by M-E Girard
“I’ve been taking tests since my period was due to come back. They were negative. Three of them were. But then,” she says, and her bottom lip sticks out like a little kid who wants to cry, “the one I took on Friday wasn’t negative. The doctor at the clinic said it’s not a mistake, that it takes a little while for it to show up. She said there’s some kind of hormone or protein and if there’s a positive, then it’s positive.” She presses her palms against her eyes and sniffles. “It’s positive. I shouldn’t be telling you this because—well, because now you have to keep the secret, too.”
This supply closet is getting smaller all of a sudden. She looks up at me, and some of her hair is stuck to her cheek.
“Olivia—you’re pregnant. You can’t hide something like that,” I say. “And secrets always find a way of coming out.”
“I just need time to think.”
“Do your parents know?”
“Of course not. My dad and his new wife are gone for a year to set up his company’s UK office, and my mom didn’t want me to go. And my mom . . .” The way she says it makes it clear I don’t have to ask for more information. “I just need time.”
“Time for what? What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to fix this,” she says.
“How?”
“You have to promise not to tell him,” she says, ignoring my question. “Please, Pen.”
I reach for a box of pillar candles and I place it between Olivia’s legs, right on top of the puke to cover it. She looks shocked. “We can’t leave it like this!”
“Why not?”
“It’s a mess. It’s contaminated. And in here? It’s a disgrace.”
I shrug. “It could be worse.”
She lifts the box and makes a face, then puts the box back. I want to pull the door open because it feels like I’m inhaling puke even if it doesn’t smell much anymore, but if I do that, someone could see. Olivia reaches into her purse and comes out with her vibrating phone. She holds the screen out so I can see Colby’s name and number flashing across it. “You didn’t tell him you were coming to talk to me, did you?”
“No way. All he knows is that I talked to you that one time out front, and only to tell you to back off and leave him alone.”
She looks hurt, and it makes me feel like crap. “Something is wrong with Colby.”
“You mean besides the fact that he’s a douche?”
“If he’s such a douche then why are you friends with him?”
“He’s like that to girls. Not his buddies.”
“You’re a girl,” she says, then looks confused. “Aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same. Obviously.”
She nods, even though it looks like she doesn’t understand. “You’ll keep the secret, won’t you?”
“I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know this is happening?” I say, and she nods.
She stands and dusts her gray uniform pants off, as if she’d been sitting on a dirty curb outside. My eyes keep wanting to drift low, to her stomach, as if I’ll be able to see some kind of proof. She’s thin, and there’s nothing really there.
“What’ll happen when you start looking . . . you know? He’ll know you lied when you said you panicked too soon.”
“I’m going to fix things before it gets to that, okay?” she says.
“Fix.” I try to catch her gaze, but she won’t let it happen. “You’re going to get an abor—”
“It’s fine, Pen. It’s my problem.”
Colby told her that—that it’s her problem. “You’re going to fix it all by yourself?”
She doesn’t answer.
I stare at the ground, at the dark blue carpet, and in my head, I try to picture what would happen if I told Colby any of this. He’d be pissed. He’d be worse. Who would it help? It wouldn’t help Olivia. It sure as hell wouldn’t help me. Sometimes with Colby, all he leaves room for is lying. Or maybe not saying anything isn’t actually lying.
“What happens now?” I say.
She tries for a friendly grin. “I’m going to talk to Blake about the photo project.”
“Okay.”
She glances one last time at the box of candles, then she turns to me. “You’ll keep the secret?”
“Yeah. I will.”
MR. MIDDLETON SURPRISES EVERYONE during English class by deciding to forget about teaching and going with a movie instead. A really, really old Macbeth movie.
“There’s a newer version, sir,” Tristan says.
“I know that, but why would I sacrifice the pleasure of seeing your faces take in the beauty of a seventies film?” Mr. Middleton says.
Throughout the entire movie, I steal glances at Colby. I think about stuff. About whether or not I can pretend this never happened. About whether or not I can pretend I don’t know. That I don’t know more than he does. But then I remember if there’s anyone who can pretend stuff didn’t happen, it’s me. Stuff that makes me feel like crap gets pushed to the back of my mind until it’s not part of my life anymore. Pretty soon, that messed-up night with Colby will have faded, and this Olivia stuff will, too.
The bell rings before the movie is over, and Tristan actually looks bummed. We rush out of class. Colby and Tristan break away from me when we reach their lockers. After that, I’m dodging bodies and pushing through them. My elbow knocks Blake in the boob.
“Oh man, sorry,” I say, coming to a stop. “Oh, wow. I can’t believe—sorry.”
“You’re in a rush.”
“Nah. I just really like when school’s done.”
She smiles, and then it doesn’t matter that we’re stopped in the middle of a hallway filled with chaos. People just move around us, and it’s a blur. Her hair is all swept to one side, and her eyelids are smudged in so much black, it makes the blue of her eyes so . . . there. She’s saying something and I’m staring.
“Sorry, what?” I say.
“I said Olivia told me about the project. Her mother sounds like pure diarrhea,” she says, and laughter busts out of me. She grins.
“Sorry. It’s not funny. It’s just . . . pure diarrhea,” I say.
“It’s so much more righteous than calling someone a bitch, because, well . . . what’s worse than pure diarrhea?”
“Really contaminated, infected diarrhea,” I say. It echoes in my head, then I get visuals. “Oh, man. I can’t believe I said that. I don’t even . . . uh . . . yeah. I’m just gonna go away now.”
“No!” She puts her hand on my arm for a moment. It’s not skin on skin because of my sleeve, but it might as well be. “I was slightly pissed when she told me she was bailing, but then she told me you were going to be my new partner. I think that wins everything.”
“Oh . . . yeah?” I say, and she nods. “Well, me too.”
“It means we’re going to have to hang out, I guess.”
“Yeah. We’re gonna have to.”
“Maybe Saturday? After my rehearsal?” she asks.
I open my mouth to let the “yeah” spill out of me when I feel a smack on my back, below my neck.
“Are you done yet?” Colby asks, his hand dropping from my back. “We’re gonna miss the bus, and we don’t wanna be late.”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” I say, wondering what this thing about us being late is about. “I just need a minute. I’ll be there.”
“We don’t have a minute. Remember Avery’s bringing Sienna. They’re meeting us at the mall at four.”
Blake’s just standing there while Colby talks at me, and I have no idea what he’s going on about because we’re not going to the mall. I don’t know anyone named Sienna. Blake’s watching Colby with this look on her face like whatever he’s saying is stupid to her. When her attention is back on me, it’s like she’s waiting for me to say something.
“Yeah, um.” That can’t be all I have to say. “I guess I’ll talk to you . . . soon?”
“Maybe,” she says, and there’s an edge to her tone. “Bye.”
“
Yeah, later,” Colby says to her, then to me, “Dude, let’s go.”
The back of her head gets smaller and smaller.
“What’d you do that for? Who’s Sienna?” I ask Colby while I head for my locker.
“I don’t know,” he says, waiting while I get my bag ready. “Made her up.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t wanna keep looking like a desperate idiot. She has to feel like you have plenty of other choices. Like you can do better.”
“Why?”
He shakes his head like I’m clueless. “Because she has to want you more than you want her. You want her to end up calling the shots?”
“I just wanted to talk to her.”
“So then talk.”
“I was.” My locker slams louder than I meant it to. “And then you came and messed it up. Now she’s pissed at me.”
“You’ll thank me later,” he says, following me. “I know what I’m talking about.”
“You don’t know as much as you think you do,” I tell him. “That’s the problem.”
He stops. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” I keep walking.
Up ahead, Tristan’s almost at the exit. I shout his name before he goes through the door. While I head over to him, I pull out my phone to send Blake a text: sry—colby’s a prick as usual—i hope u still wanna hang next weekend.
“Wow, dude. You need to relax,” Colby says, catching up to me. “If this is how you’re gonna act after one two-second conversation with some girl, then we are going to have a problem.”
I ignore him all the way to the bus, where I sit next to Tristan. The whole way, Colby bumps the back of my seat. Blake still hasn’t replied by the time I get home.
SIXTEEN
FRIDAY NIGHT, JOHNNY AND I HEAD TO THE PIZZA place for the special on the garlic pizza. On the way, we stop at Walmart to get more Halloween stuff for when we decorate the front of the house. October doesn’t even start until tomorrow but we have to take control of the decorating before Mom tries to beat us to it with her pumpkin cutouts and fake spider webs for the porch railing.
At the store, we pick up a couple severed hands and a foot, six foam tombstones for the lawn, and a cheap Michael Myers costume. We’re going to stuff the costume with blankets and make a dummy to sit on the porch, with the bowl of candy in his lap.
When we get to the truck, I stuff the plastic bags on the bunk behind my seat.
Johnny keeps burping at the wheel, which is stinking up the truck, and we haven’t even gotten to the pizza place yet.
“That smells like it came out of your butt.” I roll down the window.
“What—sorry, man. It’s that damn fish.”
Johnny hits the brakes when a couple of kids start shuffling across the street randomly, like they’re taunting the cars to come close. “Man, what is it with these kids? That’s just what I need, to run over a couple of dumb idiots and have to deal with their crying mothers. You better not jaywalk, Pen.”
“I don’t.” Not in front of cars, at least. “Hey, so do your friends ever get pissed off at you for having a girlfriend?”
“Not unless I start acting like a douche bag.” Johnny glances my way.
“How do you know you’re acting like one?”
“You don’t know at first, but your friends do. It’s like you change.”
“Change how?”
“I don’t know,” he says, with a sigh like thinking of an answer is too much work. “Like . . . ditching your buddies. Letting the girl run your life. Getting all moody. Spending all your money on dumb stuff. Letting all kinds of drama follow you everywhere. That kind of thing. But that usually comes with dating a girl who’s a douche bag.”
“But what if you change for the better?”
“If you have douche bag friends, that won’t matter,” he says. “You just gotta be cool and ask yourself if what’s going down feels all right, or if it makes you feel worse. Then you do what you gotta do.”
We pull into the pizza place, and Johnny squeezes his big truck into the only free spot left.
“Think you could drive me to this thing tomorrow?” I ask, before we open our doors to get out.
“What kind of thing?”
“Blake invited me to this rehearsal thing for a gig her band has.”
“Whoa, she’s in a band? That’s pretty hot. Does she have an older sister?” He wags his eyebrows. “What does she play? Is it an all-girl band?”
“She sings. And no, it’s just her and a bunch of dudes. Tall dudes with beards.”
“They all got beards? Like long, metal beards? Not those dumb hipster beards, please.”
I shrug, because I don’t feel like explaining what I meant.
“I’m gonna have to get a taxi license soon. You put too much mileage on my truck.” He asks me what time it’s at and then says he can drive me there on his way to meet the guys but that I’ll have to figure out how to get home. “Maybe one of the beards can drop you off.”
INSIDE, WE ORDER A large. It comes with too much cheese all bubbly on top of lots of layers of meat smothered in garlic sauce—totally perfect. I get garlic dip, because I won’t be kissing anyone tonight, and Johnny gets barbecue sauce.
It takes a while before I clue in to the laughing going on next to me. It’s not regular laughter, just these clipped little chuckles of dudes egging each other on. I sneak a glance to my right. There’s a table of guys and most of them are looking right at me. Great.
“I’m getting a grille for the front of my truck,” Johnny says.
He gets all into it, and I’m almost listening, going “Oh yeah?” here and there, to keep his attention on the conversation, and not on the idiots next to us. They probably thought I was a dude, and now they realize I’m not. It would be nice if there were a few other girls in this damn town who looked more like me.
“. . . working for this contractor. Who doesn’t wanna make more money, right?”
“Oh yeah?”
Johnny gives me a funny look. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing. I’m kind of full. Can we go?”
“I’m gonna hit the can first.” He snorts at the look I give him. “I gotta take a leak.”
While Johnny’s gone, I pack up the rest of the pizza. No one but those guys seems to be staring at me; they’re all busy enjoying their pizza night. My ears get so sharp when stuff like this goes down; I can tell when those guys are saying stuff about me. I think one of them might be one of the jerks from the movie theater Colby and Garrett took on last spring.
A bunch of F words, including the word “fag,” drift over to my ears.
I get up.
“That’s nasty, bro. Isn’t she a girl?”
“No idea. They’d still be fags, though.”
“No, wait. That’s a girl. Remember?”
Johnny’s not back from the bathroom. What if he heard that stuff? When I’m by myself, I can take that crap because soon, it fades away and it’s like it never happened. But when there are people with me—well, that’s when it goes from being annoying to being embarrassing. It goes from me rolling my eyes to me wishing I’d never stepped out of my house at all.
Screw those guys.
“He’s my brother, idiots,” I say, before turning. I throw over my shoulder, “Don’t ever talk shit about my brother.”
They laugh louder.
“Are you packing?” one of the guys asks. Haven’t heard that one in a while. At least one of them is definitely from the movie theater last spring.
I walk away, meeting Johnny as he comes out of the bathroom. He reminds me of Dad, the way he rubs his chest to soothe the indigestion.
“Are you packing?” those guys keep calling out.
“Let’s go,” I tell Johnny.
“What’s going on?” he says.
“Nothing. I’m going to the car.”
Johnny stays put. The door is just to the right, and I have my fingers on the handle. Johnny’s s
potted the guys. He looks back at me.
“Just forget it,” I say. “Let’s leave.”
“What is that, packing? Packing heat? They think you’re carrying a gun?”
I shrug. No way am I going to be the one to tell him it can also mean a girl who goes out wearing a strap-on rubber thing just for the hell of it. When those guys said that to me last spring, I went home and Googled it like crazy until I found what they were talking about. It’s not like I have any interest in putting anything in my pants that wasn’t already there to begin with, but I guess girls who look like guys are also supposed to want the proper equipment.
Johnny storms out ahead of me, and I let out a giant sigh, following after him.
But then he slams the truck door and meets me on his way back over. He throws me the keys. “Go to the truck.”
“Don’t go back in there,” I say, but he’s already flying inside the pizza place.
He heads for the douche table. Back in the truck, I can see everything unfold through the window. I’m full of dread and guilt. Johnny should know better by now. But mostly, I’m the one who should know better than getting him stuck in situations like this.
Johnny pounds over to the guys with his shoulders straight out. It’s his badass walk. He stops at the table and then his mouth moves. The guys are just sitting there with dumbass smiles on their faces, but they fade when Johnny leans over and pulls open his jacket a bit. Then it’s all over. The guys don’t look over my way, even as Johnny walks out.
I breathe a sigh of relief as he hops into the driver seat and fires up the engine.
“What’d you tell them?” I ask.
“I told ’em I was packing.” He pulls his jacket open, and in the inner pocket sticks out the handle and part of the blade of a massive butcher knife. The big plastic knife with fake blood we just bought for Michael Myers. Johnny revs the truck and peels the tires out of there.
“Maybe you shouldn’t do stuff like that,” I say when we’re cruising down Wilson Avenue past all the department stores.
“Stuff like what?”
“You know—stepping in to defend me or whatever.”