The Day We Met

by Dusti Bowling

  I dropped my backpack on the kitchen table and wandered around the empty house aimlessly, trying to keep my mind blank. I ended up in the living room, not knowing how I got there, and lay down on the couch. I pressed my palms into my eyes, trying to prevent the tears from forming. It had been another bad day.

  I removed my damp palms from my eyes and sat up. I stared at the bookshelves on the far side of the living room. I walked over to them and scanned the titles: a whole lot of inspirational types, cookbooks, and bibles. I was about to turn away when a flowery binding caught my eye. I pulled the thick notebook off the shelf—my baby book.

  I returned to the couch, staring at the picture of the abnormally fat baby on the puffy cover. I opened the book. There was another picture of me followed by some random sentences my mom filled in—sort of like Mom Libs.

  If my baby were a fruit, she would be a star fruit.

  If my baby were a drink, she would be a strawberry milkshake.

  If my baby were an animal, she would be a lion.

  I shut the book in disgust and set it on the coffee table. My stomach turned over, and I felt like I might vomit. I trudged into the kitchen, looking for something to fill the emptiness inside me. I decided on some cereal and sat down at the table.

  “How was school today?” my mom asked, carrying at least seven bags of groceries into the kitchen. She could have had her own circus act: Naomi and her incredible bags of groceries.

  “Fine.” I took another bite of my cereal.

  “Will you help me put the groceries away?” she asked, trying to fit the bags around me on the kitchen table. Several apples rolled out of one bag and onto the floor. My stomach knotted as I remembered the horrible lunchroom scene with Heather.

  “Oh no!” My mom chased them around the kitchen. “Now they’ll all be bruised.” She picked one up and inspected it, frowning. “Yep, I already see a bruise forming.”

  If I were a fruit, I would be a bruised and broken apple.

  I went back to eating my cereal, hoping she would just ignore me. No such luck.

  “Didn’t you eat lunch?” she asked, piling the already bruising apples into a bowl.

  “Yeah, I guess I’m just hungry today.”

  “Anything interesting happen?”

  “When?”

  “Today, at school?” She frowned. “Lenna, are you okay? You seem really distant lately.”

  “I’m fine.” I left the table and dumped my leftover cereal down the sink.

  “You don’t seem fine.”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped. “I’m tired of explaining that to everyone.”

  I could feel her eyes on me as I gazed down at the porcelain sink, wishing she would look away. “Lenna,” she said so softly I could barely hear her, “don’t raise your voice to me again. I can tell there’s something wrong. If you don’t want to tell me, maybe you should talk to Pastor Ted about it.”

  I stared down at the cereal splattered all over the sink. I grabbed the nozzle and washed it away, the spray mimicking the tears rolling down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I turned off the sink and ran up the stairs to my room.

  I lay on my bed and cried until the sunlight was nearly gone and my mom was calling me down for dinner. I went to the mirror to look at my face; my eyes were red and swollen, my face mottled. My parents would know I had been crying. I ambled downstairs but stopped on the landing when I heard my mom and dad talking about me.

  “I don’t know,” my mom was saying. “She hasn’t gone to youth group in months. She’s always too sick to go to church. I can barely get her to go to school. I told her she should talk to Pastor Ted about whatever’s going on, and she just ran out of here.”

  “Maybe we should take her to a counselor,” my dad said.

  I decided to show myself then. “Hey,” I said, walking into the kitchen.

  “Hi sweetheart.” My dad gave me a hug.

  “Have you been crying?” my mom asked.

  “No, I’m just not feeling very good,” I said. “I think I’m having an allergy attack or something. If it’s okay, I’m just going to go to bed.”

  “You’ve been in bed all afternoon,” my mom said.

  “Yeah, because I’m not feeling well, like I said,” I retorted.

  “Don’t talk to your mom like that,” my dad said. “What’s the matter with you, Lenna?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell us what’s going on with you.” He gripped my shoulders.

  I couldn’t help it—I started crying again. “Please, nothing’s wrong,” I pleaded, pushing my dad away. “I’m sorry I’ve been acting strange. I’ll stop. I promise. Please, just let me go upstairs to bed.”

  “Lenna,” my mom said. “It’s not that we want you to stop acting strange. We want to know why you’re acting strange.”

  “I’m just not feeling well. Please—” A wave of nausea crashed over me. It felt like all the grief, all the shame, all the anger hidden deep within was about to come up. And it did—right onto the kitchen floor.

  “Lenna!” my mom shrieked, bringing her hands to her face. “Ben, go get a towel.” She wrapped her arms around my heaving, sobbing body. My dad brought the towel, and she wiped my face and shirt with it.

  “Sweetheart, go get in a warm bath,” my dad said, eyes huge and fearful.

  I nodded and went back upstairs. I turned on the bath and removed my vomit-covered clothes, placing them in a plastic bag. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror while the bath ran. I didn’t even look the same anymore; my skin was gray, my brown eyes cavernous, my long auburn hair dark with oil. The only thing I knew about the girl in the mirror was I hated her.

  I eased myself into the scorching water, wishing it had the power to cleanse me of more than the stench of vomit. I squeezed my legs against my chest, lowered my head onto my bent knees and cried, wondering when I had lost my narrow path.

  And whether I had ever been on it at all.

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t go to school the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. I was convinced all my lying about being sick had actually made me sick—really sick. I spent most mornings crouched over the toilet, dry-heaving. Nothing would come up because my stomach was empty. I would just gag and heave and gasp until I was dizzy and needed to lie down on the bathroom floor.

  My mom was sure I had the stomach flu, except I had no fever. My dad thought it was food poisoning brought on by the questionable cafeteria food at school, but I hadn’t eaten any questionable cafeteria food in over three weeks. The apple and milk I had eaten a few days ago had probably been safe enough.

  I forced myself to go to school after being absent for three days. At least it was Friday, and making it through the day meant I would have two more days of peace to spend hovered over the toilet. Unfortunately, I couldn’t even make it through to lunch; the strong smell of vinegar in the chemistry lab caused my stomach to lurch, and I ran for the bathroom without even asking permission.

  If I were a drink, I would be vinegar.

  As I crouched over the toilet, gagging and heaving, I heard the bathroom door open. I tried to hold in my gags, but my efforts were in vain.

  “Lenna, are you okay in here?” I heard Brittany’s voice ask.

  I gagged in response.

  “Mr. Jaworski asked me to come in and check on you. You don’t sound so well.”

  Gag, gag.

  “Maybe you should go home.”

  Gag, gag, gag.

  “Lenna, that’s gross. You’re even making me sick.”

  I finally found the strength to respond. “Could you drive me home?” I gasped.

  Brittany’s excitement was palpable even through the metal stalls. I knew her devious mind was mulling over the prospect of missing part of the school day to do what others would perceive as a charitable deed. “Of course,” she responded.

  I opened the stall door and shuffled to the sink. I splashed some water on my face while Brittany watched.
“You look terrible,” she said, as though making some important diagnosis. “I’ll go tell Mr. Jaworski you’re sick and I absolutely have to take you home. Why don’t you get to the office and sign us out. I’ll get our stuff and meet you there.”

  I nodded and hobbled away, clutching my stomach. I was relieved everyone was in class; I must have looked like some kind of nasty swamp creature—dark hair all stringy and wet with sweat, face white, eyes bloodshot from straining. Yep, it was lucky everyone was in class—everyone except the last person in school I would have wanted to run into.

  Just as I passed through the doors to the office, he was coming out. I froze in the doorway, my eyes fixed on what I had once thought to be the most gorgeous face I had ever seen. Now it repulsed me. He looked at me for a split second, an equal amount of revulsion evident in his face, before pushing past me out the door.

  I continued standing in the doorway awhile, internally attacking myself—something I was getting quite good at. It wasn’t until Ms. Foster, the office secretary, called out my name that I realized I was crying in the doorway of the office, where at least five people could see me. I wiped the tears from my cheeks and walked to the counter.

  “I need to check out,” I said in a hoarse, nearly inaudible voice, already signing my name to the sign-out sheet.

  “Are you sick?” Ms. Foster asked. I looked up from the sign-out sheet. She pushed her head back and frowned. “Just write sick for the reason on the sheet. We’ll call your parents and let them know you’re coming home.” I was already heading out the door as she explained this to me.

  Brittany came running up with our bags just as I got outside. “All set?” she asked. I nodded. “Good, let’s go!” she shouted with the exuberance someone might exhibit at the start of a new adventure. I wasn’t thrilled to be her get out of school free card. I felt used, and not for the first time.

  We walked to the parking lot while Brittany participated in a one-sided conversation with herself. It didn’t seem to matter I wasn’t involved; she was just as happy listening to herself talk—a good thing as she was the only person listening to herself talk.

  We pulled up to my house what felt like an eternity later. “Thanks for the ride.” I opened the car door, and Brittany looked at me expectantly. I sighed. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, just to make sure you’re okay. Your parents aren’t home, right?”

  I shook my head. “No, my dad’s at work and my mom’s running errands.”

  “Great!” Brittany exclaimed, grabbing her stuff and jumping out of the car. “I don’t feel like going back to school anyway.”

  Once we got up to my room, I threw myself on the bed with a moan while Brittany browsed through my closet.

  “I hate to say this,” she said, but I got the feeling she was about to say something she didn’t hate to say at all. “But you do not have the best selection of clothes.” She pulled out a blue dress I loved and used to wear to church often—when I used to go to church. “This one’s okay.” She gave me her approval. Like I wanted it. “But I don’t think I’d wear it.”

  I stared at the dress, remembering the last time I wore it—when Will kissed me. The kiss had surprised me to the point of making me burst out laughing, which I had regretted almost immediately when I saw the embarrassment in Will’s face as he pulled away from me.

  “I’m sorry,” I had said with a nervous laugh. “I just didn’t expect that.”

  His face had been bright pink as he told me I looked beautiful.

  Brittany’s ongoing insults interrupted my pleasant memory. “Yep,” she said, hanging the dress back up, “not my style at all.” She plopped down on the bed beside me. “So what are you like pregnant or something?”

  I shot up from the bed and my head spun. “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Because,” she said casually, “you’re all vomity and stuff.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m pregnant.” Was I trying to convince her or myself?

  “Well, did you use protection?” She grabbed a magazine off of my nightstand.

  “When?” My heart raced. I hadn’t told her about Aidan. How could she know?

  “When you had sex. Duh.” She thumbed through the latest issue of Teen Vogue as though we were discussing our titration lab, not the thing that had been tormenting me over the last five weeks.

  “With who?” I asked.

  “Geez, Lenna. You must really get around.”

  “No.” I shook my head violently. “No, I mean how do you know who I’ve had sex with?”

  She threw her hands up in the air, the Teen Vogue still clutched in one, pages flapping wildly. “Everybody knows.”

  My head spun again. Of course. Of course, he would tell everyone. Of course, he would do that. “What did he tell everyone?” I tried not to gag.

  “Just that you guys had sex at Cecilia’s party.” She threw down the magazine and looked at me seriously. “And that it wasn’t very good.” She winced. “Ouch. Sorry about that.”

  My breathing bordered on hyperventilation. “I can’t believe this,” I gasped. “I can’t believe what a horrible mistake I made. I’m so stupid. So, so stupid.”

  “Calm down.” Brittany rubbed my arm—her own quarter-hearted attempt to comfort me. “It happens to everyone.”

  “What?”

  “Getting used and dumped. No biggie.”

  I started crying. “It is a biggie. It’s a really, really big biggie to me.”

  “Sorry.” Brittany threw her hands up in a defensive position. “I just wouldn’t take it too personally. He treats all his conquests like that. Once he gets you, he loses all interest. That’s totally his MO. I should know—he did the same thing to me.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I shouted at her. “You knew I liked him. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  Brittany’s eyes were wide with confusion. “I didn’t think it would matter.”

  I jumped off the bed. “It matters to me! It was my first time. I didn’t want to be used my first time. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.” I paced the room while Brittany sat on the bed, speechless for once. “And now I might be pregnant because I was so stupid. I was so afraid of what he would think of me if I said no to him. And what am I going to tell my parents? They think I’m waiting for marriage. They’re going to hate me.” I fell to the floor and buried my head between my legs.

  “Waiting for marriage?” Brittany snorted. “Yeah, right. Look, I’ll run over to the drugstore and get you a test. Then you can stop flipping out and things can just go back to normal.”

  “Things will never go back to normal.” I buried my head deeper between my legs.

  “Stop being so melodramatic.” She grabbed her bag. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  I was still on the floor, sitting in the same position, as Brittany bounded in through my bedroom door once again. “Here.” She threw the pharmacy bag on the floor in front of me. “You owe me seven dollars.”

  I picked up the bag with shaking hands, stood up, and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I took the box out of the bag and turned it over in my hands, studying the outside. I ripped the cardboard open and pulled out the white plastic stick.

  “One line negative, two lines positive,” I whispered, and for the first time in a long time, I spoke to God.

  “Please let it be one line,” I pleaded with him, knowing I had no right to ask him for any favors, knowing I didn’t deserve any.

  A combination of nervousness and dehydration made it nearly impossible for me to pee. I ran my hand under warm water awhile until I finally felt the urge.

  “What the heck are you doing in there?” Brittany called.

  “Nothing,” I mumbled. “Just trying to pee.”

  “Get on with it,” she called back, and I wished she weren’t there anymore. I would have rather done this alone than with an impatient audience. After ano
ther fifteen minutes, I put the stick aside and left the bathroom.

  “Finally,” Brittany sighed, tossing the magazine on the floor and standing up. “So what is it?”

  “I have to wait three minutes.” I looked at the alarm clock on my nightstand. I stood there, watching the clock, ignoring Brittany’s sighs of impatience.

  Two more minutes to go. Brittany picked her magazine back up and started thumbing through it again. “Oh, I love her hair.” She showed me a picture from the magazine, as though I cared to look at some stupid model’s hair right then. I looked back at the clock.

  One more minute to go. I counted in my head while Brittany continued turning the magazine pages and commenting on various pointless things. I was nearing the point of slapping her when the clock changed. It was time to check the stick.

  I turned to face the bathroom door. I felt like I was in one of those formulaic dreams they always show in the movies where the actor can never reach the door—the hallway just keeps getting longer and longer no matter how fast the actor runs. Only I was no actor. And this was real life. There were no formulas here.

  I nearly fell against the bathtub as I reached down to pick up the stick. My eyes were playing tricks on me. They must have been because the stick showed two lines.

  “Two lines positive,” I whispered, my vision blurring with tears.

  “Oh my God!” Brittany cried out, instantly beside me. “You are totally preggers! I can’t believe it. What are you going to do? Oh my God. Your parents are going to kill you!” She seemed to relish my misery.

  My legs quaked. The quaking traveled from my legs to my belly, up my chest and into my arms and hands until I dropped the stick to the floor. “Can you please leave now?” I whispered. I couldn’t find the strength to speak in a regular voice.

  “Don’t freak out,” Brittany continued, seeming not to have heard me. “It’s not like your life is ruined. I mean, things are totally different now than they were like fifty years ago.”

  “What?”

  “You can just get an abortion.”

  “What?” I asked again.

  “You know, an abortion.” She said it louder this time, as though I were hearing impaired. “It’s not like you’d be the first person in the world to get one. I heard that Stacey Martin got one last year.”