10. Petra
PETRA
I follow the instructions mechanically and lay out two tests on the counter, beginning the most anxious wait of my life.
What to do in the meantime? Nothing holds my attention long enough to stop the rising tides of fear.
I pull out the brochure and try reading some of it.
But the words are generic—“choices,” “options,” “empowerment”—and I barely register the shape of the sentences, let alone their actual meanings.
I already know the test results. The missed periods, the exhaustion, the mood swings. All the signs are there.
So when the timer on my phone finally goes off, I don’t even need to glance at the sticks before the bottom drops out of my belly. As if the timer has marked the beginning of some terrible ordeal.
When I finally bring myself to pick up the tests and look at them, my ears are filled with a loud ringing noise.
Two lines. On both of them.
Positive.
I stare at it, my vision blurring with tears. Hot and urgent, they stream down my face.
I chant, “No, no, no.”
I think of the kind woman at the drugstore, her caring smile, and the hope in her eyes.
I think of my parents who must be in some client briefing at a hip tech office with minimalist glass décor.
I think of Amelia, and the distance between us that feels even wider now.
And I think of Sin, and the night that changed everything.
I stare at the positive pregnancy tests in my hands.
How could this happen?
How could I get pregnant from the first and only time I had sex?
Short, panicked gasps burst out of my chest as I try to process the shitshow my life has become. The bathroom suddenly feels too suffocating. I clutch the edge of the sink, trying to steady myself, but my legs feel like jelly.
I sink to the floor, hugging myself tightly and rocking back and forth.
What am I going to do?
My parents will flip out when they find out their perfect daughter is pregnant.
Maybe they’ll disown me.
Maybe they’ll kick me out.
More panic crashes down on me, and it feels like I have been pushed underwater, all over again.
I need to finish high school. I need to graduate, so I can go to college, get away from this place, start a new life.
But I can’t do that without their financial support, no matter how dissatisfied I am with my home life.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anyone to talk to. Amelia is mad at me, and even if she weren’t, how could I tell her about any of this? How could I admit that I’m pregnant and can barely remember how it happened?
The woman at the drugstore said I could talk to someone, that there are people who can help. Maybe that’s what I need—someone who isn’t my parents, who isn’t Amelia, someone who can help me come up with a solution without judging me.
Maybe I will eventually come out on the other side.
But right now, I’m in for another spate of sleepless nights till school starts.
When the alarm finally goes off on the first day of the next term, I drag myself out of bed like a zombie.
The girl in the mirror wears an ashen face, her eyes lined with dark circles.
I put on the biggest Jimmy Choo sunglasses from my wardrobe and pray to whatever eldritch horror is pulling the strings of my life that I can survive the day without any more terrifying discoveries.
Please don’t let me miss out on Art History, I think wryly, coolly, but I’m dying inside; everything feels like the end of the world, and it’s not just because I am a moody teenager, but because I’m preg—
No, no, no, not thinking about that, not yet. I know I can’t be in denial forever, but I have no idea how to go about doing what needs to be done.
Scratch that, I have no idea what needs to be done!
Instead, I just get inside the car that drives me to school, like I do every day.
When I reach my destination, the schoolyard is already bustling with students. They look sprightly and carefree, perhaps glad to be back among their friends.
The air is filled with the chatter of excited teenagers, and groups form and reform here and there. Stories of summer adventures are shared in brash, bragging tones.
In the starkest of contrasts, I make my way through the crowd with my head down, trying to avoid eye contact.
I usually feel like everyone is staring at me, but today, that feeling is amplified. I keep thinking that all of them—including the teachers, the custodians, the lunch lady—know my secret and are judging me for it.
It’s probably all in my head, but I can never be sure anymore.
In the hallway, I see Sin talking to his friends, and my heart almost throbs in pain.
How to tell him? Do I tell him? What will he say? Will he be angry? At who? Who’s at fault here anyways?
Will he blame me?
Each of these questions sends pangs of anxiety through my limbs.
Still, I attempt to play it cool. Instead of spying on Sin like a loser, I turn around and walk into the registration office.
Time to bag the art history class. It had been one of my top choices for this semester, the only thing I had been looking forward to all summer.
As usual, the office is abuzz with activity; students shuffle in and out, while advisors tap away at their keyboards.
I approach the counter, clutching my schedule and request forms.
“Hi. I’m here to register for my classes.”
“Name?” says the woman behind the counter in a curt voice.
“Petra Valentine.”
She types my name into the computer. After a few moments, she looks back at me with an office worker’s vacant stare, like she’s looking at a spot on the wall behind me.
“Class requests?”
I hand her my forms, my excitement barely contained.
“I’m really excited about Art History with Ms. Matthews. It’s my first choice.”
She scans the forms and then starts entering the data into the system. The whole time, her expression doesn’t budge an inch.
I watch her face, trying to read any hint of a reaction, but it’s an exercise in futility. Finally, she looks back at me, and I know something’s wrong before she even speaks.
“Yeah, no, Art History’s full.”
My stomach drops. “What, already? I came here as soon as I could.”
“It’s a very popular class,” she responds in a monotonous drawl, like she has been reciting the same line to other enthusiasts and hopefuls throughout the morning. “I can put you on the waiting list, but there’s no guarantee you’ll get in.”
My shoulders slump, and my heart sinks. “Is there really no way to get in? Maybe I can speak to the professor and-and show her all my preparations for the cou—”
“Can’t help, sorry. Gotta stick to the enrollment limits. For the already-registered students.” The woman is not even looking at me, a merciful respite because I’m on the verge of tears.
Then she hands me back my forms, along with a revised schedule.
“Here are the other options. Find something else that interests you, and let us know within the week.”
I glance down at the list, but it’s hard to focus. All I can think about is how much I had been looking forward to this class, and now another thing is slipping out of my control.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’ll figure something out.”
I walk out of the office, the revised schedule crumpled in my hand.
Great, just great.
First the pregnan—the you-know-what—and now this.
Which of my haters is vengeful enough to make a voodoo doll of me? Will they ever stop sticking pins into it?
Though my inner cynic poses such zany questions, she’s also freaking out.
At least a part of me is still making jokes.
But things are always destined to get complicated, right? As I am trudging past the quad, wondering when my life started to spiral so rapidly, so comically, into the bottomless pits of hell, who do I spy with my weary eye?
Sin.
A tight-knit circle of admirers stands around him. Girls laugh at his jokes, touching his arms, vying for his attention, fluttering their eyelashes like debutantes at some Victorian ball.
I feel a pang of jealousy and self-consciousness.
How many of those girls has he been intimate with? Am I just one of many? Did he get any of them pregnant, too? Did he make them get an abortion?
After all, if he was so quick to have unprotected sex with me, who else has he been having it with?
Oh my God. I haven’t even thought about STDs.
Fucking hell! That’s the last thing I need right now . . .
I turn away quickly, knowing that these thoughts will gnaw at me all day. As he shares jokes and tells amusing stories, Sin seems so far out of my league, so different from the guy who held me in his arms that night.
Should I tell him? What if he doesn’t care? I am unable to concentrate in class, my mind replaying the same doubts and fears over and over again.
By lunchtime, I’ve made up my mind.
I will tell him. He’s as responsible for this as I am—maybe more so, considering I can barely remember any of it.
I find a quiet corner in the library, looking around carefully to ensure nobody can see me, and write a note.
I am obviously not going to text him out of nowhere. It’s better to do things this way.
Safer.
More . . . impersonal.
By the end, I’ve rewritten the note a bunch of times. But the one I’m holding now is as good as it’s going to get.
I haven’t signed it with my name, as if wishing to preserve my privacy, my anonymity, for as long as I can. Or maybe I’m scared that he will not do as the note says once he finds out it’s from me.
Furtively, like some two-bit detective from a sitcom, I make my way to Sin’s locker, trying to look casual.
The hallway is still crowded with students, but they are all busy chatting. Probably crowing about bagging a seat in Art History, I think glumly.
I walk briskly till I reach his locker, and once there, I glance around before slipping the note into the slats.
Even I’m surprised at the smoothness with which the maneuver is executed. After securing the note in place, I simply walk away, but its message lingers in my mind, clear and simple:
Meet me after class in the gardener’s shed.