by Lara Zielin
“Does that change your mind about anything?” I asked. “I mean, about the kid?”
Sylvia shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Did the doctor say how far along you are?”
“Almost three months.”
My stomach twisted. That was way farther along than I’d expected. “Three months? And you didn’t suspect before now?”
Sylvia shrugged. “I have a lot on my mind. I don’t exactly put my periods on my calendar, you know.”
I tried to remember back to sex ed class when they told us how a baby developed over the pregnancy. Would it have a heart by now? A spine?
It didn’t matter. “Well, you have tons of options,” I said. “If you don’t want to get an abortion or keep it, you can always give it up for adoption. There are lots of couples who would probably pay big bucks for a white kid from the Midwest.”
Sylvia glanced out of the window. A blue Camry backed out of a parking space and pulled away. “I just can’t get my head around not being involved in the life of someone who’s half me. And half Ryan.”
“You love him,” I realized out loud.
“Yeah. I do.”
“I know how you feel,” I said after a second. “I saw Neil on Saturday.”
Sylvia’s expression didn’t change. “So?”
“So, you know what he’s done to me all year. His whole m.o. is to want me to come over and screw around, then pretend like it never happened. Just like you and Ryan.”
Sylvia swung her legs off the empty chair. “That’s nothing like me and Ryan,” she said. “Our situation is completely different. He never dumped me like Neil did to you. And I’m pregnant, okay? So don’t sit here and say it’s the same.”
I sat back. I hadn’t expected that. “Okay,” I said. “Okay. Just chill.”
Sylvia folded her arms across her chest and went back to staring out the window. I watched her, thinking that for all Neil’s jerk behavior, at least I could say there was a time when he was really cool to me. In the eight months we were together, he did lots of super-sweet things. He held my hand in public; he bought me chalupas at Taco Bell and brought them over to my house when I wasn’t feeling well; he picked me up in his Impala and we went driving for hours and hours; in the summer we’d find some abandoned dirt road and watch the sky until the clouds turned purple and bats started darting overhead. When we were together, we were together.
Sylvia couldn’t say that about Ryan. Not even a little bit. He’d never once, since they’d hooked up last summer, acknowledged her existence publicly.
I circled back to the Jess issue. “So could Ryan have told anyone?” I asked. “Because I still can’t figure out how J. rex knows about you.”
Sylvia arched an eyebrow. “I doubt he said anything. But it doesn’t matter. Jess could have just seen Ms. Rhone’s expression and the note and put two and two together or—shit. I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter because eventually the whole school is going to find out. I’m going to start showing one of these days.”
“When that happens, will you tell people it’s Ryan’s?”
“Maybe he’ll tell them,” Sylvia said.
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
Sylvia looked up at the ceiling. “I know he loves me. And I’m smarter and prettier than half the people he hangs out with.” Her eyes landed back on mine. “What if he just needs time to figure out that we’re supposed to be a family?”
I wanted to feel Sylvia’s forehead to see if she was running a fever. Or maybe it was the pregnancy hormones. Either way, what she was saying was nuts. “If he can’t see you for who you are now, why do you think he’ll see you differently in the future?”
“Because I know he cares about me. And I know he cares about this kid.”
“What if he doesn’t, though? What if he finishes high school and leaves you guys here while he runs off to college?”
Sylvia’s eyes were blazing. “That’s not going to happen.”
I wanted to smack her. “Even though that’s what he said he wanted to do, you think, what, that he’s just bluffing or something?”
Sylvia blinked rapidly. “He—he didn’t say it like that. He just—he doesn’t know how he feels yet. I know he loves me. He does.”
Her voice was tightening. I could hear the strain. “Okay, okay. If you say so.” Sylvia was still blinking, and I needed to calm her down. I had no idea what my plans were after high school, but right then I knew I needed to make them sound like they involved Sylvia. “Look, no matter what happens, you’re going to be fine. Your mom and I are here for you. Whatever happens, just know that, okay?”
Sylvia took a deep breath. I thought she was centering herself until she spoke again. “I took the wrestling letter. I swiped it from his room.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. Out of sight, out of mind or something like that. I figured maybe if he wasn’t always thinking of leaving, he’d start thinking about staying.”
Oh my God. This was beginning to sound like a soap opera. “They’ll just send him another one, you know. Or, if he doesn’t have the letter, he’ll still have his coaches. You get that this won’t change anything, right?”
Sylvia shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Something about Sylvia stealing Ryan’s letter felt desperate and pathetic—not to mention underhanded.
“So, somehow, you think in the next few months you can talk him into sticking around St. Davis? You think he can be dad of the year with you and this kid?”
She stood up. “What do you know about it? You’re not the one who’s pregnant.”
“I’m also not the one making ridiculous plans to—”
Sylvia cut me off. “You want a ride home or not? Because if you keep talking, you’re walking.” She started toward the door.
I was too stunned to say anything else. My mouth firmly shut, I followed her out of Tickywinn’s.
Chapter Seven
FRIDAY, APRIL 10 / 9:52 A.M.
The last two weeks of March spent themselves in a torrent of rain and slush, every day as cold as bare iron. The start of April, by contrast, brought higher temps and budding trees. The ice thawed on the lakes, and the Bass Masters got ready for the opener on April 11.
“So you’re doing the fishing thing again?” Sylvia asked as we walked out of fencing together.
“Yeah,” I said, pretending to check my cell phone so I didn’t have to look at her. “My mom said she thinks it’ll be good for college applications.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out. Not only was I lying to Sylvia, but my words smacked of Ryan’s wrestling plans. I opened my mouth to blather out a cover-up when suddenly Sylvia reached out and pulled me into an alcove by a drinking fountain.
“I know,” she said out of nowhere. “That party was the best. I got, like, six phone numbers.”
“What the—,” I started, but her eyes narrowed enough to shut me up. And then it dawned on me. Ryan was standing nearby.
“I’m going out tonight again,” she said. “For a while, anyway.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to play along. “You’ve got all those texts. You think you’ll answer them?”
Sylvia laughed—a sharp sound that reminded me of branches breaking. “We’ll see. There are a lot, aren’t there?”
I turned my head slightly to see Ryan standing a few feet away talking to one of his wrestling buddies. They were standing in front of an open locker—I wasn’t sure whose—that had pictures of bikini-clad girls taped all up and down the inside door.
This is stupid, I wanted to say. Ryan has no idea you’re standing here. But then the locker door slammed, Ryan’s wrestling friend walked away, and Ryan turned and looked right at us. Or right at Sylvia anyway. A small smile played at his lips. Even hating him couldn’t stop me from appreciating him. His green eyes sparkled; his skin rippled over his perfectly toned frame. Sylvia had never said it before, but I could understand how when Ryan Rollings’s eyes were on you, it
felt like no one else in the world existed.
The spell of that moment was broken when another one of Ryan’s friends walked up to him. “Hey, Rollings, gimme five dollars.”
Ryan broke eye contact with Sylvia and picked up with his friend without missing a beat. “In your wet dreams,” he replied, and the two of them headed down the hall together.
Sylvia and I stood by the drinking fountain for a second without saying anything. I tried out a few statements in my head—Why do you work so hard for so little from him? Or, He really is completely ripped—but none of them sounded right. Finally, Sylvia turned to me. Her eyes were bright. She looked a little manic.
“So you’re not going, right?”
I blinked with confusion. “Going where?”
“To college. What we were just talking about.”
What we were talking about before Ryan walked up, I thought. The way Sylvia was looking at me told me this was a question about more than just college. “Um,” I started, thinking of how I’d only mentioned college because I was never able to tell Sylvia the truth about bass fishing. I knew she’d think the fact that I actually liked it was lame, and she’d probably tell me not to hand out reasons for people to give me shit. My mom being principal was enough, thanks.
But the reality was, my parents definitely wanted me to go to some kind of university, and they’d told me as much, but so far my grades hadn’t been very good, so who knew where I’d get in. I hadn’t exactly been aiming for anything beyond high school, but I hadn’t really ruled it out, either. “I guess I don’t know,” I said. Sylvia’s eyes narrowed.
“You sure about that?” she asked. If I went off to college, then it wasn’t just Ryan who would walk away from Sylvia. She’d think I was leaving her, too.
“I’m not sure about anything anymore.” That much was true, at least.
“Well, then get sure,” she said. “Figure it out.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“It’s easy. Just don’t apply anywhere, and you won’t get in.”
I felt like I’d swallowed gravel. That couldn’t be the solution—could it? Then we’d both be stuck in this town. “I can always go to Abraham, the community college in Wexall. It’s only a twenty-minute drive.”
Sylvia glared at me. “Whatever. I don’t care where you go. Live your life.”
“Why are you mad at me? Shouldn’t you be pissed about how Ryan doesn’t talk to you in the halls?”
“Don’t make this about Ryan when it’s not,” Sylvia said, lowering her voice. “All I’m saying is, if the shoe was on the other foot, I wouldn’t leave you. Not even for a twenty-minute drive to Wexall. I’d stick by you.”
The conversation was beginning to feel out of control. “I am sticking by you. If I do go to college, which I probably won’t, nothing will change that.”
“Whatever. You want to make this about Ryan? Then here’s a news flash. He’s going to be here for me and stick by me. So do whatever the fuck you want to.”
I was stunned that Sylvia could believe her own words right then. Ryan wasn’t going to change—ever. Before I could say as much, Sylvia pushed a freshman out of the way and put her lips to the water fountain. I watched her drink, thinking we had the same clothes, makeup, and attitude—but I was beginning to feel that, deep down, we were completely different.
When she was done, she wiped her lips and raised her eyebrows. “You coming, or what?” she asked, and started off down the hallway.
That day in English, I was sucked into a new book we were supposed to read for class—Catch-22 by Joseph Heller—when I was called down to my mom’s office.
I closed the worn cover of the book and shoved it into my bag. A couple of the kids went “Oooooh,” until the teacher, Mrs. Miller, shut them up.
I took slow steps to my mom’s office on the other side of the building. Since I hadn’t actually done anything in the past twenty-four hours that could be construed as breaking the rules, I had to wonder if this was urgent news about the cancer. Why else would Mom pull me out of class? I imagined her sitting me down to tell me that she only had three weeks to live. I pushed down the nausea rising in my throat. Don’t freak until you know what’s going on, I thought. Keep your shit together.
Mrs. Janske, my mom’s secretary, looked up when I entered. “Oh, hello, Aggie,” she said.
Mrs. Janske had been there so long, she could remember how my mom would tack up my little-kid drawings on her office door.
“Hey, Mrs. Janske,” I said. “I got a note that my mom wanted to see me?”
“Sure,” she said, motioning to my mom’s closed office door. “Go right in.”
“Thanks,” I said. I knocked softly, once, on the door before turning the handle and stepping inside.
Mom nodded when I walked in but didn’t look up. She was typing at her computer, brow furrowed with concentration. Her healthy, split-end-free hair cascaded past her shoulders. “Have a seat,” she said, still staring at the screen. “I’m almost finished.”
I eased myself into one of the chairs against the far wall. My mom’s thin fingers flew across the keyboard while the rest of her remained perfectly rigid. Her black pants, blue collared shirt, and cream cardigan all looked pressed and fresh, even though it was well into the afternoon. I glanced at my jeans, which sported a ketchup stain from lunch and several strings hanging off the back cuffs. My black nail polish was chipped, and my black boots were scuffed almost to gray.
My mom pushed her keyboard back a few inches when she was done typing. “Hi,” she said. “Thanks for coming. Sorry to pull you out of English, but I made the executive decision that we needed to discuss something right away.”
“Whatever,” I said. Silently I wondered, Why can’t I just say hi and be nice?
My mom took a breath, focusing. “When we’re done here, I’ll write you a note. Mrs. Miller, I’m sure, will be happy to tell you what you missed.”
“Yeah, okay.” Your mom has cancer. Speak in full sentences. Say thank you. “Thanks.”
My mom raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”
I glanced over at the diplomas on the wall. In the middle of the framed papers was a printed letter from a poetry journal. Dear Mrs. Winchester, We are pleased to accept your poetry submission titled “August Pearls.” The letter was dated just over a year ago. I had no idea my mom had published a poem. Or that she even wrote poetry for that matter.
“Aggie,” my mom said, folding her hands on her lap, “I know your dad and I haven’t handled my sickness to the best of our ability.” That’s an understatement, I wanted to reply, but didn’t. “Your father and I sometimes struggle with when and how to tell you things. To be honest, your lifestyle choices often surprise us. It makes us think it’s better to keep information from you. Otherwise, maybe you’ll do something truly drastic.”
The way my mom was laying everything out was nothing new—but the fact that she’d just admitted she and my dad struggled with how to talk to me was.
“So?” I asked. It came out snippier than I’d meant it to. I was honestly curious: So what does this mean?
“I debated whether to bring this topic up with you, but it seems we should have a frank discussion. I know Sylvia is pregnant.” The office heated up twenty degrees in the space of a few seconds. “Apparently, your gym teacher has known for a couple weeks now. She only recently shared the information with the other faculty members.”
I swallowed. I supposed my mom was going to find out eventually. I just didn’t think she was going to haul me down to her office to have a chat about it.
“Studies suggest,” my mom continued, “that teen girls engage in behavior patterns similar to their friends. So I need to know. Are you being safe? And are you using protection that will prevent pregnancy?”
I flushed scarlet—first from embarrassment, then from rage. “What, so I’m a statistic in one of your studies now?” I asked.
My mom’s look said, Don’t do this. “Sylv
ia’s been a powerful influence in your life. Eyebrow rings are one thing. Teen pregnancy is another. Her road ahead is going to be a hard one. I don’t want you to end up like that.”
I balled my hands into fists. “So you just assume I’m banging half the junior class? Is that it?”
“I have no reason to think you’re promiscuous. But I know you and Neil Bromes were close in the past. And perhaps there’s someone new now?”
I didn’t even know how to begin to put words to the fact that there was no one else. Neil and I had done some stuff—a lot of stuff, actually—but I was still a virgin. Big time.
I stared at my mom—poised and beautiful—and suddenly ached for her to just ask me about all this instead of jumping to conclusions. After all, there had been a time when we used to talk normally. In junior high I could form a sentence without lacing every word with venom, and she could tell me what she thought without framing it in professional psychobabble. We’d been close—or something like it. And even freshman year, I’d told her what had happened with Tiffany Holland. But that’s where everything had gotten screwed up. I don’t think she knew how to help me. And I got mad at her for being the person everyone blamed me for being related to.
Now, with the cancer rolling over us like a bank of fog, maybe it was time to change that. If there was a limited amount of time left, we should make the most of it.
“Neil and I didn’t have sex,” I said. “And I’m not seeing anyone.”
My mom pushed her chair back from her desk and crossed her legs. “Aggie, if we’re going to get anywhere here, you have to be honest. You can tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth,” I insisted.
“Listen, I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”
This was bullshit. She might as well have had bricks and mortar at her feet, the way she was building walls between us.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I said. “Leave it alone.”
“I can’t leave it alone. Your grades are up slightly this semester, and I want you to continue in that direction. You should be acting responsibly and challenging yourself further. You’re a junior, Aggie. You’ll start applying to college next year. A baby would ruin all of that.”