9. Petra
PETRA
PRESENT DAY
Two and a half months have passed since that night at Elias Rutherford’s house, and as I sit at my desk, exhaustion seems to press me down ever farther into my chair.
I’m always tired these days, no matter how much I sleep. And even that sleep is disturbed by peculiar dreams.
In some of them, I drift through large rooms filled with transparent, fleshless outlines of people. They stand around and hold silent conversations, all dressed in old clothes, as if frozen in time.
It’s like watching a period drama where the main character is some weird version of me: a repressed and misunderstood young woman fighting against the confines of society.
Perhaps I’ve been watching too much of The Gilded Age. Perhaps . . .
Yet sometimes, the dreams are vivid scraps of sense-memory from time spent in that room with Sin: the deep colors of the bed coverings and the curtains, the muted glow of the ornate lamps, the music . . . as if by going over those scenes while I slept, my mind is trying to recover some lost memory.
And not to mention my mood swings, which have lately been affecting all personal relationships.
My parents did manage to procure a gift for me when they finally remembered that their daughter was again reaching important milestones in utter isolation.
I had been in a particularly nasty mood at that time, so I made them—well, their assistants, actually—run all around the place so I could have exactly the dress I wanted: a knee-length black and gold brocade dress from Dolce I had neither a coherent memory of the whole event nor the suitable words to articulate it.
This thought niggles at me as I start typing a response but stop midway, unsure of what to say.
Just then, another message pops up.
What’s up? Everything cool?
Yeah, sure. Why?
Not the most elaborate of responses, but it was better than not responding at all.
Nothing. Just, feels like you’ve been avoiding me lately.
I can’t blame her for feeling this way. But did she have to insist on knowing anyway? Yes, we took pride in how vulnerable we dared to be with each other, how we entrusted each other with our tenderest jealousies, our tiniest perversions.
But did she have the right to demand any confessions when I was in such a mess? It feels like too much; it feels unfair.
Still, I try to remain courteous as I text back:
I’m fine, Ames. Just been feeling off lately.
Almost instantly, she replies:
Off how? Talk to me, Petra. You know you can, right?
I take a deep breath, trying to stem the burning ire that rises in my throat, blocking my actual passageways. A dull ache persists around my temples as I write back:
I know, Ames. It’s just . . . a lot.
A lot how?
She messages back almost immediately. Already the conversation has been taxing, so I almost put the phone away at this point. But it buzzes with another message from her.
Are you shutting me out, Petra? Was it something I said?
The frustration in her words finally sparks something in me. Or maybe it’s one of those unpredictable swings in my disposition, the rapid to-and-fro across the full spectrum of human emotions that has lately inflicted me.
Whatever the reason, I snap at the most caring person in my life so far.
It’s not that simple, Amelia!
There’s a pause, and then she writes back:
What’s not simple, Petra?
We are using each other’s full first names now. That’s how bad things have gotten.
Tears prick my eyes as I type back, my anger and guilt finally spilling over.
You wouldn’t understand.
Try me!
Her response is instantaneous; it feels like if I did ask her, she would somehow appear in my bedroom in a flash and a twinkle, like some teenage fairy godmother.
And still I hesitate, my fingers suspended midair, contorted and quivering, as if I’m literally grasping at straws.
How can I explain the whirlwind I have been caught in since that night?
How can I tell her about Sin and everything that happened?
I can’t say right now.
Why not? You used to tell me everything.
I don’t know, Ames, please don’t push. Things are difficult.
But we deal with them together, remember?
I remember, Ames. This time . . . it’s different.
Different how?
More relentless questioning that I’m not prepared for. How can I explain something I don’t fully understand myself?
I don’t know how to explain.
Is this about a guy?
The question hits me like an uppercut from nowhere, and I feel my anger rising again.
Why does it always have to be about a guy?
Because you’re acting like a girl who’s got her heart broken.
That’s such a snarky thing to say, Ames. Just FYI, EVERYTHING in my life is difficult right now.
Okay, now you’re scaring me, Petra. Just tell me what’s going on. Are you sick or something?
I pause and grapple with the sheer force of my instincts to just tell her, just come clean. But I am not sure how.
I need time, Ames. Please, can you just understand that? I’m not doing this to shut you out.
She takes a while to respond this time. I almost expect her to never talk to me again, but my phone buzzes with a final message from her.
It’s all right, Petra. Take your time. See you on the other side.
The last line sounds like a farewell message, and I feel a tear slip down my cheek. I don’t respond. I can’t.
Instead, I throw my phone onto the bed, pick up a pillow, and let out a guttural, winding scream into its soft depths.
Of course, it’s because I can’t shake off the feeling that I’ve just pushed Amelia further away. It’s also because I have been a hot mess the last few weeks, because after that night with . . . with Sin, I have received exactly zero messages from him.
Despite my best efforts, my mind drifts back to that night. The way Sin had looked at me and touched me, how our comfortable chat had turned into something more, something that still felt . . . illicit in a way.
I remember the way everything had felt good and bad at the same time. Was that what sex was supposed to feel like? Or is my experience, like me, an outlier?
Just then, a loud beep from my phone, signaling a health notification. The moment I see that little message, a rush of adrenaline makes me sit up. I realize I’ve been so caught up in everything that I haven’t noticed a crucial development.
I’ve skipped my periods.
Panic floods away any attempt at rational thought. I do a mental calculation. It’s been over two months.
How did I not notice this sooner? My hands start to tremble as I grab my phone and search for the nearest drugstore.
Then I pause and say, “WHAT THE FUCK?” out loud because life has felt so surreal as of late that I wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow I wake up and the whole thing—the fight with Amelia, the odd dreams, my lethargy—has been a dream.
Yet, one look at the cycle tracker on my phone, and I know that I’m in trouble. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. One step at a time, Petra. First, I need to know for sure. Everything else can wait.
But as I head out the door, my belly does flips, and my knees shake so hard I struggle to descend the steps in front of it. Why does it feel like my life is about to change forever?
Half an hour later, I walk into the drugstore. I had to find a place farther away from home; nobody we knew could see me here.
Already, the feeling of being wrong, of doing wrong, is starting to corrode my spirits.
Intellectually, I know that mistakes happen and that such mistakes are in no way a judgment on a girl’s moral character.
Yet the larger part of me is already on the lookout for persecution. My senses are on high alert and my footsteps erratic.
Once inside the store, I glance around nervously, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. The aisle with the pregnancy tests seems miles away, but I force myself to move forward, even though my feet drag on like lead.
I scan the shelves and finally reach for a box. Vaguely, I remember that you’re supposed to take a bunch of tests from different brands to ensure that you don’t get false positives or false negatives.
I grab a couple more of those discreetly packaged boxes and reach the counter.
The cashier, a pretty older woman with soft green eyes, smiles warmly as I place the box in front of her.
“Hi there,” she says while scanning my item without really looking at it. “How are you doing today?”
I’m a teenage girl buying at-home pregnancy tests at a drugstore, so take a guess, lady! I think hysterically while trying to muster a smile.
But it comes out as a mangled grimace as I say, “I’m . . . okay.”
At this point, she finally registers what I’m buying at the store. When she looks up, her eyes are filled with empathy. “It’s going to be all right, sweetheart. Here, take this.”
She slips a small brochure into the bag along with the tests.
“I know you’re young, so if you need someone to talk to, someone grown up, or even someone other than your parents, there are people who can help.”
I glance at the brochure. It’s for the Planned Parenthood center in Radcliffe.
I feel so numb with terror at this point that I can only whisper, “Thanks,” in a barely audible voice.
She squeezes my hand and gives me another reassuring smile that completely fails to comfort me. “You take care of yourself, okay?”
I nod and rush out of the store. The walk home is a blur.
By the time I reach my house, my hands feel chilled to the bone, even though it’s warm enough outside.
After stepping in, I head straight to the bathroom, where I take the tests out of the box.