Chapter 11
April
I jolt awake, drenched in sweat. My shirt glued to my back, my pulse hammering out of control.
There’s pounding behind my eyes like I’m coming out of a nightmare.
But I don’t remember dreaming. There’s this awful, clawing heat in my gut, and it's way more intense than cramps.
A nausea that hits with no warning, ugly and violent.
I barely get to my feet before my stomach heaves, bile already rising in my throat.
I race into the bathroom, slam the door behind me, and crash to my knees.
I grip the edge of the toilet and violently throw up.
Every muscle in my body seizes until I’m shivering and empty.
This time, I don’t even bother trying to keep quiet.
I don’t care if the old guy next door hears me.
Let my stepmom come scream at me for barfing at three in the morning.
When I’m empty, I sink back, ass hitting the floor, and let my arms flop at my sides. My heart’s still racing, clawing up my throat.
And then it hits.
I press my palm over my mouth. Not because I’m about to puke again. Because I know…I know, even before my brain will let me say it.
When was my last period?
Fucking hell.
I stare at the wall, counting backwards in my head. I never, ever screw up my pill routine. My phone alarm goes off at 7:40 a.m. every single day, even on the weekends. I’ve been so careful.
My cycle is always regular. Four weeks, no matter what. Except this time, there was no warning, no spotting. Nothing. I grab my phone with a trembling hand, unlock it, and open my period tracker app.
My last cycle started seven weeks ago.
I reread the data twice, praying for a typo. Maybe I skipped a month logging and just didn’t notice? Please? I scroll and scroll, but it’s all there, like a smug digital bitch in pink fonts. No missed pills. No missed cycles.
Oh my god.
I slap my hand over my mouth even harder, this time to muffle the half-scream that wants to come out. My whole body is shaking. My legs barely hold me as I drag myself upright. I rinse my mouth out with tap water, swish and spit, but the taste doesn’t go away.
I manage to stumble back to my bedroom, flop onto the edge of the mattress, and just stare out the window. My breath is ragged and shallow. I can’t get enough air.
No. It’s not…I mean, can it even happen like this?
I took the pill. Every damn day. Isn’t that supposed to be foolproof?
Sure, I’ve read the horror stories. My stepmom’s always going on about “girls these days” and “unwanted consequences,” but I always figured she was just being her usual charming self, trying to terrorize me into celibacy.
But the sick feeling won’t let go. I rock back and forth on the bed, fingers digging into my thighs.
It’s got to be stress. People get late periods all the time. Finals are coming up. The last few weeks have been insane. Classes, my family on the warpath about nothing, Ben…oh god, Ben. My stomach flips again, but I force it down this time.
Or maybe it’s a bug? Food poisoning? Anything but…yeah, anything but that.
But I know. Deep down, I know exactly when it started.
One night.
One anonymous, reckless, stupid, perfect night. I was a virgin before that, always too scared of something going wrong. I never even considered that one time would be the time.
It feels like my body is closing in on itself.
I jump to my feet, because if I sit still, I’ll go crazy. I pace my bedroom, nearly tripping on my backpack. I yank the covers off the bed, shove them back into place, then do it again. I can’t stop moving.
I’m not. I’m not. I can’t be.
My hands are shaking. I keep checking my phone. Maybe the period tracker will re-calculate and tell me I’m just being dramatic.
It doesn’t.
I grab a pair of sweatpants and pull them on over my pajamas, the fabric bunching at my ankles. Hoodie goes on next, sleeves way too long. I find my keys, slide my feet into sneakers, and fumble with the laces. All the while, my brain is screaming at me to stop, to sit down and wait until morning.
But I can’t.
I step out, careful with the door. The house is dead silent. Outside, the streetlights flicker in the fog, making everything look washed-out and empty. I get in the car, my hands barely steady to get the keys in the ignition.
For a second, I just sat there, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, eyes closed.
I can’t do this.
But I have to.
I make myself back out.
It’s not a long drive, but it feels endless. Every stoplight is red. Every homeless guy shuffling down the sidewalk looks up at me like they know exactly what I’m doing. At one point, I have to pull over and dry heave into a fast-food napkin, but nothing comes up. I’m running on empty now.
The pharmacy is in a strip mall by the highway, the only place that’s open at this hour for desperate people…
drunks, stoners, panicking idiots like me.
There’s barely anyone in the parking lot, which is a relief and also somehow makes it worse.
My car looks weird and obvious parked right up front, like a neon sign advertising, “SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH ME. ”
I walk inside, and the place is so bright, I feel like I’m getting smacked in the face with a flashlight.
The floors squeak under my shoes. There’s an old lady at the register who doesn’t look up when I come in, and a bored-looking security guard slouched by the door.
I keep my head down, hoodie up, and head straight for the family planning aisle.
My hands won’t stop trembling. The ‘feminine care’ sign looks radioactive in these lights.
Right next to it, the rows of white and pink boxes.
Pregnancy tests. I stand there forever, staring, trying to remember what kind is supposed to be the best. My brain is shot to hell, but I grab the First Response Digital, the name screaming “99% accuracy” in bold pink letters right on the box.
I look down and realize I’m holding it so tight the box is dented. I stuff it under my arm, grab a random pack of gum off the shelf so I don’t look so obvious, and practically run to the register.
The old lady at the counter barely looks at me. I can’t tell if that’s mercy or if she doesn’t give a shit. She scans the test and the gum, doesn’t say a word, pointing at the card reader.
If she knows, she doesn’t let on.
I fumble my debit card out of my wallet and pay. The whole thing takes less than a minute, but it feels like forever.
She bags the box and slides it over to me without a smile. I snatch it, mumble a thank you that comes out more like a croak, and get the hell out.
Back in the car, I rip open the bag, to make sure it’s really in there. The box looks way bigger up this close. All that glossy white plastic and aggressive pink. “YES+” or “NO-” is what the screen is supposed to show. My brain can’t even process which one I want.
The gum falls out of the bag and bounces onto the floor. I don’t bother picking it up.
For a few seconds, I sit in the empty parking lot, staring at the box in my lap. I’m breathing like I’ve just ran a marathon, lungs burning, fingers throbbing from how tight I’m gripping the test.
Maybe it’ll be negative. Maybe this is all just some bad joke. If I wait a little longer, my period will show up, and I’ll laugh about this in a few weeks.
But I know.
I fucking know.
The cold, sick dread won’t let go of me, squeezing tighter and tighter. I shove the test back into the bag, start the car, and drive home. By the time I pull in, I can’t feel my fingers. My whole body is buzzing, part terror, part denial, all of it coming to a head.
I keep the bag clutched to my chest as I walk back into the house, eyes darting left and right even though I know nobody’s awake at this hour. The last thing I need is my stepsisters seeing me with this and running their mouths to my dad and stepmom.
I lock my bedroom door behind me, resting against it, and slide down to the floor.
Two minutes later, I’m in my bathroom. The box is still clenched in my hand, corners digging into my palm.
I stare at the label…First Response Digital, “99% accuracy”…
like that’s supposed to make me feel better.
Like maybe I’ll be one of the one percent the universe decides to take it easy on for once.
I peel open the cardboard, tearing off the little sticky tab.
My fingers are numb and clumsy. I drop the instructions twice before I can unfold them.
The paper’s soft and glossy, and I running my thumb over the words as if they’ll wipe away.
“Hold the stick in the urine stream for five seconds. Lay flat. Wait three minutes for results.”
Simple enough.
I peel open the plastic wrapper. My whole body vibrates out of my skin. The test is cold and smooth, feeling foreign in my hand.
Shit. This is really happening.
When I finally manage to use the test, I’m so nervous I nearly drop the stick in the toilet. I cap it, just like the instructions say, then lay it flat on the edge of the sink. It looks so innocent, lying there. Like it’s not about to change my entire life.
I check my phone. 3:41 a.m. I pace in front of the mirror; arms wrapped around myself.
I check again, as if a minute could possibly have passed.
The seconds crawl. I try to count my breaths, but they come in weird, hiccuping bursts.
I keep glancing at the counter like the test might sprout fangs and lunge at me.
I want to puke again, but there’s nothing left.
Two minutes in. My heart’s beating so hard I can see my shirt moving.
I tell myself not to look. But I look anyway. The screen blinks, like it’s thinking about what sentence it’s going to hand down to me.
Then the digital lines snap on, clear as anything: Yes+.
A real, actual plus sign. The “Yes” is pink, cheery, like it’s mocking me.
For a second I can’t even move. My body shuts down. Then I slap both hands over my mouth. My knees buckle. I slide down, back against the cabinet, head against the wall.
I don’t believe it. I can’t be...
I reach out and snatch up the test, almost angry, hoping if I glare at it hard enough, it’ll change its mind. I shake it. The result doesn’t flicker.
Still there. Yes+. Yes+. Yes+.
Oh my god.
I press the stick to my chest, shaking so bad I nearly drop it again. My teeth rattle. I wonder if it’s possible to pass out sitting down.
I make myself reread the instructions.
Wait three minutes.
Wait for a clear digital answer.
There’s no way to get this wrong. It’s foolproof. Right now, it's just me, the stick, and the certainty of it.
Pregnant.
I rock back and forth, forehead pressed to my knees, the word ringing in my head louder than if someone had screamed it in my ear.
Pregnant.
I’m pregnant. By a stranger whose face I never even saw. Stupid, naive, reckless me.
I stare at the test until my eyes blur. Then I set it down gently, like it’s a bomb, and curl tighter around myself on the floor.
I keep hoping maybe when I blink, the screen will reset.
It doesn’t.
My mind keeps playing every possible scene in my head.
My stepsisters finding out, my stepmom’s horror, the professors glancing at my stomach and knowing, people whispering behind my back.
But the worst picture of all is Ben. Those dark eyes, the way they look at me like I’m worth something, a little half smile that makes me want to risk everything.
What would he do if he knew? Would he go cold, would he pull back, would he look at me and see nothing but someone else’s mistake?
Of course he would. Why would he want to raise someone else’s kid? Why would anyone?
All this time, I was stupid enough to hope that maybe, just maybe…Ben would want me. The real me, baggage and all. I thought I could hold on to that hope, that he wouldn’t figure out how broken I am.
But this? This is next-level fucked up.
Tears keep coming until they don’t.
I could end it. That would be the smart thing, the practical thing. Nobody ever has to know. One appointment, one lie, and my life goes back to normal.
But the thought sends a spike of nausea through me, way worse than before. I can’t. I can't even picture it. Even after all of five minutes, the idea of giving up whatever is growing in me…my baby…hurts in a way I can’t put words to.
My hand moves, protecting my stomach. See, I'm already trying to shield it from the entire world.
I think about Ben again. The way he smiles at me when he thinks I’m not looking. The careful way he touches me, like I won’t shatter if he’s there. My chest aches. I want to tell him everything, I want to blurt out that I messed up and ruined both of our lives and beg him to stay with me anyway.
Except he won’t. Nobody would.
“You did this, April. You fix it. You don’t get to just pretend it didn’t happen.”
I don’t know how long I sit there, on the cold linoleum, tangled in the bathmat, wrapped around a secret no one can ever know. Eventually the tears dry. My cheeks are stiff. My eyes burn. I feel hollowed out.
I’m alone. So fucking alone.
I force myself to breathe, in and out. I glance up and see the sun creeping in. New day. Same disaster.
I’m keeping it.
I don’t say the words out loud, but the decision lands in my chest like a stone. I’m keeping this baby. Even if it means I lose Ben. Even if it means my entire family cuts me off, I flunk out of school, or I have to do it all alone.
For a second, I let myself dream. What if, somehow, Ben came through? What if he wanted me anyway, even with all of this? I hold onto the impossible hope for a few seconds longer before I crush it, because that’s not my life. That’s never been my life.
When I finally get up, it’s because my legs have gone numb and I can’t feel my toes. I make myself go through the motions…wash my face, brush my teeth, change my clothes. I wrap the test in tissue and hide it at the back of my underwear drawer. Thinking if no one sees it, it’ll stop being real.
But it doesn’t stop.
The proof is living inside me now, whether I like it or not.
So I start the day. I pretend I’m fine, because what else am I going to do? I hold on to my secret and try to keep it from swallowing me whole.