“Hungry, Zim?” Mom asked.
“Nah,” he said, “I think I’m just going to head upstairs.”
“Come on,” said Dad, “sit down. Tell us about the interview.”
J came back to the table and sat down, but Z just hovered near the empty chair Dad pulled up for him.
“What was the job?” I asked.
“My old buddy Bill was looking for an assistant manager for his store,” Dad said. “He sells electronics, and I told him our Zim was a retail genius looking for a new challenge. So, tell us how it went, Zed.”
“Fine,” Z said, refusing to sit. “It went okay. I’m just tired. I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“What’s wrong, hon?” Mom asked, returning from the kitchen with a fifth plate of beans.
“I just don’t think it’s the job for me,” Z said. “I don’t think it would be a good fit.”
“Come on, Bill’s a great guy. I’m sure he’d be a decent boss. What, did you make a bad impression?” Dad asked.
Z’s eyes scanned from Dad to Mom before resting on J. “I didn’t go,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” J asked.
“I mean I didn’t go to the interview. I didn’t go see Bill. I’m not going to take the job. I didn’t go.”
Dad’s not usually an angry person, but in that moment you’d never have known it. Mom mostly just looked sad and drained. So did J.
No one spoke. So I did. “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to keep working at the record store,” Z said.
“And when the baby’s born?” Dad asked.
“It’s a good job, Dad. They care about me there, and they’re going to support me, us, however they can. I think they’re finally going to give me some day shifts, too, so it’ll be all right.”
“You’ve done some dumb things in your life, Zim,” Dad said, fighting to keep his voice calm, “and I should know, because I’ve done some of those things too. But you not taking responsibility for your child is by far the dumbest thing I’ve seen you do. And I’m not going to sit by and watch you become a negligent parent, all right? I’m not. You’re going to call Bill and beg him to give you another chance. I don’t know if he’ll give it to you, but you sure as ... well, anyway, you better get down on your knees and try.”
“I’m not doing it,” Z said.
“You’re not,” said Dad in disbelief.
“I’m going to find another job eventually, okay? But for now I think I’m good where I am.”
“Oh?” said Dad.
“I mean, you say you’ve done the stuff I’ve done, you’ve made bad choices or whatever so you understand, but then you won’t let me choose how to support my family.”
“If I thought you could find a decent job on your own, I’d be happy to let you. But you’ve been doing nothing but waste time since you’ve moved back home, and I think you’ve made a huge mistake.” He reached out and put his hand over J’s on the table. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Oh yeah?” said Z, “Because you’ve never made a mistake? Never had a kid without planning for it? Never imagined your whole life would go differently only to have everything change in a second? It’s not like you guys exactly planned for Jo.”
“Planned for me to what?” I said. And then, of course, it hit me.
From the very first moment, I was a mistake.
Eighteen
Unintended pregnancy
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Unintended pregnancies include unwanted pregnancies as well as those that are mistimed.
Unintended pregnancies include Jen’s (2012) as well as my mom’s (1999). Side effects of unintended pregnancies include heartburn, nausea, and unintended babies.
Unintended babies may grow up to be hideous, angsty people with few friends and fewer boyfriends.
Unintended babies may also resent being born into such a family and the world in general.
Jo Waller, unintended child.
Jo Waller, pockmarked and unlovable.
Jo Waller, listening to one of stupid Z’s stupidly excellent mixes on her iPod with the volume up full blast, not listening to you.
First, Mom knocked on the door.
“Go away!” I yelled.
But she came in anyway.
She told me how much she and my dad loved me.
How hard she knows that things have been for me.
How yes, it’s true, she hadn’t planned for me to happen, but that she had always, always wanted a daughter.
How she had thought that she was just too old to have any more kids so that when I came along it was like magic. And she was so glad.
She couldn’t have planned a better kid, she said. And that’s the way the world works — some of the greatest things that have ever happened were never planned, were somehow magic. She said.
I tried to smother myself with a pillow until, eventually, she left.
Dad came in next. He said most of the same things Mom did. That he loved me, and that I was special. That Z was an idiot. That Z was a huge idiot. That if he could choose to have had just one kid it would be me, because I was not an idiot (I think he was trying to make a joke, but he was still pretty mad so it wasn’t really funny).
And then Z sat down on my bed. And Dad left pretty quick.
“I’m so sorry, Jo,” Z said. “I’m an idiot, you know that?”
“Dad mentioned it,” I said, my voice muffled by the pillow I was still half-heartedly attempting to suffocate myself with.
Z picked the pillow up off my face and he could see that I’d been crying. “I mean it. I’m the worst brother ever.”
“That was so mean.” My voice was tiny and far away.
“I know.”
“Why would you say that?” I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.
“Because I was angry. And I’m scared. And because I’m an idiot, okay? Your brother is an idiot.”
“Yeah.”
“And I know you’ll never forgive me, but I’ve still got to try. I could …”
His voice trailed off, thinking.
I refused to help him out. I absolutely couldn’t believe that he’d said what he said. I don’t care how mad he was or how much he had to get Dad off his back, or even how scared he was about the baby. It was the worst thing anyone had ever said about me. The worst.
And Z didn’t know me at all, really. How could he even know that I’d been an accident? He’d been gone since I was six years-old. Seeing me once every couple of weeks for a family dinner wasn’t the same as being a real big brother. He had no right to say anything about me. I couldn’t believe I’d idolized him for so long. He was lazy, he was stupid, and his poor kid wasn’t going to stand a chance. His kid was a mistake. A huge mistake.
“Guitar,” Z said finally, breaking the silence. “I could teach you how to play the guitar, for real.”
“You said that before. And then you didn’t. You never keep your promises.”
“Then I’m going to start. And the first thing I’m going to do is teach you to play. Right now, I’ll go get my guitar.”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay, tomorrow?”
“You promise?” I said, finally sitting up.
“Absolutely.”
“You mean it?”
“I’m trying,” he said.
“You should take that job.”
“No, Jo, I shouldn’t. This is something I’m going to have to figure out for myself.”
“It can’t be that bad. You have to try. Promise you’ll try to get another interview.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Promise. Promise you’ll try or I’ll never forgive you.”
“You drive a hard bargain, little sis.” He smiled. “But I’m not going to beg for another interview. That’s not what I’d want my kid to do.”
“Then your kid’s going to be a loser like you.”
“Ouch.” The smile disap
peared. “Okay. I deserved that.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“How about I make you another promise? A different one.”
“Like what?”
“Like if I promise to be the best father in the world to that amazing little baby Jen’s carrying — if I’m the greatest dad ever, then will you forgive me?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That sounds about right,” Z said, getting up. “I’ll see you tomorrow for our first lesson.”
“Whatever. Shut the door, okay?”
But a couple of minutes later, there was one more knock.
“Go away, Zim!” I yelled, “I’m not forgiving you tonight.”
“Sorry, Jo,” said J, “we can talk another time.”
“Oh. No, it’s okay, you can come in for a minute.”
I was back down on my bed, lying starfish, face down, but I sat up when J closed the door behind her and I made space for her on the bed. She sat cross-legged facing me.
“I want you to know that I’m totally pissed at your brother,” she said.
“Good.”
“He had no right to say what he said. He better have been grovelling when he was in here. Did he grovel? Was there grovelling?”
“Not exactly. But he’s going to teach me guitar.”
“Geez, you’ll be friggin’ Jimmy Page by the time he’s racked up enough lesson credits to earn back your trust.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, even though I wasn’t totally sure who Jimmy Page was.
“Anyway,” J said, “I just wanted you to know how important you are to me. It’s been … it’s been tough moving in here with your parents, and I know it’s been hard on them, too, having me around. None of us planned for this to happen, but I’ve never regretted it for a second.”
I tried to keep my face from looking totally skeptical, but J could see I wasn’t buying it.
“What I mean is, I never would have guessed that this would happen to me, but I can’t wait to meet this new person that Zim and I are going to be bringing into the world.”
“It’s crazy,” I said. “Um, I mean —” thinking about what J had said about her family.
“No, you’re right. It’s completely, unbelievably bananas. And it’s going to be hard, I know it is. And I feel so ridiculously lucky to have your family around to support us.”
“Really?”
“Of course. This kid is going to have more love than it’ll know what to do with. Plus it’s going to have the coolest aunt ever.”
“Doubtful.”
“You’re amazing, Jo. And as a not-yet member of your family, I can say that with total objectivity. Being twelve sucks, but you’re going to be all right. You are so, so lucky.”
“Yeah right,” I said, framing my inflamed cheeks like a game show model.
“I said being twelve sucked, didn’t I?”
“Uh-huh.” I smiled. “I think you’re lucky too, Jen.”
“I think you’re right,” J said, running a hand over her belly.
“You still believe that everything works out for the best?”
“Yup. Definitely.”
That night I wrote a letter, a real one, not an email.
I wrote about all the horrible things I’d been feeling, about how bad it felt having a friend turn on me, and about losing another friend, a best friend, in the process. I wrote about how I don’t even care about being cool, I just want to be cool with myself.
I erased that last bit, then. It sounded too cheesy.
In the letter I explained that being on birth control doesn’t make me a slut, that no one should be called a slut, that the word is incredibly hateful. I explained that the colour of someone’s hair — or their skin, or anything — doesn’t give anyone the right to make fun of them either. And that I absolutely did not write anything on anyone’s locker at school. I didn’t. But I’m sorry it happened and I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t count.
I wrote about how excited I was to be learning to play guitar, and that I really meant it about starting a band. That there were people just like me out there, musicians and artists and total circus freaks, and I couldn’t wait to meet them. The band, the music, was going to be a way of sticking out my hand and saying hi to my fellow losers. Hopefully, anyway. And I couldn’t wait.
Because smart and weird may not be cool right now, but it will be. One day.
And because everything always works out for the best in this giant work-in-progress.
I believe that now, I wrote.
And I signed my name at the bottom of the letter. And I folded it up and I put it in an envelope that I found in the one of the junk drawers in the kitchen. I licked the glue on the flap at the top and I sealed it.
And on the front of the envelope I wrote her name.
Chloe.
The next day at school I showed up early.
I walked the four blocks with purpose. It was a warm day for March, and I left my coat unzipped.
I was early. Really early.
But so was a kid in grade eight who I’d seen around school before but had never talked to, I didn’t even know his name. He was the only other person in the hallway at eight-thirty, and he turned when he heard my footsteps. He looked me like I was a monster, a dragon, a grizzly bear. He dropped the marker he was holding — red — and ran.
I stopped dead.
It was him? Seriously? Some weasely prankster too afraid to even speak?
I was stunned.
It hadn’t been Chloe at all. How was that possible? It was just some random vandal.
Why had he done this to us? Did he have any idea what trouble he’d caused?
I took a deep breath, and then another one. My chest felt suddenly light.
I walked over to the locker where he’d been standing — I recognized it right away, it belonged to a guy in my class named Scotty, a total goof who thought it was funny that his locker number was 666 — and read what he’d written.
FREA
I’d spotted him just in time. Before he could make someone else feel like a freak.
But it made no sense.
Scotty’s not a freak. He’s on the basketball team. He has friends, too, lots of friends.
But the attack on Chloe’s locker obviously wasn’t random.
So maybe someone — this idiot grade eight with a Sharpie and whoever his friends were — knew about me being on the Pill.
Or maybe they didn’t.
Was it a just a coincidence or was it a cruel joke?
I had no idea.
And not knowing didn’t make me feel any better, but it did make me feel different.
I tore open the envelope and reread my letter to Chloe, wondering if I still wanted her to see it now that I knew she hadn’t been the guilty one.
I dug around in my backpack for a pen, and, at the bottom on the letter wrote:
I know you didn’t do it either. The locker.
But that was never what this was all about, was it?
I opened my locker and took out all the things I needed for the day, then locked it and walked toward the gym.
I taped the envelope up again, and slid it into Chloe’s new locker — it was the one next to Stacey’s, still covered in ribbons and wrapping paper and magazine clippings from her birthday — through the grate at the top. I left the set of glasses — the not quite replacement replacements that I’d almost forgotten about in my locker — sitting just in front.
And I walked towards the principal’s office, red marker in hand.
I didn’t know if they’d believe me, or what this random creep’s punishment might be. I knew telling wouldn’t put the earth back on its axis. And probably neither would the letter. But it might be a start.
Nineteen
Fallout (disambiguation)
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Nuclear fallout is the residual radiation hazard from a nuclear explosion.
Fallout or fall-out may also r
efer to:
Music
Fallout (heavy metal band), a short-lived (1979–1982) Brooklyn-based heavy metal band
Television
“Fallout” (Stargate SG-1), a 2004 episode of the television series Stargate SG-1
Other
Fallout (video game), a 1997 post-apocalyptic computer role-playing game released by Interplay Entertainment
What happens when you drop a bombshell letter and hope that everything will eventually get back to maybe-normal and it doesn’t.
But maybe that’s okay.
In the movie version of my life I could have left the letter — and the glasses, my peace offering — and just walked off into the sunset or whatever, knowing that everything was going to be fine forever. That maybe Chloe and Stacey and I wouldn’t be such great friends anymore, but that Stacey and I would always keep in touch because we were so close for so long.
That isn’t how it happened, though.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Chloe reading the letter. Chloe probably laughing at me for being a baby, but trying to act so grown up. Chloe showing the letter to Stacey to make fun of me. But what did Stacey think of it?
Chloe and Stacey spent a couple of days avoiding me, so while it was hard to tell what exactly they thought of the letter, it was pretty obvious that it was nothing good.
It made my stomach hurt — it kept twisting itself in tighter and tighter knots while I waited to see what would happen. Would they write their own letter? Would they never speak to me again? It wasn’t that I regretted writing the letter, but the waiting afterwards was almost worse than everything that had come before. Almost, but not quite.
Z and J took me out for pizza one night when they saw how upset I was. And, actually, it was great. They even let me bring Trisha.
We all took the subway, since Z still can’t drive on his own, and went downtown — a neighbourhood called Little Portugal — to this really cool place that serves the thinnest pizza you’ve ever seen, with toppings you’d never even think to put on a pizza. Pear? Duck? Seriously?
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