast. She pulled my hand, but I didn’t get up. I didn’t move.
Come on, her pull said. Let’s get this over with.
But I still didn’t move. I just sat there. I wasn’t nodding anymore. I was looking straight ahead.
So when Liz asked, “Ready, honey?” I said no.
“But it’s time.”
“No.” I said it louder.
Liz gently pulled my hand again, but I twisted it out of
her grasp.
“No.” I think I yelled it.
Liz exchanged a look with the nurse, who was watching me with sympathetic eyes. I shook my head. Stop looking at me!
The nurse came closer with her clipboard. “Sweetie? What do you want to do?”
“No,” I said, even though I wasn’t answering her question. I wanted to keep saying it. I wanted to scream it. For all the times I should have. For all the times I could only say it in my head. All the times I held it in so I wouldn’t disappoint the boys who told me they had to have me. Held it in while hoping they wanted more. Hoping they wanted me. Hoping they would stay and hold me and still want me. Hoping they would love me.
“No,” I said again. “No. I’m not doing it.” I tasted salt before I knew I was crying.
Liz pulled me to her and made some apologetic gesture to the nurse. We walked out.
In the hallway, I felt Liz’s arms fold around me, holding me to her. This time I let her.
When we got in the elevator, Liz wiped my face with a pink tissue. I didn’t look at her.
“We can go back,” she said. “We can give it a week and try again.”
“No.”
“Are you sure, hon? Have you thought about what it would mean to keep it? A baby changes everything.”
It’s what my mother would say.
“For the rest of your life.”
I watched our smudgy reflections in the metal elevator doors. “No,” I said to them. Even though I knew it meant I was going to have to face my mother again. Even though I knew she would cry and look at me like my life was over. Like her life was over.
No.
Even though I would have to tell my father, too. And Luke.
No.
Even though I would have to face everyone at school.
No.
“No.”
“OK, honey. All right. If that’s what you want.”
Liz put her warm hand around my waist and squeezed. “It’ll be OK.”
As I walk to my locker now, I feel that squeeze. I remember how, when she dropped me off, she took both my hands in hers and said the words again to my face. “You’ll be OK.” Like she really believed it. Even though she thought I was making the biggest mistake of my life.
Up ahead, Corinne is standing at my locker. Her hands are spread over part of the door.
“Hi.” She looks nervous.
“What are you doing?”
“Let’s go to class.”
“But I need my books.”
“Ellie.”
“Move your hands,” I say.
“Let’s just go to class.”
I reach for her skinny fingers. She tries to hold them there, but I pull them away.
The letters are big and thin. It looks like someone used a knife to scratch them there. People move by us and look. Some make that snickering noise people do when someone trips or has something on their face after lunch.
My hand automatically reaches for my stomach.
Corinne’s hands move over my shoulders. “Are you OK?”
I want to say yes, but nothing comes out.
“Ellie, let’s get out of here. We’ll tell a teacher and have it fixed.”
“Who did this?”
“It was probably those jerks Kayla and Jessie, El. They just did it to get back at us for that day in the bathroom, I bet.”
But as I stare at the word, I realize it describes what I’ve felt like ever since that first time I was left alone after I went farthest. Like the bad girl I was never supposed to be.
A slut.
Corinne’s fingers lace into mine and squeeze. “They’re idiots. You know it’s not true. Come on, let’s go.”
She pulls on my hand, but I untangle my fingers from hers.
“No.” I open the door, get the books I need, and close it. When I do, the word stares back at me again.
SLUT
You are a slut.
I turn and walk away, feeling . . . different.
EVERY MORNING THE KNIFE-THIN LETTERS greet me at my locker. Corinne told me to complain. But what does it matter? Getting rid of the word won’t make this feeling disappear.
I am a S L U T.
Sometimes I touch the letters, as if they might scratch my fingers and make me bleed. Sometimes I hope they will.
I had to meet with the school counselor. Ms. Lyons. She said I should consider homeschooling until after I have the baby and things blow over. Like what’s happening to me is some kind of storm.
“You’re putting me in a very awkward position,” she said. “On the one hand, you’ve set a good example, taking responsibility for your bad choice. But I don’t want you giving the other girls any ideas.” She eyed my bulging stomach.
I wanted to ask her what she meant by my bad choice. Having sex? Or not having an abortion? Even though I know the answer.
“Or you could go to night school,” she finally suggested. “Then come back in September and start out fresh.”
How do I start out fresh? People don’t forget.
Every day they watch me. They’re measuring how my stomach grows. They elbow each other and whisper behind their hands. They do everything but point at my belly — the proof. I am what my locker says. I wear my sex on my stomach. I’m just like Hester in The Scarlet Letter. I can’t go anywhere without looks. Without raised eyebrows. Without hearing their comments about me, as if I am the only high-schooler in this town who ever got pregnant.
Think she’s pregnant, or just fat? Bet her mother’s proud. Hasn’t she ever heard of birth control? She probably doesn’t even know who the father is. Girls like that love to flaunt it. What a SLUT.
I try to avoid the places where I can hear those voices. The cafeteria. The grocery store. The sidewalk. The bus.
I stay in my room or go to Liz’s, where it’s safe. Where they don’t talk about me and what I am or what I’ve done. Where they don’t stare.
I stare, though. I look at myself sideways in the mirror and watch how I stick out. I try on all my baggiest clothes to try to hide what I wish was a secret. But none of them work.
I think the teachers are mad at me. Just like Ms. Lyons. They think I’m going to make other girls want to have babies. Like I want to do this. Like I wouldn’t change things if I could. Like I look so happy.
I know Corinne thinks I made a big mistake. It would have been so much better, so much easier, if I’d gone with the original plan and gotten rid of the baby before it was . . . a real baby. She thinks that even if I give the baby away, I will always wonder where it is. I will always be filled with regret.
Maybe.
Some days I imagine keeping the
baby. I would keep it quiet in my room, where no one else could see it. Or touch it. Or hurt it with their words. I pretend we could stay in there forever. Or we could hide in my little house in the backyard with Ginger and Cocoa.
Other days I pretend I’m not having a baby.
Last week I dreamed I had a kitten. When it came out, it mewed and licked me.
I held the little ball of fur in my hand and petted her. I asked my mother if I could keep her, but she said no.
“Cats are too much work. You have to clean their litter boxes. It will smell up the house. You have to give it away.”
I started crying. I held the kitten to my face. She was warm and purring, and her nose was wet.
“Please let me keep her,” I sobbed. “I love her. She needs me.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just a cat. Now, give it to me and I’ll get rid of it for you.” She pulled the kitten out of my hands and left me there.
The spot on my chest where the warm ball of fur had been turned cold. When I woke up, I felt kicking. I thought, for just a second, that it was the kitten.
Corinne is coming over soon. We’re going to a Salvation Army store to find some baggy clothes. My mom would be upset if she found out. She thinks those places are dirty. That they smell. She’s afraid of the people who work there.
Corinne thinks it’s ironic that my mother is afraid.
“It’s the Salvation Army,” Corinne tells me when I explain our going has to be a secret. “How can she be afraid of people who want to save her?”
I don’t tell her I know how it feels when everyone wants to save you. How their wanting to save you makes you feel like you’re going to die.
My mother cries so much now. Not in front of me, but I know. Her eyes are red and raw. I wish she would just be mad at me instead.
When I came back from the clinic and told her I changed my mind, she didn’t say one word to me. She went to her room and shut the door. But I heard her sobbing on the other side. I put my hand on the door and told her through the keyhole that I was sorry.
I asked her to let me in, but she wouldn’t answer.
When my father came home, I told him.
“What?” he asked. “Wh-why?”
“I couldn’t.” I choked the words out. “I just couldn’t. I don’t know.”
“But —” Little prickles of sweat were forming on his forehead. I couldn’t look at him. “Mom told me you had made up your mind. That you were —”
He couldn’t even seem to say the words for the thing he wanted me to do to make it all go away.
“I’ll give the baby up for adoption,” I said. The words stung my throat.
“Honey. We should talk about this. It’s not too late to change your mind and go back. Mom could take you.”
“No,” I said, trying to meet his eyes. “I’m not going back.”
“Oh, God, Ellie.” He stepped closer and put his hands on my shoulders. I don’t know why, but I flinched. Just a little. It had been so long since he’d touched me.
He moved back.
If I had stayed still, would he have hugged me? Would he have held me and let me cry in his arms and told me everything would be OK?
Would he tell me he loved me?
But I flinched.
We looked at each other, not saying anything. I listened to our breath, his fast and panicked, mine slow and scared.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I said it over and over in my head. But the words wouldn’t come out again.
“Did you tell Mom?” he finally asked.
I nodded. “She’s in the bedroom.”
He looked away. Then he nodded, too.
“Shit.”
“I won’t keep the baby,” I said again. “I don’t want to keep the baby.”
But as I cried the words, my hand moved to my stomach.
“Of course not. Right. Jesus Christ.” He stepped away from me and made himself a drink, then one for my mother. He brought the drinks to their room and closed the door again. I didn’t try to make them let me in.
I stood by myself, repeating those words in my head to make them be more true.
I don’t want to keep the baby. I don’t want to keep the baby. I don’t want to keep . . .
That was three months ago. I still can’t say the words out loud again. And it feels like my parents are still behind that door.
ELLIE AND CORINNE sit on the couch with my mom and listen to her rant about civil rights, pretending Ellie isn’t pregnant and that the whole school isn’t talking about it. The three of them laugh at a private joke as if I don’t exist. It’s because I’m a guy. And all guys are scum now.
I decide to take my homework upstairs. When I get up from my usual spot on the floor, Corinne looks at me but doesn’t ask where I’m going. I climb the stairs slowly, in case one of them wants to call me back, but no one does.
My room is freezing. I pull the down comforter off my bed and wrap it around me while I sit at my desk and try to focus on my trig homework. Their laughing echoes up the stairs and makes it impossible to concentrate. Without thinking, I reach for the phone and call Josh.
As soon as the phone rings, I regret it, but he answers before I can hang up.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say.
“What’s up?” he asks, as if it hasn’t been, like, two weeks since we’ve hung out.
“Not much. Trig.”
“Yeah, me too. Sucks. Wanna take a break?”
“What’d you have in mind?” I ask.
“The usual, I guess.”
“Is Dave with you?”
“Nah, he’s too busy with his new girlfriend. Evette.”
“Isn’t she a senior?”
“Yeah, he thinks he’s a stud now.”
“That’s all we need.”
“I’ll grab a few from my old man and come get you.”
“No,” I say, a little too fast. All I need is him showing up at the door with Ellie and Corinne sitting there. “I’ll be there in ten.”
I go downstairs and stop in the living room. “I’m going out,” I say.
My mom doesn’t ask me who with because she knows the answer. She gives me a You be careful look, and I give her my look that says Whatever. Corinne gives me a I know you’re going to see that asshole glare.
Ellie is the only one who says “Bye” out loud.
I shut the door behind me and walk into the freeze. My car still isn’t warmed up when I get to Josh’s house. He steps out as soon as I pull into the driveway. His jacket is all puffed up with beer cans. He glances back at the house nervously a few times before he gets into the car.
He pulls out a can and hands it to me.
“Thanks. Where to?”
He shrugs and reaches inside his coat for another beer, which he opens and chugs. I take us a few blocks away where a new development is going in. There’s a portable toilet with a huge padlock on it, and one of those mobile homes the contractors use for an office. My car’s headlights shine out over a group of empty lots. Some have foundations half-dug but left until the ground thaws. They look like a bunch of giant, open graves.
I cut the lights in case any cops are cruising the area, but leave the key in so we can blast the heat and music. We drink and listen for a while. Josh finishes his beer and unrolls the window to throw the can.
“Put it on the floor,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
He gives me a surprised look and instead of throwing the can out, shakes it so the last drips fall onto the ground outside before he tosses the can on the floor, like that’s what he planned to do all along. He cracks open another and takes a long drink, then leans back into his seat.
“So, have you talked to her lately?” he asks. He never says her name.
“Not really,” I tell him. “She doesn’t talk to me much. Just to my mom and Corinne.”
“Is she, you know, OK?”
He won’t face me when he asks.
I shake my head. “She seems to be, I guess
.”
Sometimes, after Corinne and Ellie leave the house, my mom tells me stuff she notices about the baby. Like that the baby’s kicking now. But when Ellie’s over, no one says a word about what’s happening.
Corinne told me that Ellie’s plan is to give the baby up for adoption. But my mom said only like one percent of mothers actually go through with it. The ones who do must go crazy not knowing where the baby is or if it’s happy and stuff. My own dad at least knows where I am if he ever does decide to see me again. He was my mom’s best friend, and when she decided she wanted to have a baby, he donated his sperm. I guess I get the not knowing thing a little, since I have a half brother and sister I’ve never met. Still, when it’s your own baby — I don’t know. I’m sure it’s a million times worse. I mean, if Ellie decides not to keep the baby, I bet every time she even sees a baby, she’ll wonder if it’s hers. And as the baby grows up, she’ll know how old it would be, and she’ll see little kids and wonder if one of them is hers. At least, I would. I wonder if Josh will, too.
Josh sighs and finishes his beer. I’ve never seen him drink this fast.
“I saw what happened to her locker.”
He’s watching out the window again, so I can’t see his face. He holds his beer sort of resting on his left thigh. His hand is shaking.
“It sucks, you know? Just because you get pregnant doesn’t mean you screwed around with everyone. So she did it with a few guys. So what?”
I take a long drink of what’s left of my own beer, which is flat and warm now. I don’t know what to say. It’s not like his stupid strutting around in the locker room helped her case any.
“Everything is just so fucked up,” he says. “I’m going to be a father — but not a father — at the same time. And Ellie’s walking around with —” He chokes up but covers it by taking another drink. “It’s just so fucked up.”
I nod and watch the darkness out my window. “Yeah,” I tell him. “It is.”
We don’t look at each other again. We stare out our own windows. I don’t know how much time goes by. I can tell he’s crying, because I hear the sniffs. I turn up the music so he doesn’t have to worry about me hearing — and I don’t have to listen.