Angel's Choice

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  But I don’t want to talk to my mother about any of this. So I keep taking tampons from the box under the sink at regular intervals, wrapping them in toilet paper, and throwing them in the trash as though business is as usual, even as the feelings of panic and doom in me grow each time I do this.

  I do not want to talk to my mom about this because I know that if she finds out I haven’t gotten my period in two months, she will tell me that my business is no longer as usual at all.

  Week of October 29/Week 9

  Even though we are seniors, even though we will be graduating in June and going off to college next fall, Karin and I decide to go out for Halloween one last time.

  For the last few years we have gone to parties at friends’ houses, but Karin says we should go out trick-or-treating this year, that we should dress up just like we did when we were young. I think, because she is my best friend, that I know what she is thinking: This will be our last chance to be someone other than who we already are.

  We go to a little costume shop in town.

  Karin rejects one costume after another. “I’m too old to be a princess,” she says, “and I never wanted to be a witch.”

  At last she settles on a costume that makes her look like a rock star. There is a black miniskirt with a white halter top and a black leather jacket with chains on it, plus a wig with long black hair that looks like it could use a good combing.

  “I’ll wear it with black high heels and little red and white striped socks,” she says. “Lots of makeup.”

  “Your legs’ll freeze in that,” I say.

  “So?” she says. “At least I won’t look like a dork.”

  Now it is my turn to look. But while Karin tried on several costumes before settling on the one she wants, I see only one costume that is right for me. It is on a hanger on a hook on the wall high up from the floor, and I have to ask the clerk to help me get it down. It is so high up, it makes it seem as though no one would ever bother trying to reach for it, because maybe no one would ever want it.

  “What is that thing?” Karin asks.

  It is a long rose-colored dress that looks like it came straight out of the nineteenth century, with a row of tiny buttons up to the neck, just the barest hint of lace on the sleeves.

  “It’s a dress,” I say, feeling the fabric.

  “I know that,” she says, “but who are you going to be in it?”

  “Jo March.”

  “Who?”

  “Jo March. You know? Like in Little Women?”

  Little Women was my favorite book when I was growing up—my mother gave me a copy for my tenth birthday—and Jo March was my favorite character in it. Jo was the odd-girl-out in her family, just like me, and wanted to be a serious writer, just like me.

  “You realize,” Karin says, “that no one will ever know that unless you tell them, right?”

  “So?” I shrug. “When has anyone ever guessed my costumes?”

  And it’s true: Ever since we were kids, Karin has always picked recognizable costumes—Snow White, Alice in Wonderland, Cinderella—while I have always picked the weird ones: characters in books, like the time I was Rapunzel and everyone thought I was just your basic princess, or the time I went as my namesake from That was Then, This Is Now.

  Karin studies our reflections in the full-length mirror: her rock star next to my nineteenth-century writer.

  “We sure don’t look like we belong together,” she says.

  “So that’ll keep it interesting,” I say, thinking that on Halloween I will wear my hair up in a low bun at the nape of my neck.

  And it is interesting when we go out on Halloween, interesting and fun as we walk down the streets, knocking on doors in a heightened state of giddiness. It is as though we are being kids again one last time before life gets serious on us.

  When we knock on doors, some of the people who answer are surprised to see people as old as we obviously are still trick-or-treating. Still, I know from answering the door for my parents on a few Halloweens that you usually do get a few high schoolers, usually later on in the evening, though, and almost never in costume like we are.

  Karin, of course, doesn’t give anyone a chance to guess who I am.

  “She’s Jo March!” she tells everyone. And then, when they only look at her with puzzled faces, she says, “You know? Jo March? Like in Little Women? God! Doesn’t anyone in America read anymore?”

  Our pillowcases are big, but we are young and full of energy and our legs are strong, and before long our pillowcases are nearly half-full.

  We are still having fun—this is the most fun, the closest I’ve felt to Karin in some time—but there are only so many times you can knock on doors and say the same thing, tell the same joke.

  “Want to go back to my place?” Karin says. “Get out of these things? Maybe get something to drink?”

  On the way to her house we stop a group of younger kids who are still out trick-or-treating: two Harry Potters, Count Olaf from Unfortunate Events , Snow White, and the Wicked Witch.

  “Here,” we say, laughing as we take handful after handful of candy from our pillowcases, dumping it into their orange plastic pumpkins.

  They look at us as though we might be trying to poison them.

  “Take it,” we say. “We didn’t do anything to it.”

  “Don’t you want it?” Snow White asks.

  “No,” Karin says. “We just wanted to dress up.”

  They look at us like we must be the craziest rock star and who-knows-what they’ve ever seen, but they take off fast down the road before we can change our minds.

  We are nearly at the stoop to Karin’s house, the walkway lined with candles inside little paper bags that have black cats on them, when I turn to her.

  “I think I may be pregnant,” I tell her.

  november

  Week of November 5/Week 10

  I FINALLY GET UP THE NERVE TO TAKE A PREGNANCY TEST.

  I go to CVS with Karin.

  I call Karin to help me because: (1) she is my best friend in the world, and I know she won’t tell anyone else about this, and (2) she has been through this before. Six months ago Karin went through the very same thing.

  Karin helps me decide which kit to get. She says I should get one of the brands that have two tests inside, so that if I don’t think the results of the first test are accurate, I can do it again.

  When Karin went through this herself six months ago, she accepted the results of the first test right away. But she knows me: She knows that sometimes I need to hear a fact in class twice or see something proved twice before I believe it. Karin, who is Catholic, always says that if I were one of the apostles, I’d be Thomas.

  My hand shakes as I take the pink and white test kit from the shelf, drop it in my red shopping basket. I figured when I grabbed the basket that what I was buying might not be so noticeable to the cashier if I was also buying a bunch of other things. So I walk around the store collecting other items. I put a big bag of M&M’s in the basket, a can of Pringles, the largest box of Crayolas they have. It has been a long time since I used crayons. It has been a long time since I was young enough to care about coloring, but right now, seeing that box of ninety-six crayons in my shopping basket, all those pretty colors, all those perfect crayons still unused, comforts me.

  Finally, we get in the short line to pay, and suddenly I feel as though I cannot go through with this. Karin must see the look of panic on my face, because gently she takes the metal handle of the basket out of my grasp.

  “It’s okay, Angel,” she says. “I’ll get it. My treat.”

  Karin doesn’t even blink as she places each item on the counter, the last being the pregnancy test kit, doesn’t blink as she gives the cashier her money, accepts her change, takes the bag from the counter and carries it out to her car.

  Once inside her car I reach into my purse for my wallet, pay her back. She tries to wave the money away, but this is my responsibility and I keep my hand with the do
llar bills in it held out until she finally accepts them.

  I don’t even hear the words of the songs that are playing on her car stereo, even though she has it cranked loud. And even though it is cold outside—it is November now, after all—I open the window, letting the icy air blow through my hair. I am so nauseous, it is as though I need that ice to keep me distracted from the desire to throw up.

  Karin pulls into her driveway, parks in front of the stone house I know almost as well as my own. Ahead of time we decided—she decided for me—that this would be the best place for us to do this.

  “It’s always easier to stay cool about this kind of stuff,” she said, “if you’re not in your own home.”

  We go in through the back door, the bag with our purchases inside it now in Karin’s hand, and I am momentarily thrown off balance when I see Karin’s dad sitting at the kitchen table, reading through the day’s newspaper as he sips from a bottle of beer.

  “Hey, Angel!” he says, happy to see me.

  Mr. Parker is always happy to see me. Sometimes he seems happier to see me than he does to see his own daughter. Karin has explained before that this is because he thinks she acts too smart all the time, that he thinks I—being more quiet all the time—am a good influence on her.

  Mr. Parker eyes the CVS bag, his blue eyes dancing behind his steel-rimmed glasses. “What’d you girls get me?” he asks.

  It is a good thing Karin is holding the bag, because if I were, I would probably have dropped it right then in shock and fear, letting the incriminating contents spill out all over the pale yellow linoleum floor.

  Karin’s smile matches her dad’s in mischief as she peeks inside the red and white plastic bag, making sure the items don’t show.

  “Here,” she says, reaching inside and pulling out the big bag of M&Ms, placing it down on the table.

  “Aw, man” says Mr. Parker. He waves the beer bottle. “That doesn’t go with beer.”

  Karin checks the bag again.

  “Crayons?” she offers, waving the box of ninety-six colors.

  Mr. Parker shakes his head again in disgust.

  “Then how about this?” Karin asks, producing the canister of Pringles.

  “Hey!” Mr. Parker is happy now, reaches for the canister. “That’s more like it.”

  Two minutes more of small talk and we are on our way up the short flight of steps to the second story. Midflight we run into Karin’s younger brother, Kris. Kris is twelve and looks a lot like his sister, only not as tall yet, his hair just like hers, making him look just like the Little Prince.

  “Hey,” he says, “got anything for me in there?”

  “Out of our way, squirt,” she says, brushing by him.

  Karin always says it’s a pain having a brother, while I always say I think it would be great to have any kind of brother or sister. But much as I love Kris, as many times as I’ve wished he were my brother, I agree with Karin: Right now I want him out of our way too.

  We go into Karin’s own private bathroom, stopping only long enough in her bedroom to throw our coats, purses, and the Crayolas on one of her twin beds, lock the door behind us. It is the same lilac, green, and white bathroom she’s always had, the same bathroom we stood in together on Halloween night just last week, helping each other with our makeup before going out. Yet somehow it all looks different to me now, changed.

  Having locked the door behind us, Karin now second-guesses herself.

  “Do you want me to leave?” She gestures vaguely toward the glossy white door. “Would you rather have some privacy?”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to be alone right now. Besides, Karin and I have been in that bathroom together many times in our lives. It was there we first experimented with makeup. It was there we first helped each other figure out how to use tampons. I would rather be with her right now than with anyone else in the world.

  As she removes the thick foil wrapping from the first test wand, I drop my jeans and panties, squat down on the toilet, and wait as she reads the directions.

  “Here.” She passes me the wand. “I know it’s gross and everything and it’ll get all over your hand probably, but pee on this.”

  I accept the wand, do as she says, then I wipe it off, hand it back to her.

  She places it on the counter as I stand up, pulling my panties and pants back on.

  “It’ll take three minutes,” she says, looking at the clock on the wall, “maybe sooner.”

  We both look at the clock, look back at the wand.

  Ticktock, ticktock.

  The wand has just one dark pink strip in the little plastic window, same as before.

  We both look at the clock, look back at the wand. Ticktock, ticktock.

  One of the three minutes has passed. There are only two more to get through.

  We both look at the clock, look back at the wand. Ticktock, ticktock.

  A second line, faint pink, appears next to the first line in the little plastic window. It is amazing how quickly that second line darkens and thickens now, almost immediately matching the one running parallel to it in both color and size.

  “Do you want to take the second test?” Karin offers almost immediately, starting to remove the thick foil wrapping from the second test wand. “Do you want to make sure?”

  But I shake my head. For once in my life I do not need to hear the obvious facts twice, I do not need a second opinion, I do not need further proof. I now know what I realize I have known for a long time.

  I am pregnant.

  Week of November 12/Week 11

  At last I make the call I need to make.

  I open the top drawer of the white desk in my bedroom, the desk at which I usually do my calculus homework, my stories for creative writing. Underneath a story I haven’t finished I find the wrinkled slip of paper I placed there so many weeks ago. Many times since the last weekend in August that slip of paper has resurfaced—like a fish you put back in the water that keeps coming back to bite at the line—whenever I’ve gone in the desk to search for something else. Each time, I’ve looked at the letters and numbers on it. Each time, I’ve thought of throwing it away. Yet each time, something has stayed my hand, and I’ve replaced the slip, burying it under whatever’s on top.

  Now I take the paper out of the drawer, study the letters and numbers one last time before reaching for the phone on my desk, the phone that was a present from my parents on my twelfth birthday.

  Hands shaking, I punch in the number, wait while it rings once, twice.

  “Hello?” A woman, sounding not all that different from my own mom, only more severe, answers.

  “Hi,” I say, “is Tim there, please?”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “It’s Angel.” I cough. “Angel Hansen.”

  “Just a minute, please,” she says, and I hear the sound of the phone being set down noisily on a table.

  After what seems like the longest minute of my life so far, a minute that goes on so long I have time to reconsider, think about just hanging up the phone, I hear the clatter of the receiver on the other end being picked up.

  “Hello?” Tim’s voice says, cautious. “Angel?”

  “Look,” I say, before I lose my nerve again, “we need to talk-”

  “Hey,” he says in a hushed whisper that I can barely hear, before I can go any further. “I’m really sorry, okay? I know I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  I’m surprised. “What are you talking about?” I say.

  “I know I shouldn’t have talked to the other guys about you, okay? But everybody saw us take off together from Ricky D’Amico’s party, everybody wanted to know what happened. So what could I say? I mean, it was only the truth, but I know I should have kept quiet about it, kept my mouth shut. I know—”

  “That’s not what I’m calling about,” I cut him off. “I don’t care what you said to anybody about me.” This, of course, is a lie. I mind very much that he told people what we did together, mind very m
uch that everyone’s been gossiping about me since school started. But right now that’s the least of my worries.

  “Then what —,” he starts to say.

  “I’m pregnant,” I say, cutting him off again. “You said to call you if I got pregnant. Well, I’m calling. I’m pregnant.”

  “Holy sh—!” This time Tim cuts himself off. “Shit, Angel,” he says, “that’s too bad.” Then he adds, “But it’s not mine.”

  Now it’s my turn to be surprised, so surprised that I raise my voice from the whisper I’ve been talking in, running the risk that someone else in the house will hear me. “What are you talking about?” I say. “Of course it’s yours! Who else’s would it be? You know I never did that with anyone else before! I haven’t done that with anyone else since!”

  “Shhh, shhh!” he says, hushing me nervously, as though he’s worried that someone in the house on his end might hear my voice. “Okay, okay.”

  “Don’t you believe me?” I say, hurt.

  He thinks about it a moment too long before saying, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “What are we going to do about it?” I ask, my tone quiet once again.

  If a whisper can be said to shout, his does. “You’re going to get rid of it, of course!”

  And even though I don’t like the way this conversation is going, don’t like the way he speaks to me at all, I know he is right. This is what I’ve already concluded myself, before even calling. It is the only choice I have.

  Maybe if I were older, I’d think about other choices, what other avenues might be open to me. Maybe I would consider keeping this … thing that is inside me. But I want to go to Yale, if I can even get in, right? I never want my parents to know this happened at all, right? And right now all I can think is that I want this to be over, I want it to be as though it never happened at all.