41. Petra
PETRA
PRESENT DAY
Another day I wake up from a bone-chilling nightmare, while the soft morning light slanting through the curtains casts a warm, wholesome glow around me.
For a moment, this stark contrast between my dream state and physical state disorients me completely, and I have the feeling of existing in some warped dimension, an in-between place between wintry horror and sunshiny joy.
A long while after waking up, I lie still, trying to unsee the images creeping into my brain: Harry’s detached head, spurting blood from all orifices, Sin’s wild expression as he implored me to . . . to what?
Try as I might to piece together the shocking events of last night, there is a disconnect between all the threads of my recollection.
I remember our tryst at the mausoleum, how the encounter had quickly escalated into a heated, physical entanglement.
My face warms up as I remember how he had cupped my breasts and rubbed against me, how he had left behind a trail of hickeys with his accursed, hot-as-hell mouth . . .
And suddenly, the vision tilts, and my mind’s eye is now watching the looming figure of Sin on the landing before my room, how he blocked my way and demanded something from me; what was it now . . .
“Who is the father?” he had asked me. Or had it been part of my dream?
Perhaps the strain of lying to him about the you-know-who not being his—a decision I don’t completely understand yet—has made me suspect him of harboring sinister motives.
Perhaps I’m projecting.
There’s no use obsessing over these thoughts, so I slowly sit up, while all my bones sing a symphony of pain and discomfort.
My muscles are stiff and tense; they must have been held taut in anticipation or anxiety for what feels like hours.
I look around and realize that I’m alone.
But of course I am. Why would anyone else be here?
Perhaps this is all just the pregnancy hormones. This thought is followed by another fluttering one: I’m starting to show.
Yup, that’s right. What with all the murders, the crypt dates with Sin, and the disastrous fall balls, the small window for getting rid of the you-know-who has closed for me.
At five months, I am well on my way to delivering, whether I am ready for it or not. So I pull back the covers and look down at my body.
My hand instinctively rests on my belly, a small but unmistakable curve. The skin is stretching over it, and the morning light rings it in a neat halo.
Nearly five months along. What does the you-know-who look like now?
If I remember my lessons, it will have started to resemble a human baby, with the head and torso gaining more definition.
Afloat inside me is another person.
The very thought sends a jolt down my limbs. Whether that’s fear or curiosity, I don’t know.
I stretch my arms and think of getting out of bed, but a leaden feeling has stilled my legs as last night’s events keep replaying in my head, though their memories are disjointed and disconnected at some fundamental level.
I need to talk to someone. There’s no way I can find a way out of this mess on my own, so I needed to get some support like, yesterday.
My parents have been busy with a spate of conferences, trade shows, and investor meetings as of late, and their travels have taken them to Europe, all the way across the ocean. Not that I would have confided in them had they been around.
My father might have been sympathetic, but I’m sure Mom would have tried to kill me. She is far too proud to have a teenage mom for a daughter.
The thoughts threaten to overwhelm me again, and the bleakness threatens to suck me down like a bottomless quagmire. I know who I can talk to.
The next moment, I have opened Instafriends and found the Misc Midn8 Meets channel.
There it is, the small green circle next to Amelia’s handle, the cheery sign that she’s online.
Ames, I really need to talk.
Barely a moment or two passes before her reply comes through.
Petra, of course. What’s going on? Tell me everything, girl.
And over the next several book-sized paragraphs, I proceed to do just that.
I tell Amelia about Elias Rutherford’s party, the pool dunking I was subjected to, and how Sin had come to my rescue.
Oooh, knight in football uniform, swoon!
Amelia texts at this point of my story.
Everybody seems to think of him that way.
I write back in complete candor.
You should have seen the way he snapped at Elias. Honestly a bit scary . . . but anyways . . .
And so, I pick up the thread and move on to the more NSFW parts of my tale: our clandestine conversation in the bedroom, where we lounged around in bathrobes over underwear while our clothes tumbled around in the dryer.
Girl, whaaaaaa.
Amelia follows that up with a string of thirst emojis too crude to be reproduced here. But the gist of it is clear.
That is some bodice-ripper level of hotness right there!
It wasn’t like that, Ames. We were actually talking . . . like, I enjoyed talking to him.
Raaaaight, Petra.
She adds several eye-roll emojis in a row.
And now my recounting gets rougher as the story turns into darker corners. I finally arrive at the day I found that I was pregnant.
Holy shit, Petra! Are you okay?
That is her first response, and I love her for it.
What did you decide?
She texts next, and I chuckle out loud, knowing that whatever state I find myself in today was not reached by choice. In other words . . .
I never decided what to do. I-I just got swept away.
What do you mean? You . . . didn’t abort?
Amelia replies, and I can sense her caution. I still haven’t told her how I feel about being pregnant. So far, I’ve just been a narrator of—it feels—someone else’s story.
No. I didn’t even go to the Planned Parenthood center. I just didn’t have the time.
Petra, this isn’t some chore you put off till your schedule frees up.
I know, Ames, I know. Just—so many bad things started happening, and I just couldn’t.
But you told Sin?
Again, a dry laugh escapes from my lips, and I tell her about my split-second decision to inform Sin that the baby was not his.
But why???
She replies almost instantly.
Why would you do that? He would help if he knew, right?
Would he? This question makes me remember the Sin from last night, who had stormed into my room after me, demanding that he be allowed to “help” me.
Things got even worse, Ames. And I couldn’t tell him.
I write back hesitantly.
Now I have reached the most traumatic part of my story: first, Edwin’s death and then . . . Harry.
My fingers start shaking as I type. Tears stream from my eyes as some strange, choking fear makes my heart clench as I write about the fall ball: my giddy mirth at the start of the evening, dancing with Sin, going to the washroom and overhearing those girls chatting among themselves, confronting Sin, and then finally . . .
The images threaten to overwhelm me completely, but I retain enough gumption to describe the whole ordeal to Amelia.
Petra, what the everloving fuck is happening in that town of yours?
I just know that she’s pacing across her room now.
I take a deep breath, trying to find the right words to convey the absolutely horrifying chaos of that fateful night. But where will the words come from?
Instead, I tell her the real reason I am confessing all this to her.
I need someone to tell me what to do, Ames. I’m in such a mess . . . about this baby. And about Sin.
A handful of minutes pass before her response reaches me. But it is succinct and direct:
Tell. Him.
You sure?
I text back; perhaps I had hoped that she would side with me, though I don’t feel particularly surprised by her advice.
Yes!
It seems to be the popular consensus, all things considered, so I don’t poke around for further assurance.
And also, take care, Petra.
She texts before I can reply to her latest message.
The things happening at St. Anselm Hall . . . they’re beyond disturbing. I hope you’re staying safe.
Am I? It has occurred to me that my behavior over the past few weeks has been anything but cautious.
I have been stealing away to crypts hidden under the school with Mr. Popular, who was prone to the type of personality swings that would put a schizophrenic to shame.
I am harboring secrets that could threaten my living situation with my parents.
I am not making much progress with Ms. Matthews’s assignment, either.
Yet I know that confiding in Amelia, finally telling someone my secret, was one of the saner decisions I have made as of late. Feeling a bit more composed, I close my eyes for a moment, allowing Amelia’s (hopefully) honest advice to sink in.
The road I found myself on was not only the one less traveled but also the most riddled with false steps and deceptive snares.
But at least I’m not walking it alone.
A clear sky heralds the next day, and the morning light bathes a bleak landscape. Overnight, trees have bent and bowed to the ground, some even getting uprooted entirely and blocking important streets in town.
I wake up to the blare and bustle of roadside equipment and workers sawing off fallen trees up and down the neighborhood. My parents are still not home, and for once, the quiet house feels like a refuge from all the noise.
I’ve just finished whipping up some French toast grilled cheese—yes, it’s exactly as decadent as it sounds; instead of two slices of bread, I use two slices of egg-dipped fried bread—when the doorbell rings.
My heart skips a beat, and my belly flops around in anxiety.
Briefly, I wonder how the butterflies-in-the-stomach thing works when you’re pregnant, but before I can meander down that tangent, I have already opened the door.
And what do you know, Sin is standing there, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a stylishly wrapped present in the other.
He looks apologetic, his eyes soft and gentle when they land on me.
This is such a stark contrast to his intense brooding from last night that I am lost for words at first.