Girls on the Verge

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  “We might as well let her sleep a little longer. Are you tired?”

  Bea shakes her head. “Do you want to play Uno?”

  I laugh. “You have Uno?”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “I always have Uno, you know that.” She gently opens the car’s back door, takes a deck of Uno out of her bag, and holds it up.

  We find an old picnic table on the side of the Boobie Bungalow under a parking light, and Bea deals out the cards. “This feels like the weirdest slumber party ever,” she says.

  “For sure.” Over at the dumpster, the crashing noise continues.

  “Will someone tell the neighbors to keep it down?” Bea says.

  “Shut up!” I yell in the dumpster’s direction.

  Bang!

  My Uno hand stinks, and Bea swiftly wins the round, as per usual. Bea is basically the undisputed Uno champion. She shuffles the deck and deals out another round, snapping each card down in a perfectly square pile.

  “Remember when we thought our model horses came to life when we weren’t there?” she says.

  I laugh. “Yeah. God, we were so goofy back then.”

  “Why didn’t you want to tell your parents?” Bea asks, arranging her cards in her hands. She asks me this so casually that I think for a moment that she’s asked me something else.

  “What a way to switch the subject—from model horses to telling my parents.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “No. I want to.”

  SEVENTEEN

  JUNE 22

  Hours later, after all my mom’s friends are gone, and after my dad and brother, Chris, have come home, I go down to the kitchen. I open the fridge door and then close it again.

  “What are you doing, Camille?” Mom asks.

  “I’m just looking for something to eat.”

  “Please don’t.” She carries a big pot of water over to the sink and pours it into a colander. Water gushes out, followed by a tangle of spaghetti. “I’m making dinner.”

  Mom, I’m pregnant. I try the words out in my head and imagine her looking up at me with her glasses steamed over, her face filled with confusion, and then I’ll have to say it again: Mom, I’m pregnant.

  I can’t do it.

  My dad comes into the kitchen, but we don’t say hi. He’s wearing his trucker’s cap of invisibility, which is something he learned about from an agent at one of the writers’ conferences he goes to. “Don’t talk to me—I’m writing” is Sharpied across the orange brim. When he’s wearing that, we aren’t allowed to notice him. I watch while he opens the fridge, pours himself a glass of apple juice, and ghosts out of the kitchen and back to the closet he writes in. Dad, I’m pregnant! I think about shouting. I imagine him turning around, his eyes wide with shock.

  I can’t do it.

  A big sob rises up and gets stuck in my throat. I turn around so my mom can’t see my expression.

  “Camille, can you set the table?” Mom says.

  I open the utensil drawer and gather the silverware, trying to focus on what I’m doing. I bunch some spoons and forks in my hand and reach for a pile of napkins. I turn around and run straight into my mom. She’s carrying a pot of pasta sauce; it slops out and splashes over both of us. The sauce is hot, and I jump back.

  “Camille, watch what you’re doing!”

  “I’m sorry!” I burst into tears. “I’m sorry!”

  “Sweetie, it’s fine. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only sauce. You didn’t burn yourself, did you?” The sauce has splattered all over my mom’s canvas apron, the one she’s had since culinary school.

  I shake my head.

  She sets the pot down, grabs the washcloth, and dabs at the sauce stain on my shirt. We both smell like oregano and garlic. “It’s nothing to cry over.”

  Chris wanders into the kitchen, eyes glued to his phone. “When’s dinner, Mother dearest?” he says. He looks up. “What happened? It looks like a murder scene in here.”

  Mom holds up her hand, the sign that means shut up. “Christopher, can you finish setting the table, please, while Camille changes?”

  “On it.” Chris puts his phone in his pocket and tiptoes through the sauce on the floor. He takes the silverware and napkins out of my hands. “Cheer up, buttercup,” he says. “No sense crying over spilt spaghetti sauce.”

  I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands and don’t say anything.

  I go upstairs and take my sauced-up shirt into the bathroom to soak. I look in the mirror as the sink fills. My eyes are bright red and swollen from crying, and there are tear tracks on my cheeks. I tie my hair back and splash water on my face. I look in the mirror again.

  What are you going to do?

  I’m going to tell them. I have to tell them, don’t I? As soon as I get downstairs, as soon as I sit down at the table, I’m just going to say it.

  Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you. I made a dumb mistake. I’m pregnant, and I don’t know what to do.

  I made a dumb mistake. I’m pregnant, and I don’t know what to do.

  I’ll pretend I’m acting in a play. I’ll pretend this isn’t real life.

  When I reach the second-to-the-last step, I go downstairs. I stop, frozen, unable to force my feet to keep going.

  I hear a step squeak behind me. “Out of the way, face-ache,” Chris says as he thumps past me. “Dinner waits for no man.” Then he turns, an open geology textbook in his hands. “Why are you standing there anyway?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I step onto the old shag pile carpet my dad says he’ll replace with hardwood flooring, but never does. I follow Chris to the dining room where my parents are sitting, drinking their glasses of red wine and laughing about something.

  Chris sits at the table in his usual spot, across from me. He starts reading his textbook.

  I sit down. My palms are cold and sweating. How can palms be cold and sweating at the same time? I wipe them on my pants.

  Mom and Dad, I have something to tell you. I made a dumb mistake. I’m pregnant, and I don’t know what to do.

  My dad dishes out the pasta and sets our plates in front of us. Alfredo sauce instead of my mom’s homemade one.

  “Put the book away, Christopher,” my father says. “It’s family time.”

  Chris holds his finger up, reads a little more, and then snaps the book shut and sets it by his plate. He looks at me. “What’s going on with you today? You’ve got a face like a smacked ass.”

  “Christopher!” my mom says.

  “Well, she does. Look at her.”

  Mom studies my face. “She looks perfectly normal.”

  “Just shut up, Christopher!” I hiss.

  Chris pulls a look like I blasted him in the face. He holds his hands up. “Okay. Sorry. I surrender.”

  “Just … back off.”

  “Stop fighting, you two,” Mom says, throwing us a look.

  “Sorry.” I stare down at my plate; the mass of noodles and white sauce looks disgusting.

  “I thought we were having your homemade sauce, Beth,” Dad says. “I’m not complaining; I love your Alfredo, too.”

  “It’s not mine, I’m afraid.” Mom points her fork at me. “We’re having Paul Newman for dinner because Miss Clumsy over here ran straight into me and made me drop the pot.”

  “The things we love about you, kiddo.” He winks at me.

  Chris joins in on the fun. “All over the place, it looked like a bloodbath.”

  “It was an accident,” I say. Mom does this all the time. First she says it’s no big deal, and then she turns it into a funny story to tell other people, like I’m her source for jokes. I’ve overheard her telling people really personal things about me, especially her best friend, Karen, in one of their endless phone conversations—like how I jumped into the kiddie pool when I was three, fully dressed in a party dress; how at two I ate a cricket because my brother told me it was candy. How I am afraid of clowns and people blowi
ng up balloons. How I scrape my teeth on my utensils when I eat. How I got my period and didn’t tell her for months because I was too embarrassed.

  I can hear my mom whispering the story to Karen, swearing her to secrecy, sighing. You won’t believe what Camille did.

  My dad won’t tell anyone—in fact he won’t mention it. Ever. He’ll be beyond embarrassed. He’ll try to push the image of me and a boy having sex out of his brain. But he won’t be able to stop himself from thinking about it. He won’t be able to look at me, and we’ll both have to live with it. For the rest of our lives.

  I’ll have done the stupidest thing of all—hooking up with a random guy I didn’t really know and getting myself pregnant. No one will ever forget what I did. Ever.

  “I’m sorry I bumped into you, Mom.” My voice shakes. “I wasn’t paying attention. I’m an idiot, okay? I got it.” I drop my fork onto my plate and it clatters.

  My dad, startled, looks to my mom for help.

  “You aren’t an idiot,” Mom says.

  “Yikes,” Chris mutters, and then opens his textbook. “Drama.”

  Mom reaches over and puts her hand over mine. “It’s okay. We’re only kidding around with you.”

  “It’s not funny. I don’t like it.” I pick up my fork. I try to take a bite of Alfredo. I try to swallow, but I can’t force it down. The smell of Alfredo sauce hits me right in the face.

  “Camille, are you okay?” Dad says.

  I pull my hand from under my mom’s and stand up. “I don’t feel well.” I bury my nose in my napkin and run upstairs to my bedroom.

  * * *

  It’s dark and comforting under my grandma’s old patchwork quilt. Its cheerful calico-print friendship squares and cherry-sprigged chain blocks always made me feel better. Every little girl needs a security blanket, my grandma had said when she handed it to me when I was six. The muslin back is worn smooth with multiple washings, but I can still make out the little label she sewed on the back: TO MY SWEET CAMILLE, WITH LOVE, GRANDMA.

  I wonder what Grandma would think of me now. Her sweet Camille turned out to be not so sweet after all.

  I hear a knock on my door. “Camille? It’s Dad. Do you need anything? I have some Pepto in the fridge. Or how about some ginger ale?”

  “I’m okay, Dad,” I say, trying not to gag at the thought of Pepto-Bismol. “I just felt sick all of a sudden. I’m going to sleep.”

  My mom says something to him. I can make out the word period.

  “Oh,” Dad says. “That’s all you, then, Beth.”

  My mom thinks I’m sick because I’m on my period. She thinks I have cramps. She would never imagine I’m sick because I’m pregnant.

  I hear their footsteps fade as they walk away.

  The waistband on my jeans feels too tight. The underwire on my bra presses hard against my rib cage. Am I already starting to get bigger? I wonder what my body will do next, and I’m scared of that. It’s like my body is making decisions all on its own, and I can’t do anything to make it stop. I want to go back in time and not do what I did. But I can’t.

  EIGHTEEN

  JUNE 30

  “I wish I could go back in time, too,” Bea says. “I wouldn’t abandon you like I did. It makes me feel awful that you didn’t have anyone to talk to. I tell my mom everything, but I don’t know if I could tell her I was pregnant, either.”

  “What’s your reason?”

  She folds her Uno hand. “I feel like I have to be perfect for them, never make them worry. You know, I’ve only texted with my mom a few times since we’ve been gone? Usually, we’re, like, constantly texting.”

  “I can’t imagine texting my mom that much. Our texts are strictly professional—where are you, what time are you coming home, take out the trash—that kind of thing. I don’t know. Maybe I should text her more.”

  “I’ve never told you this before, but I always had this idea of my mom and me. I wanted us to be like the Gilmore Girls, constantly together, telling each other everything. Joking back and forth. I know that’s silly now.”

  “I don’t think that’s silly. You’re lucky to be close to your mom. I’ve always been jealous of that.”

  “What’s going to happen when I go off to college, though? I can’t keep calling my mom for stuff. It’s like you said before. I can’t expect my mom to wave a magic wand and make everything better.”

  “I’m sorry I said that,” I say. “I was mad at you.”

  “But you were right. I guess another reason I got upset before was because you and Annabelle know so many things. You can make decisions for yourselves. I’m like a little kid compared to you two.”

  “Knowing things isn’t that big of a deal. You can google stuff, like you did with the condoms. You’re kind, Bea. Not many people are like that anymore.”

  Bea drops her cards and leans over the table, throwing her arms around me.

  “Hey, you’re messing up the discard pile,” I say, although I hug her back.

  Bea sits back, brushes at her eyes. She tidies the pile and gathers her cards. After a second she looks at me, her expression serious. “Do you think you’ll ever tell them?”

  “That all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how I feel after this is all over.” I play a wild card on top of Bea’s yellow. “Blue,” I say.

  Bea wins again. And by then we’re both exhausted. We head back to the car and nudge Annabelle, but she swipes at us and goes back to sleep.

  “Her disco nap is turning into a full-on sleep session,” I say.

  “Let’s let her sleep until morning. Nothing will be open in Alamo anyway,” Bea points out.

  We get in the car. Bea gives me her pillow, bunches her sweatshirt under her head, and goes to sleep.

  But I stay awake. The seat is too uncomfortable, and the darkness and the silence scare me.

  I play Candy Crush on my phone on mute, but I can’t concentrate on the game and I keep losing lives.

  I wish I were home in my own bed. I wish this had never happened. But wishes are something you did when you were little when you blew out the candles on your cake, refusing to tell anyone because you knew the wish wouldn’t come true if you did. You didn’t know then how useless wishing was.

  Maybe this is what being an adult is like—spending all your money on tires and gas and things like toilet paper and dish soap, and not depending on your parents to help you out. Having a budget to make sure you have enough money to get through the next shit storm. The thought of that depresses me. There has to be more to life than that.

  My phone screen fades, the colorful candies shut off midcrush, my battery dead.

  At least I’ll have Bea with me when crap like that happens. And Annabelle, too. I’m not alone.

  I finally fall asleep.

  * * *

  As soon as the sky begins to turn orange, I nudge Annabelle awake. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s okay. Remember we had to stop in the night?”

  “Oh, that,” she says. “Sweet baby Jesus. I had the worst dream. I dreamed I slept in a car.” She rubs her eyes and starts the car. Bea wakes up as soon as we start moving.

  She bounces upright. “Back in business, ladies.” One of the things I don’t like about Bea is her morning cheerfulness.

  I’m loaded on anxiety and adrenaline, which pretty much renders me unable to be cheerful or grumpy. I actually think I’m in some weird dimension, where I’m watching my life unfold from a window.

  We pull out of the parking lot and stop at a doughnut shop a few exits away to use the bathroom, brush our teeth, and get breakfast. When Annabelle comes out of the bathroom stall, she’s exchanged her Wendy Davis shirt for a plain black T-shirt. My braid got all messed up in the car, and I let it loose, not giving a crap that it’s springing all over my head like Medusa’s snakes. Bea changes into a sundress from her closet-on-the-go duffel bag, to which Annabelle gives the side-eye.

  I’m craving sugar and grease lik
e I never have in my life. I choose a chocolate cream doughnut coated in powdered sugar, a ham-and-cheese breakfast biscuit, and a large Sprite. Staying up all night makes me feel weird, like the world is tilting sideways and I’m sliding. Everything feels like a dream.

  We eat our breakfast quickly, and I buy a dozen doughnuts and refill my Sprite.

  I’m nearly there. I don’t have far to go now.

  * * *

  The Rio Grande Valley has a harsh kind of beauty. We drive past wind farms, the windmills’ huge white propellers slicing the sky. There are Mexican fruit stands everywhere. Big mesh bags of oranges and lemons are stacked in pyramids underneath ramshackle sheds. Billboards advertise in a mix of English and Spanish—a Dr Pepper sign says 23 SABORES BLENDED INTO ONE EXTRAORDINARY TASTE. INCONFUDIBLE! It’s like the US and Mexico got together and decided to merge into one.

  The closer we get to Alamo, the harder it is for me to stave off the nervousness. It starts to ramp up when we exit off the highway for Alamo.

  In the town, the streets are lined with palm trees and all the shops have matching Spanish tile roofs. We pass RV parks and golf courses and signs for the wildlife sanctuary. At least half of the traffic on the road is United States border patrol cars.

  “Where the heck is this place?” Annabelle says, scanning the street.

  “There,” Bea says. “I see a sign.”

  I bunch my hands, gripping them into tight fists.

  “It will be okay,” says Annabelle, her expression calm. “Try to breathe.”

  We leave the town center and follow each sign leading to the Hidalgo flea market. We can hear the music before we reach the parking lot. The market is inside an enormous corrugated steel structure, open on all sides.

  “I want to run inside, grab those pills, and jump back in the car,” I say.

  “That’s what we’ll do, then,” Bea says.

  A man in an orange vest and a straw cowboy hat directs us to park Buzzi in a spot in the middle of a dusty field. We trudge our way through car-flattened grass and weeds. Annabelle kicks an old beer bottle all the way to the building, where she picks it up and tosses it into a steel oil drum.