1
They say good things happen to good people, and bad things happen to bad people. I’m not sure where that leaves me. Writing, I suppose. And what are writers anyway? Good people? Bad people? Apathetic people trying to feel some emotion through imagination? I’m not sure. I feel. So maybe I’m not a writer either.
2
In retrospect, I don’t remember why I did it. I should have known better. We were lying together on his bed; we’d just watched a movie. His arms were around me and I had happily buried my head into his chest. He kissed my forehead. I never understood why that gesture was supposed to be so romantic. It kind of reminded me of watching my friends’ parents kiss them goodbye when we were children. Maybe it’s the love that matters. Parents that kiss their children on their foreheads love them. Boyfriends that kiss their girlfriends on their foreheads love them. I guess that’s what makes that gesture so romantic. I sat up on my elbows. I suppose that wasn’t really sitting up. I was still lying down, but my chest was off the bed, propped up by my elbows. It’s a familiar position, I’m sure you can imagine it. He kissed me. I kissed him. We kissed.
“Would you have sex with me?”
Two years. That’s how long we’d been together.
I nodded.
“Now?”
He said it softly, but in a frustrated, demanding way. It wasn’t romantic. Nothing about the memory makes my heart leap.
I nodded again.
Neither of us moved. I swallowed hard. I was expecting him to say that maybe we shouldn’t, but he didn’t.
“We should take off our clothes.”
That wasn’t romantic either. Nothing about stripping in front of another person is romantic. At least not in the fashion we did.
I nodded again.
He looked at me. I didn’t move. Neither did he.
“Take off your shirt.”
I blinked at him. I consciously remember deciding to blink in his direction. He watched me expectantly. I blinked again. Then I removed my shirt. It was black and kind of tight-fitting. I tossed it over the edge of the bed. I imagine it looked rejected, not excited like the clothing left on the floor of sets in movies do. More like a shirt thrown haphazardly in a teenager’s messy room. His room was messy. Maybe no one would have even noticed it.
“And your bra.”
I unhooked it and threw in the general direction of my shirt. When I went to redress later, they were a few feet apart. I was never athletically talented. Or maybe I was just distracted. I don’t remember putting any thought into trying to land my bra on top of my shirt. My bra was black. Not to seduce my boyfriend, but so it wouldn’t show under my thin, black shirt. Even if it had been to seduce him, I don’t think he would have appreciated it. Bras are just an obstacle and seduce better in creating cleavage visible past the low neckline of a v-neck than when that v-neck has been discarded onto the floor. Women spend too much time and money on lingerie.
I did love him, though. I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t loved him.
He took off his shirt and threw it in the opposite direction. It was a very bright shade of green. Grass green perhaps. Not dead grass, but the bright, summer grass. The color was nice, but it made him look exceptionally pale. I never liked that shirt on him. It didn’t fit him well either. Of course that was stylish then, wearing shirts that didn’t fit well. For the boys anyway, girls wore shirts like my black v-neck. Boys would tuck the front of their big t-shirts into their pants so their belt buckles would show. It was the kind of fashion fad that no one really ever understood. Belts were very popular in general then. My mother never understood that. My mother thought belts were supposed to be functional, not fashionable. She pretended to understand sometimes, but she wasn’t patient and really didn’t care to understand. That was how she was in general, not just about belts. He unfastened his belt and pulled it through the belt loops on his pants. His underwear showed over the top. I never understood that either. He dropped the belt. The heavy end pulled the rest to the floor like a slithering, leather snake. It was a snake that seduced Eve into sin, you know.
He stood up and pushed his pants off his hips. I imagine his jeans fell to the floor around his ankles. I don’t remember him pushing them to the side, kicking them off, or anything like that. I was still sitting on top of his unmade bed, so I couldn’t see. His sheets were gray, his comforter was black. There’s really nothing comforting about a black comforter. I remember running my fingers over the top of it absentmindedly while I watched my boyfriend take off his underwear.
He looked at me.
“Why are you still wearing your pants?”
I blinked at him again and looked down at my body. The way I was sitting made my skin crunch up just above my hip on one side. The other side was smooth and tight. I stood up and took off my pants. I tossed them over to the general vicinity of my shirt and bra.
“And your panties.”
I never really liked the word panties. Or underwear for that matter. I remember thinking that when he made that suggestion. I remember thinking a lot of things when he made that suggestion. “Panties” is a pretty grown-up word for underwear, meaning grown-ups seem to prefer it when talking about their own undergarments. Women, anyway. It made me think of my stepfather. But it’s too early in the story to explain why.
I pushed my green thong over my thighs with my thumbs. The color was very similar to the shirt he’d already discarded. I grasped the sides tenderly and stepped out of it, one foot and then the other. I let it dangle from my pointer finger for a moment; not to be sexy, but rather with contemplation. I think that was when it hit me what we were doing. I let it drop to the ground. I think it landed on his guitar. He didn’t play guitar very well. Actually, he barely played at all. He might have known three chords, but mostly he was the type to memorize popular songs. He had even given up on that. I don’t remember the last time he’d played guitar. There was a time that he’d invite me over every time he learned a new one to sing it to me. They were never love songs, but I appreciated them as much as if he’d written each as a love song for me.
I did love him. I wouldn’t have liked that if I hadn’t loved him.
He looked at me. I didn’t move. Neither did he.
I shifted my weight and felt a marble next to my toe. I didn’t look down at it, but I think it was a marble. I always remember the marble as being one of those clear ones with a stripe of color inside. The stripe was red. At least, that’s how I imagined it to be. I never looked, though. It might not have even been a marble.
“I lo—”
“Lay on the bed.”
I did.
He climbed on top of me, not touching me at all. His eyes were alive. The way that people look alive after they’ve been in a lot of pain or pleasure or really happy or really sad, full of emotion in any way.
I did love him. I wouldn’t have let this happen if I hadn’t loved him.
“Are you scared?”
I nodded.
A tear fell down my cheek.
I don’t think he noticed.
“I’m not.”
He looked away. Above my head. He’d had a poster directly above his head. Of a band. I just don’t remember which one. The background was black. The band was a little less mainstream, but very trendy. The poster reflected that. Then he looked at my lips.
“Are you a virgin?”
I nodded.
I lied. But it’s too early in the story to explain why.
“Me too.”
He touched my collarbone. Kissed my neck twice, pretty gently. He let his finger slide down from my collarbone to my breast. He poked my nipple. I don’t think he meant to, but he did. He cupped his hand around my breast. He groped. I looked at his face. It was curious.
“Let’s have sex.”
I bit my lip. He looked up at my face to see if I was nodding. I wasn’t.
“I don’t have a condom.”
I especially didn’t nod at that.
He took his right hand off of me and placed it back on the bed. He lowered his pelvis to meet mine and the two joined. The rest is too personal to share.
Afterward he let himself collapse on top of me. He was small, but still felt heavy. The way he laid on top of me made it hard to breathe. He smiled. He touched my hair with his left hand, his head rested on my chest. He pushed my hair behind my ear and laughed. He laughed hard. His whole body shook on top of mine.
“Do you think you’re pregnant?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
And he laughed harder.
3
Although that is where I started the story, that isn’t where it started. It started on my birthday, a little over fifteen years ago. I don’t remember my birthday. My parents weren’t ever the type to talk about what a little bundle of joy I was, what my mom was doing when her water broke, or what I would have been named if I’d been born a boy. I don’t even know if they knew I was a girl before I was born. I can’t imagine not knowing for nine months. I’m the type to like to call the little fetus by its name and gender, the type to use “her” instead of “it.” My life would have been very different if I’d been a boy. I hope my parents were prepared for a girl. I figure a girl would have been easier anyway, I have an older sister. I don’t know how much of my baby things were her hand-me-downs; I’m not sure my parents were prepared enough to have kept her old crib and clothes. They definitely weren’t sentimental enough. I got a lot of hand-me-downs as I grew up. I think my sister tried to make up for it for being particularly generous and buying me a lot of clothes when she came into town after she grew up and moved out. She has two kids now.
My childhood was not beautiful. It may help you understand how I became to be how I am, but it wasn’t beautiful. I don’t even know which pieces are significant enough to retell. There’s a lot I’ve forgotten. And there’s even more I wish I could have forgotten.
I saw this movie. There was one scene where the two sisters were telling their grandmother they’d never met about their mom. Their mom had been crazy and ended up dying or some insanity, or at least that’s how I understood the ending of the story to be. One morning, she woke them up really early and the girls and the mom made a lot of fudge they were eating and donating or something like that. They stayed home from school that day and they’d gotten a puppy. The youngest girl said it was the best day of her life. Her mom died later that week and her dad made her get rid of the puppy, but her sister had sheltered her from all of the bad stuff and so she had the best day of her life. My mom never did anything like that, but I figure the best day of my childhood was sheltered by my sister. We didn’t always get along, but I’m glad for the days that we did. I love my sister. I guess my mom not doing anything like that means she isn’t crazy. I guess that should be reassuring, but sometimes I wish she had been.
I think I’ll let my childhood fall into place as the story progresses.
4
It’s not surprising that I got pregnant.
It was too predictable and too cliché, but I did get pregnant. I should have protested that he should have used a condom. It was wrong that he didn’t. It was wrong that I didn’t make him.
When I found out, I wasn’t sure exactly how to react. I felt bad. I felt guilty. I’d made a huge mistake, the exact mistake that everyone preaches you not to make when you become “sexually active.” So I guess it was all my fault. Yeah, the baby was half his, but I should have known better. If that makes me the only person in the world who takes responsibility for her actions, I don’t care. If that makes me the only person in the world who takes more than her fair share of responsibility for her actions, I don’t care. If you think either of those might be true, you’re absolutely insane; especially the second one. Don’t call me responsible. There was nothing responsible about what I did. And I really should have known better.
My aunt is a doctor. She was the one who told me. She agreed to adopt the baby and help me however she could, and for that I’m eternally grateful. I loved my aunt. I spent a lot of time at the doctor that week, putting together a meal plan, figuring out how to best support the baby, and just talking to her. She was the only one who knew, but she wanted to change that. She made me promise that I’d tell my parents by the end of the week or else she would. I wanted to do it, so I did. But I told someone else first.
I’d met this girl in my biology class. I wasn’t too close to her. She’d just been the figure sitting in front of me in one of those long black tables you find in all biology classrooms. She made me smile and I came to love what she created. Something about all of that made me trust her a lot.
A little while before I found out I was pregnant, she’d thrown our club and all of the other similar local clubs a holiday party at a shop downtown. The shop was – and still is – one of the most intriguing places I’d ever been. Everyone who came spent the first half hour they were there looking around in awe. The woman who owned the shop was very nice, helping everyone out and talking passionately about the local art she sold. She said she wanted to make her shop a safe place for kids to go when things went wrong or right or weren’t going at all. A lot of adults say that, but I believed her when she said it and trusted her. I think everyone did.
The party went pretty well. We all met a few new people and had a lot of fun. Afterward, we all piled into one of two cars and started the journey home. Before we made it back to the comforts of our humble suburban homes, we made a stop at a chain diner and split a few meals amongst all of us. We talked and laughed and seemed to become real friends. And I really trusted her. I bought her a scarf she’d really wanted from the shop and she was wearing it. She loved it. I loved that she loved it.
We were in some sort of communication through winter break. She was amicable and sweet and our conversations always made me laugh. I felt close to her.
So I asked her if I could tell her something.
She said yes.
I told her I was pregnant.
She promised not to tell anyone.
We’ve been the closest of friends ever since.
I never really told anyone else I didn’t feel like had to know. Not even my best friend, I was afraid she’d tell someone. And I know how people think of pregnant teenagers. It wouldn’t have made a difference that it was my boyfriend’s baby, or that we’d been together since middle school. No one would want to hear the story. I would be subjected to unnecessary judgment. And although I knew everyone would eventually have to know, I saw no reason to tell anyone before they had to know. Except her. I could trust her. So I told her. And she gave me no reason not to trust her. And I didn’t tell anyone else because they all had.
We talked every night. She would ask me about my day and I’d ask her about hers. I’d send her pictures from ultrasounds and we talked about what to name the baby depending on the sex. She was helpful and I came to depend on her. She never gave me a reason to not depend on her; she may have even liked it. Not necessarily that I depended on her, but that she could be there for me. But it’s too soon in the story for you to understand all of the little reasons why.
I told my parents too – or rather my mom and my step dad. And I was scared. I had planned to tell my parents in church so they wouldn’t be able to scream and yell and slap and hit and punish. I had planned to tell my parents in church so they would be reminded of their religious duties as parents and how they were supposed to love me. But I didn’t tell them in church.
It was after dinner. They were sitting in the living room watching something on TV. I never liked the same things they did, a generation gap, I suppose. I don’t think anyone enjoys television as a family, regardless of each network trying to make “family television,” it just doesn’t exist. Even parents watching TV with their little kids isn’t necessarily enjoyable for them, they just do it because they feel like they should or maybe because they love their children and their children love them. This isn’t to say that as we grow up we love our parents less; we just don’t love having them around as much. So we watch different shows and take our free time away from each other. And that’s how it was that night, when I told them.
I sat down next to them. And off of the conclusions drawn above, it’s hard to believe that neither of them said anything. Both just continued watching their program – whatever it was – and seemingly didn’t notice me. I coughed gently into my closed fist and my mom looked in my direction. She didn’t smile or looked concerned; she just looked at me as if to acknowledge my presence. It wasn’t like that, though. It was almost annoyed the more I think about it, or just apathetic. I had broken the trend of separation and it went without any care. I didn’t think of it that way at the time, but if I had, I probably would have stuck with my plan to tell them at church or maybe even let my aunt break the news to them. But I didn’t. I told them that night.
At a commercial, I cleared my throat and sat up on my chair a little straighter. It was a recliner. I liked to sit sideways in chairs like that, but I hadn’t that night. It was blue. My mom and step dad sat together on the couch – also blue – but didn’t touch each other.
Neither of them looked at me.
Cat litter was more interesting than I was. That was the commercial, cat litter.
“I need to tell you something.”
Neither of them looked over at me immediately. It was as if my request took a few minutes to process. Then my mom turned her head and looked at me.
“What did you do now?”
I wanted to say nothing. The best response to that kind of question is nothing. That or something incredible that they can be proud of, but that wasn’t going to happen this time. I wouldn’t lie to them. It wouldn’t get me anywhere.
“I got pregnant.”
My step dad’s head snapped to the right to look at me.
“You did what?”
His voice was raised slightly, but still deep and angry with a little disbelief. He’d hoped he’s misheard me, but somewhere deep down he knew he hadn’t. Maybe not even that deep. The hope that he’d misheard was so shallow that knowing he hadn’t wasn’t even buried.
And since he knew and I knew he knew, I didn’t answer his question.
As for my mom, she just sat there for a moment.
Now it was a commercial for a vacuum cleaner. A woman was vacuuming her stairs and smiling. No one smiles while vacuuming.
His voice got deeper and louder when he said, “What did you say?”
I hesitated.
“I got pregnant.”
My mom stood up and smacked me across the jaw. My head moved with the blow, my chin crashing against my shoulder. My face stung. She didn’t say anything. I don’t know what she was thinking then. I think she thought I was a whore, but she should have known better. But we never knew each other that well anyway.
When I turned my head back to face her, she glared at me and then stormed out of the room. My stepfather stood up.
“Now look at what you did.”
He sounded kind of calm. His voice was exceptionally deep. It was all too familiar to me. I stood up to try to leave, but he grabbed me. His fingers dug into the exposed flesh on my right arm, his nails clawed into my skin. I tried to push him off, but I couldn’t, he was too strong. He held my other arm with his other hand, and he turned me to face him. He let me go, looking into my eyes. There was fire there. Not the fire like feeling particularly alive gives you, but the angry fire that’s just a little different. His hands were clenched into fists. He relaxed one and slapped me the same place my mother had.
“How dare you do that to us!”
Spit flew from his mouth onto my cheek. He didn’t floss often enough. His breath smelled like a stale version of what we’d had for dinner. I remember I hadn’t eaten much, even with the baby in mind, I was too nervous to have more than a few bites. We both went to bed without proper nourishment that night and I regret that a lot.
Both of his hands were turned into fists again. I slowly turned my head back to look at him, as I did, I saw him pulling his arm back into a punch.
The punch landed on my stomach.
It was so hard I fell back into the chair from the force. I clutched my stomach and glared at him. Tears streaked down my face. He moaned.
“How the fuck could you do this to me?”
Reading the words I’ve just written doesn’t give them the force he gave them. He pulled his fist back again to punch me again. I turned and covered my stomach, he struck me in the shoulder. When I looked over that shoulder at him, he was shaking his hand from the impact of my bone.
“Fucking little cunt!”
He wound up another punch, this one making contact with my thigh which I’d drawn up over my stomach. He wound up for another, landing on my arm. And another.
This one was intercepted by my mother.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
She shrieked at him.
“You’re going to kill the baby!”
There was a pause. I couldn’t see much of him. My mother was standing in the way, holding tightly onto his clenched fist. I heard him breathing hard, wheezing a little with each breath.
“Good.”
She pushed him back.
“Go somewhere.”
He pushed her out of the way. She stumbled over something on the floor and tripped into the wall. She grabbed the phone off of the receiver on the table next to her. She must have dialed 911.
He went to punch me again, but hearing her on the phone he kicked my chair. It fell over. Then he left the room, punching a wall on the way out. He left an indentation. It’s still there.
My mom picked up the chair and told me to stand up. She gave me a hug and told me she loved me. I love her too. She promised me everything would be okay and helped me to the couch. She covered me in a blanket and told me to stay there and not to move.
“We’ll save this baby.”
I shook while I waited for someone to come and wheel me away to an ambulance that would drive me away to a hospital where they would save my baby. The ambulance never came. My aunt did. She brought me back to her office and ran a few dozen tests while I cried. The baby was okay, but how okay we couldn’t be certain. I’d have to be really careful. The pregnancy would be difficult.
I put pillows around me that night so I couldn’t roll onto my stomach. I used to sleep like that before I got pregnant, on my stomach. Even now I sleep on my back. I fell asleep quickly that night and waking up the next morning was hard. I never paid less attention at school.
5
I had to tell the father too. I figured it was only fair. Especially since I intended to keep the baby. I thought about aborting it, but not for long. The reason for that will be better explained later.
I couldn’t tell him in person. Maybe some people would consider that weak, but those people haven’t been in that situation. I was shaken from telling my parents in person. I was stronger from telling Alexx. And now he had to know.
I called him. And I said hello. He asked me what was wrong. It was really reassuring that he immediately knew that I was upset. If he had gone onto another topic I don’t know if I could have done it. I felt like he cared. I felt like he loved me. I felt like he could love our baby too.
But still I hesitated.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
I don’t remember if he’d ever called me babe before that. It wasn’t something he did often. One time a friend of mine started calling of her friends “buddy.” She didn’t know anyone who did that, but it just occurred to her one day. Buddy can be offensive at times, but babe . . . well, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Regardless, he asked what was wrong . . . babe.
“I’m not sure how to tell you this.”
My voice was really weak when I said that.
“Tell me what?”
I hesitated.
“You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know.”
“So just tell me.”
People use that tactic a lot. I’m not sure if it’s effective. Maybe we need that reminder that we can trust a person. Maybe we need to know that that person wants to know our secrets.
I hesitated for a second. And I heard him sigh. He was starting to sound frustrated. That made me hesitate for another second. Then he was silent.
“I’m pregnant.”
He was still silent.
And there was tension.
“You cheated on me?”
My jaw dropped. We’d had sex without a condom. We’d been together for two years. It was incredulous. It was ridiculous. It was preposterous and outrageous and ludicrous.
“You cheated on me?”
I could tell he was trying to keep his voice down. Sometimes when he was angry, his hands would shake pretty violently. I imagine they were. His voice was quivering.
I tried to speak. It made sense to speak in a situation like this, but it was hard. It was harder than to tell him. I guess that makes sense, though. He’d refused any responsibility which was what I most afraid of. I just hadn’t expected him to think I was cheating on him. I had expected him to react really well. And he most definitely hadn’t.
“Fuck. I can’t believe you cheated on me.”
Quick pause.
“I didn’t.”
My voice was quiet. A tiny little squeak. So I believe him when he said:
“What?”
I cleared my throat. That’s when I realized I was crying. I always thought that was so ridiculous. How do people not realize they’re crying? I suppose it’s when too much else is going on.
“I didn’t cheat on you.”
“And you expect me to fucking believe that? You’re pregnant! You must have cheated on me!”
“You have to believe me. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t cheat on you. We had sex without a condom. We’ve been together for two years.”
It was frantic. It was rushed. It was more like this:
“You have to believe me! I swear I didn’t cheat on you! Wehadsexwithoutacondom! We’vebeentogetherfortwoyears!”
But that doesn’t look very professional.
“Fuck you. You fucking bitch.”
Neither does that.
His voice was angry, but steady, in a shaking way. He sounded like he was trying so hard to control his rage. When he said that, I thought of my stepdad. And I was really glad I hadn’t told him in person.
And I didn’t reply. I just cried.
“You’re a fucking bitch!”
I was especially glad I hadn’t told him in person when he started to lose control.
There were so many things I still wanted to tell him, but he was so angry. I didn’t think he was going to listen. I tried anyway.
“Listen to me. Please, please listen to me. And believe me. This baby is ours. And I love you. And I love this baby. And I want to keep it. You can play whatever role you want, but I’m going to keep this baby. And she – or maybe he – is going to live a wonderful life and I’d love for her – or maybe his – father to be involved in that wonderful life. And that’s you. It’s you, it’s no one else, and –”
I had to stop to take a breath. And sob. I wasn’t even crying anymore; I was sobbing.
He didn’t say anything. I didn’t think it was because he expected I had more to say. I knew he hadn’t listened to a word of it.
He was breathing heavily into the phone. I was sobbing heavily into the phone. And that’s how it was for a few minutes. I was afraid to break the silence. Breaking silences was always hard for me, but especially this one. I didn’t know what to say. Everything I thought of felt so wrong.
Finally he spoke.
His voice was a little steadier, a little more even, a little more under control, but still equally as angry.
“I never want to speak to you again.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I want you and your baby out of my life.”
I didn’t think there was anything I could say.
“You’re a whore. And you deserve this.”
That’s what I was most afraid of.
“And I don’t.”
But he did.
And he hung up.
I fell onto my pillow and cried. I wasn’t sure what to do. I expected him to understand. To love me. To love that baby. But he didn’t.
So I told Alexx about the whole thing. And I loved her. And she loved me. And she loved the baby.
6
I wasn’t a whore. But for a long time I believed that I was.
People told me I was a whore pretty often. My stepfather, my ex-boyfriend, my friends. The word gets thrown around as a joke so often amongst friends, but it really isn’t. It resonates more than most other jesting insults.
This story concerns a friend of a friend. I wouldn’t tell this story because it’s not mine, but it seems relevant. To keep it a little less confusing, I will refer to these friends as Ellen and Mary. Ellen is my friend. Mary is her friend.
Ellen and Mary had been very wholesome girls. Both of them had talked about little sexual exploits and been asked for them by certain men, but both had decline with a certain fervor for a very long time. Despite that, both of them still had at least a little desire to give it a try, find out what it’s like, and explore.
Ellen had been in contact with a boy for a year or so. They’d been close friends as first, but the friendship disintegrated into his lust for her. She’d always rejected him, but then one day she started to open her mind and flirt back. And another day. And another day. And another day. Eventually she agreed to let him give her a ride home. She knew it would mean messing around in his car and that’s exactly what happened.
The entire situation was very awkward, but somehow beautiful. They never kissed. He had a girlfriend; she had a boyfriend; kissing seemed inappropriate. So instead they kept eye contact while she stroked him and he caressed her. She promised never to tell anyone, but she broke that promise by telling Mary.
Mary immediately called Ellen a whore. Ellen’s conscience stepped in and called her a whore. Ellen felt awful. Mary said she hadn’t meant it. They both moved on.
Under a month later, Mary found herself in a similar situation. Over the course of a week, a friend of hers had started making little suggestions to her. Mary made little suggestions back. They flirted and teased and then they did something about it. Soon after the beginning, she agreed to let him give her a ride home. She knew it would mean messing around in his car and that’s exactly how it happened.
Mary went farther than Ellen and with much less emotional attachment. They kissed and touched and when it was over, he drove her home and Mary told Ellen.
Ellen called Mary a whore in the same jesting manner Mary had called Ellen a whore. Mary had felt bad but didn’t speak up. By the time she said something, she resented Ellen just a little too much. Their friendship was never the same after that.
After hearing myself called a whore so many times when I’d done something to be a little ashamed of, I definitely believed it. And I was like Mary and I didn’t voice a concern to my friends. That would have meant telling them the whole situation which I wasn’t prepared to do. I’m not even prepared to write about it yet. Most of my friends still don’t know.
Actually, most of my friends still don’t know about my pregnancy.
I wanted to never tell them. When I started to show, I wore big sweatshirts every day. Now it’s a habit. I still wear big sweatshirts every day. My best friend asked me if I was pregnant and I said no. I knew they would judge me. I knew it would get out and strangers would judge me. It wouldn’t matter that the father was my boyfriend of two years. It would matter that I was irresponsible, and I’m well aware of that.
I had a hair appointment for the week after I told my mom I was pregnant. We’d been planning out a hair-do with a little bit of excitement and I’d asked all of my friends for input. I eventually decided on dark brown with a few pink streaks. My mother told me I couldn’t get the pink streaks because pregnant girls aren’t allowed to look pretty. She was right; I needed to be punished for my bad behavior. This was my fault.
If I’d told anyone else why I couldn’t have had the pink streaks, they would have said the baby was punishment enough. None of them would have understood that as much as being pregnant at fifteen was inconvenient, it was a great gift.
I don’t think anyone can understand how wonderful it is without being directly involved. I think Alexx understood it. She also understood that I wasn’t a whore. She convinced me that I wasn’t a whore. Or maybe I convinced myself that I wasn’t a whore. I don’t know. I’m just glad that feeling subsided.
7
Before I’d found out I was pregnant, I’d been failing all of my classes. I never cared about school that much. Just before I’d found out I was pregnant, Alexx had convinced me to raise my grades. The weekend before school came back to session after winter break I did seventy-two assignments to catch up. My grades raised a little. Alexx was proud of me. I was proud of me.
Then I found out I was pregnant.
And I threw away the seventy-third assignment.
Alexx convinced me to study for my finals, but it didn’t help too much. I still failed every class and I still have to take remedial classes next year. It just seems so insignificant compared to everything else that was going on at the time.
Maybe that’s why teenagers aren’t supposed to have babies. Not because we can’t support them, but because they directly interfere with our educations.
I want to do better in school. Kind of.
8
I have another confession.
I found out I was pregnant on January 4, 2009. On December 31, 2009, I drank. A lot.
Alexx and I got a lot closer that night. We were texting from tipsy to passed out. I told her I needed to go to sleep but couldn’t sleep unless I fell asleep on her head.
The next day I spent with my older sister. She liked to get my drunk, but only on special occasions. Like New Year’s Eve. Every New Year’s Eve she’d get me drunk and take me bowling. I looked forward to it every year. Not just because I was drunk, but also because it was one of the few times I felt like I truly loved my sister. She’d gotten me drunk the night before and she decided that it was so entertaining that we should do it again to start the New Year.
I got drunk twice.
I got really, really drunk twice.
I was pregnant with a little baby and I got drunk twice.
9
The night I told my parents my step dad was taken to prison. He was kept there for a few days. The day after I told the father of my baby he was released. I was afraid to go home.
I went to my aunt’s house after school. She brought me fast food. I craved fast food a lot while I was pregnant. I found a new affection for anyone who would bring me fast food while I was pregnant. I stayed there, chomping happily on fries, until a while after dark, but I couldn’t spend the night.
When I went home, he was angry. Thankfully, my mother protected me for that night. She protected me and my baby. I didn’t sleep almost at all. I was so scared of what he’d do, but at least it was okay.
The next night, however, was different.
The next night he left me alone while I did my homework, didn’t speak to me at all while we ate dinner, watched TV with my mom afterwards and let me go about my own business. My mom went to bed and he said he was going to stay up to watch a movie or something. My two little brothers were tucked in and snoozing comfortably. It was around ten. I was lying in my bed in my room with music playing on a quiet setting, texting Alexx, and rubbing my pregnant stomach affectionately.
There was a knock at the door.
The doorknob jiggled.
I had locked it. I almost always locked my door when I was inside. I spent a lot of time in my room because I wanted to be isolated from the rest of my family. If I’d wanted to see them, I would spend a lot of time in the living room. So I locked my door. This way I always knew when they were coming and usually they all retreated.
There was another knock at the door.
My brothers tried to pick my lock once or twice, but they never quite got the hang of it. I was really thankful for that. When my sister needed me and my door was locked she’d slip little notes under my door. Sometimes I’d slip notes back, sometimes, I’d unlock the door, sometimes I’d ignore all of it. I’d only ignored her when I didn’t notice or I really didn’t want to deal with the world. Before I got pregnant I had only ignored her notes a couple of times. After I got pregnant I ignored almost all of them. Even if I read them, I hardly ever reacted.
There was another knock at my door.
I turned my music up.
The doorknob jiggled some more and then turned. He’d picked the lock.
“Baby, you know you’re supposed to answer the door for me.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“And baby, you know you’re supposed to answer me when I talk to you.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“And baby, you should probably look at me when I speak to you.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“Or baby, you know I might just make you.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“Baby, is it that you want me to make you?”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“Alright baby, I guess I’m going to make you.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
He started towards my bed. His footsteps resonated through the room, even though the cushioned carpet didn’t make a sound. My heart started to pound. With fear. I tried not to be afraid. I tried to take it without caring. For a while I had succeeded in that goal, but then I was indifferent about everything. I had decided that I’d rather suffer for an hour than never smile again, so I was afraid of him again.
He stood at the side of my bed, towering over me.
“Baby, we need to do something about that baby.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply. But I did move a pillow over my stomach.
“You know, baby, I hated prison.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“And baby, you should be punished for sending me there. I didn’t deserve that.”
I wanted to scream that he did. But I didn’t look at him. And I didn’t reply.
“Baby, I’m going to have to punish you.”
I change my pants as soon as I get home. I change into pajama pants. Not because I think they’re more comfortable than jeans, but because people started to notice that all of my jeans had rips and tears in strange places.
He tugged on the bottom of my pajama pants. And they came loose. I held on tight to the waistband, but it didn’t do any good. They came down to my ankles and he pulled them off. He threw them over the foot of my bed.
“Baby, you might want to move that pillow.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
He tore it away from me. He threw the other ones I had around me so I wouldn’t roll onto my stomach onto the floor. He pulled off my underwear and tossed it behind him. I heard him unfasten his belt and pull down his zipper. I heard the sound of someone pulling off a pair of jeans. It’s a familiar sound, but one that’s a little difficult to explain. I associate that sound with my stepfather. I thought of it when I watched the father of my baby strip so methodically. It haunts me. The sound of jeans hitting against carpet.
“Baby, are you going to spread your legs or me? Or do I have to do it myself?”
He actually said “gonna,” but that doesn’t look very professional.
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
I wonder if he liked it when I was submissive. That’s how I was at first. I didn’t know what was going on. He told me that if I was a good girl I would trust him and I did. I was young when it started. I didn’t even know that the function of my “privates” were for sex. I still called them privates then.
There was a time when I fought. After my first sexual education class that my mom signed a permission slip for. He came into my room a couple of nights later and I was scared. I knew it was wrong. I’d asked a lot of questions in class that day. My friends made fun of me. Every time they embarrassed me by bringing it up, my being swelled with hatred for him. When he tried to touch me again, I resisted and fought. He just laughed and pushed me aside.
Then I became like I was that night. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply. I barely resisted. There was no point in wasting energy on it.
He forced my legs apart.
And the rest is too gruesome to share.
They say good things happen to good people, and bad things happen to bad people. I’m not sure where that leaves me. Writing, I suppose. And what are writers anyway? Good people? Bad people? Apathetic people trying to feel some emotion through imagination? I’m not sure. I feel. So maybe I’m not a writer either.
2
In retrospect, I don’t remember why I did it. I should have known better. We were lying together on his bed; we’d just watched a movie. His arms were around me and I had happily buried my head into his chest. He kissed my forehead. I never understood why that gesture was supposed to be so romantic. It kind of reminded me of watching my friends’ parents kiss them goodbye when we were children. Maybe it’s the love that matters. Parents that kiss their children on their foreheads love them. Boyfriends that kiss their girlfriends on their foreheads love them. I guess that’s what makes that gesture so romantic. I sat up on my elbows. I suppose that wasn’t really sitting up. I was still lying down, but my chest was off the bed, propped up by my elbows. It’s a familiar position, I’m sure you can imagine it. He kissed me. I kissed him. We kissed.
“Would you have sex with me?”
Two years. That’s how long we’d been together.
I nodded.
“Now?”
He said it softly, but in a frustrated, demanding way. It wasn’t romantic. Nothing about the memory makes my heart leap.
I nodded again.
Neither of us moved. I swallowed hard. I was expecting him to say that maybe we shouldn’t, but he didn’t.
“We should take off our clothes.”
That wasn’t romantic either. Nothing about stripping in front of another person is romantic. At least not in the fashion we did.
I nodded again.
He looked at me. I didn’t move. Neither did he.
“Take off your shirt.”
I blinked at him. I consciously remember deciding to blink in his direction. He watched me expectantly. I blinked again. Then I removed my shirt. It was black and kind of tight-fitting. I tossed it over the edge of the bed. I imagine it looked rejected, not excited like the clothing left on the floor of sets in movies do. More like a shirt thrown haphazardly in a teenager’s messy room. His room was messy. Maybe no one would have even noticed it.
“And your bra.”
I unhooked it and threw in the general direction of my shirt. When I went to redress later, they were a few feet apart. I was never athletically talented. Or maybe I was just distracted. I don’t remember putting any thought into trying to land my bra on top of my shirt. My bra was black. Not to seduce my boyfriend, but so it wouldn’t show under my thin, black shirt. Even if it had been to seduce him, I don’t think he would have appreciated it. Bras are just an obstacle and seduce better in creating cleavage visible past the low neckline of a v-neck than when that v-neck has been discarded onto the floor. Women spend too much time and money on lingerie.
I did love him, though. I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t loved him.
He took off his shirt and threw it in the opposite direction. It was a very bright shade of green. Grass green perhaps. Not dead grass, but the bright, summer grass. The color was nice, but it made him look exceptionally pale. I never liked that shirt on him. It didn’t fit him well either. Of course that was stylish then, wearing shirts that didn’t fit well. For the boys anyway, girls wore shirts like my black v-neck. Boys would tuck the front of their big t-shirts into their pants so their belt buckles would show. It was the kind of fashion fad that no one really ever understood. Belts were very popular in general then. My mother never understood that. My mother thought belts were supposed to be functional, not fashionable. She pretended to understand sometimes, but she wasn’t patient and really didn’t care to understand. That was how she was in general, not just about belts. He unfastened his belt and pulled it through the belt loops on his pants. His underwear showed over the top. I never understood that either. He dropped the belt. The heavy end pulled the rest to the floor like a slithering, leather snake. It was a snake that seduced Eve into sin, you know.
He stood up and pushed his pants off his hips. I imagine his jeans fell to the floor around his ankles. I don’t remember him pushing them to the side, kicking them off, or anything like that. I was still sitting on top of his unmade bed, so I couldn’t see. His sheets were gray, his comforter was black. There’s really nothing comforting about a black comforter. I remember running my fingers over the top of it absentmindedly while I watched my boyfriend take off his underwear.
He looked at me.
“Why are you still wearing your pants?”
I blinked at him again and looked down at my body. The way I was sitting made my skin crunch up just above my hip on one side. The other side was smooth and tight. I stood up and took off my pants. I tossed them over to the general vicinity of my shirt and bra.
“And your panties.”
I never really liked the word panties. Or underwear for that matter. I remember thinking that when he made that suggestion. I remember thinking a lot of things when he made that suggestion. “Panties” is a pretty grown-up word for underwear, meaning grown-ups seem to prefer it when talking about their own undergarments. Women, anyway. It made me think of my stepfather. But it’s too early in the story to explain why.
I pushed my green thong over my thighs with my thumbs. The color was very similar to the shirt he’d already discarded. I grasped the sides tenderly and stepped out of it, one foot and then the other. I let it dangle from my pointer finger for a moment; not to be sexy, but rather with contemplation. I think that was when it hit me what we were doing. I let it drop to the ground. I think it landed on his guitar. He didn’t play guitar very well. Actually, he barely played at all. He might have known three chords, but mostly he was the type to memorize popular songs. He had even given up on that. I don’t remember the last time he’d played guitar. There was a time that he’d invite me over every time he learned a new one to sing it to me. They were never love songs, but I appreciated them as much as if he’d written each as a love song for me.
I did love him. I wouldn’t have liked that if I hadn’t loved him.
He looked at me. I didn’t move. Neither did he.
I shifted my weight and felt a marble next to my toe. I didn’t look down at it, but I think it was a marble. I always remember the marble as being one of those clear ones with a stripe of color inside. The stripe was red. At least, that’s how I imagined it to be. I never looked, though. It might not have even been a marble.
“I lo—”
“Lay on the bed.”
I did.
He climbed on top of me, not touching me at all. His eyes were alive. The way that people look alive after they’ve been in a lot of pain or pleasure or really happy or really sad, full of emotion in any way.
I did love him. I wouldn’t have let this happen if I hadn’t loved him.
“Are you scared?”
I nodded.
A tear fell down my cheek.
I don’t think he noticed.
“I’m not.”
He looked away. Above my head. He’d had a poster directly above his head. Of a band. I just don’t remember which one. The background was black. The band was a little less mainstream, but very trendy. The poster reflected that. Then he looked at my lips.
“Are you a virgin?”
I nodded.
I lied. But it’s too early in the story to explain why.
“Me too.”
He touched my collarbone. Kissed my neck twice, pretty gently. He let his finger slide down from my collarbone to my breast. He poked my nipple. I don’t think he meant to, but he did. He cupped his hand around my breast. He groped. I looked at his face. It was curious.
“Let’s have sex.”
I bit my lip. He looked up at my face to see if I was nodding. I wasn’t.
“I don’t have a condom.”
I especially didn’t nod at that.
He took his right hand off of me and placed it back on the bed. He lowered his pelvis to meet mine and the two joined. The rest is too personal to share.
Afterward he let himself collapse on top of me. He was small, but still felt heavy. The way he laid on top of me made it hard to breathe. He smiled. He touched my hair with his left hand, his head rested on my chest. He pushed my hair behind my ear and laughed. He laughed hard. His whole body shook on top of mine.
“Do you think you’re pregnant?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
And he laughed harder.
3
Although that is where I started the story, that isn’t where it started. It started on my birthday, a little over fifteen years ago. I don’t remember my birthday. My parents weren’t ever the type to talk about what a little bundle of joy I was, what my mom was doing when her water broke, or what I would have been named if I’d been born a boy. I don’t even know if they knew I was a girl before I was born. I can’t imagine not knowing for nine months. I’m the type to like to call the little fetus by its name and gender, the type to use “her” instead of “it.” My life would have been very different if I’d been a boy. I hope my parents were prepared for a girl. I figure a girl would have been easier anyway, I have an older sister. I don’t know how much of my baby things were her hand-me-downs; I’m not sure my parents were prepared enough to have kept her old crib and clothes. They definitely weren’t sentimental enough. I got a lot of hand-me-downs as I grew up. I think my sister tried to make up for it for being particularly generous and buying me a lot of clothes when she came into town after she grew up and moved out. She has two kids now.
My childhood was not beautiful. It may help you understand how I became to be how I am, but it wasn’t beautiful. I don’t even know which pieces are significant enough to retell. There’s a lot I’ve forgotten. And there’s even more I wish I could have forgotten.
I saw this movie. There was one scene where the two sisters were telling their grandmother they’d never met about their mom. Their mom had been crazy and ended up dying or some insanity, or at least that’s how I understood the ending of the story to be. One morning, she woke them up really early and the girls and the mom made a lot of fudge they were eating and donating or something like that. They stayed home from school that day and they’d gotten a puppy. The youngest girl said it was the best day of her life. Her mom died later that week and her dad made her get rid of the puppy, but her sister had sheltered her from all of the bad stuff and so she had the best day of her life. My mom never did anything like that, but I figure the best day of my childhood was sheltered by my sister. We didn’t always get along, but I’m glad for the days that we did. I love my sister. I guess my mom not doing anything like that means she isn’t crazy. I guess that should be reassuring, but sometimes I wish she had been.
I think I’ll let my childhood fall into place as the story progresses.
4
It’s not surprising that I got pregnant.
It was too predictable and too cliché, but I did get pregnant. I should have protested that he should have used a condom. It was wrong that he didn’t. It was wrong that I didn’t make him.
When I found out, I wasn’t sure exactly how to react. I felt bad. I felt guilty. I’d made a huge mistake, the exact mistake that everyone preaches you not to make when you become “sexually active.” So I guess it was all my fault. Yeah, the baby was half his, but I should have known better. If that makes me the only person in the world who takes responsibility for her actions, I don’t care. If that makes me the only person in the world who takes more than her fair share of responsibility for her actions, I don’t care. If you think either of those might be true, you’re absolutely insane; especially the second one. Don’t call me responsible. There was nothing responsible about what I did. And I really should have known better.
My aunt is a doctor. She was the one who told me. She agreed to adopt the baby and help me however she could, and for that I’m eternally grateful. I loved my aunt. I spent a lot of time at the doctor that week, putting together a meal plan, figuring out how to best support the baby, and just talking to her. She was the only one who knew, but she wanted to change that. She made me promise that I’d tell my parents by the end of the week or else she would. I wanted to do it, so I did. But I told someone else first.
I’d met this girl in my biology class. I wasn’t too close to her. She’d just been the figure sitting in front of me in one of those long black tables you find in all biology classrooms. She made me smile and I came to love what she created. Something about all of that made me trust her a lot.
A little while before I found out I was pregnant, she’d thrown our club and all of the other similar local clubs a holiday party at a shop downtown. The shop was – and still is – one of the most intriguing places I’d ever been. Everyone who came spent the first half hour they were there looking around in awe. The woman who owned the shop was very nice, helping everyone out and talking passionately about the local art she sold. She said she wanted to make her shop a safe place for kids to go when things went wrong or right or weren’t going at all. A lot of adults say that, but I believed her when she said it and trusted her. I think everyone did.
The party went pretty well. We all met a few new people and had a lot of fun. Afterward, we all piled into one of two cars and started the journey home. Before we made it back to the comforts of our humble suburban homes, we made a stop at a chain diner and split a few meals amongst all of us. We talked and laughed and seemed to become real friends. And I really trusted her. I bought her a scarf she’d really wanted from the shop and she was wearing it. She loved it. I loved that she loved it.
We were in some sort of communication through winter break. She was amicable and sweet and our conversations always made me laugh. I felt close to her.
So I asked her if I could tell her something.
She said yes.
I told her I was pregnant.
She promised not to tell anyone.
We’ve been the closest of friends ever since.
I never really told anyone else I didn’t feel like had to know. Not even my best friend, I was afraid she’d tell someone. And I know how people think of pregnant teenagers. It wouldn’t have made a difference that it was my boyfriend’s baby, or that we’d been together since middle school. No one would want to hear the story. I would be subjected to unnecessary judgment. And although I knew everyone would eventually have to know, I saw no reason to tell anyone before they had to know. Except her. I could trust her. So I told her. And she gave me no reason not to trust her. And I didn’t tell anyone else because they all had.
We talked every night. She would ask me about my day and I’d ask her about hers. I’d send her pictures from ultrasounds and we talked about what to name the baby depending on the sex. She was helpful and I came to depend on her. She never gave me a reason to not depend on her; she may have even liked it. Not necessarily that I depended on her, but that she could be there for me. But it’s too soon in the story for you to understand all of the little reasons why.
I told my parents too – or rather my mom and my step dad. And I was scared. I had planned to tell my parents in church so they wouldn’t be able to scream and yell and slap and hit and punish. I had planned to tell my parents in church so they would be reminded of their religious duties as parents and how they were supposed to love me. But I didn’t tell them in church.
It was after dinner. They were sitting in the living room watching something on TV. I never liked the same things they did, a generation gap, I suppose. I don’t think anyone enjoys television as a family, regardless of each network trying to make “family television,” it just doesn’t exist. Even parents watching TV with their little kids isn’t necessarily enjoyable for them, they just do it because they feel like they should or maybe because they love their children and their children love them. This isn’t to say that as we grow up we love our parents less; we just don’t love having them around as much. So we watch different shows and take our free time away from each other. And that’s how it was that night, when I told them.
I sat down next to them. And off of the conclusions drawn above, it’s hard to believe that neither of them said anything. Both just continued watching their program – whatever it was – and seemingly didn’t notice me. I coughed gently into my closed fist and my mom looked in my direction. She didn’t smile or looked concerned; she just looked at me as if to acknowledge my presence. It wasn’t like that, though. It was almost annoyed the more I think about it, or just apathetic. I had broken the trend of separation and it went without any care. I didn’t think of it that way at the time, but if I had, I probably would have stuck with my plan to tell them at church or maybe even let my aunt break the news to them. But I didn’t. I told them that night.
At a commercial, I cleared my throat and sat up on my chair a little straighter. It was a recliner. I liked to sit sideways in chairs like that, but I hadn’t that night. It was blue. My mom and step dad sat together on the couch – also blue – but didn’t touch each other.
Neither of them looked at me.
Cat litter was more interesting than I was. That was the commercial, cat litter.
“I need to tell you something.”
Neither of them looked over at me immediately. It was as if my request took a few minutes to process. Then my mom turned her head and looked at me.
“What did you do now?”
I wanted to say nothing. The best response to that kind of question is nothing. That or something incredible that they can be proud of, but that wasn’t going to happen this time. I wouldn’t lie to them. It wouldn’t get me anywhere.
“I got pregnant.”
My step dad’s head snapped to the right to look at me.
“You did what?”
His voice was raised slightly, but still deep and angry with a little disbelief. He’d hoped he’s misheard me, but somewhere deep down he knew he hadn’t. Maybe not even that deep. The hope that he’d misheard was so shallow that knowing he hadn’t wasn’t even buried.
And since he knew and I knew he knew, I didn’t answer his question.
As for my mom, she just sat there for a moment.
Now it was a commercial for a vacuum cleaner. A woman was vacuuming her stairs and smiling. No one smiles while vacuuming.
His voice got deeper and louder when he said, “What did you say?”
I hesitated.
“I got pregnant.”
My mom stood up and smacked me across the jaw. My head moved with the blow, my chin crashing against my shoulder. My face stung. She didn’t say anything. I don’t know what she was thinking then. I think she thought I was a whore, but she should have known better. But we never knew each other that well anyway.
When I turned my head back to face her, she glared at me and then stormed out of the room. My stepfather stood up.
“Now look at what you did.”
He sounded kind of calm. His voice was exceptionally deep. It was all too familiar to me. I stood up to try to leave, but he grabbed me. His fingers dug into the exposed flesh on my right arm, his nails clawed into my skin. I tried to push him off, but I couldn’t, he was too strong. He held my other arm with his other hand, and he turned me to face him. He let me go, looking into my eyes. There was fire there. Not the fire like feeling particularly alive gives you, but the angry fire that’s just a little different. His hands were clenched into fists. He relaxed one and slapped me the same place my mother had.
“How dare you do that to us!”
Spit flew from his mouth onto my cheek. He didn’t floss often enough. His breath smelled like a stale version of what we’d had for dinner. I remember I hadn’t eaten much, even with the baby in mind, I was too nervous to have more than a few bites. We both went to bed without proper nourishment that night and I regret that a lot.
Both of his hands were turned into fists again. I slowly turned my head back to look at him, as I did, I saw him pulling his arm back into a punch.
The punch landed on my stomach.
It was so hard I fell back into the chair from the force. I clutched my stomach and glared at him. Tears streaked down my face. He moaned.
“How the fuck could you do this to me?”
Reading the words I’ve just written doesn’t give them the force he gave them. He pulled his fist back again to punch me again. I turned and covered my stomach, he struck me in the shoulder. When I looked over that shoulder at him, he was shaking his hand from the impact of my bone.
“Fucking little cunt!”
He wound up another punch, this one making contact with my thigh which I’d drawn up over my stomach. He wound up for another, landing on my arm. And another.
This one was intercepted by my mother.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
She shrieked at him.
“You’re going to kill the baby!”
There was a pause. I couldn’t see much of him. My mother was standing in the way, holding tightly onto his clenched fist. I heard him breathing hard, wheezing a little with each breath.
“Good.”
She pushed him back.
“Go somewhere.”
He pushed her out of the way. She stumbled over something on the floor and tripped into the wall. She grabbed the phone off of the receiver on the table next to her. She must have dialed 911.
He went to punch me again, but hearing her on the phone he kicked my chair. It fell over. Then he left the room, punching a wall on the way out. He left an indentation. It’s still there.
My mom picked up the chair and told me to stand up. She gave me a hug and told me she loved me. I love her too. She promised me everything would be okay and helped me to the couch. She covered me in a blanket and told me to stay there and not to move.
“We’ll save this baby.”
I shook while I waited for someone to come and wheel me away to an ambulance that would drive me away to a hospital where they would save my baby. The ambulance never came. My aunt did. She brought me back to her office and ran a few dozen tests while I cried. The baby was okay, but how okay we couldn’t be certain. I’d have to be really careful. The pregnancy would be difficult.
I put pillows around me that night so I couldn’t roll onto my stomach. I used to sleep like that before I got pregnant, on my stomach. Even now I sleep on my back. I fell asleep quickly that night and waking up the next morning was hard. I never paid less attention at school.
5
I had to tell the father too. I figured it was only fair. Especially since I intended to keep the baby. I thought about aborting it, but not for long. The reason for that will be better explained later.
I couldn’t tell him in person. Maybe some people would consider that weak, but those people haven’t been in that situation. I was shaken from telling my parents in person. I was stronger from telling Alexx. And now he had to know.
I called him. And I said hello. He asked me what was wrong. It was really reassuring that he immediately knew that I was upset. If he had gone onto another topic I don’t know if I could have done it. I felt like he cared. I felt like he loved me. I felt like he could love our baby too.
But still I hesitated.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
I don’t remember if he’d ever called me babe before that. It wasn’t something he did often. One time a friend of mine started calling of her friends “buddy.” She didn’t know anyone who did that, but it just occurred to her one day. Buddy can be offensive at times, but babe . . . well, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Regardless, he asked what was wrong . . . babe.
“I’m not sure how to tell you this.”
My voice was really weak when I said that.
“Tell me what?”
I hesitated.
“You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know.”
“So just tell me.”
People use that tactic a lot. I’m not sure if it’s effective. Maybe we need that reminder that we can trust a person. Maybe we need to know that that person wants to know our secrets.
I hesitated for a second. And I heard him sigh. He was starting to sound frustrated. That made me hesitate for another second. Then he was silent.
“I’m pregnant.”
He was still silent.
And there was tension.
“You cheated on me?”
My jaw dropped. We’d had sex without a condom. We’d been together for two years. It was incredulous. It was ridiculous. It was preposterous and outrageous and ludicrous.
“You cheated on me?”
I could tell he was trying to keep his voice down. Sometimes when he was angry, his hands would shake pretty violently. I imagine they were. His voice was quivering.
I tried to speak. It made sense to speak in a situation like this, but it was hard. It was harder than to tell him. I guess that makes sense, though. He’d refused any responsibility which was what I most afraid of. I just hadn’t expected him to think I was cheating on him. I had expected him to react really well. And he most definitely hadn’t.
“Fuck. I can’t believe you cheated on me.”
Quick pause.
“I didn’t.”
My voice was quiet. A tiny little squeak. So I believe him when he said:
“What?”
I cleared my throat. That’s when I realized I was crying. I always thought that was so ridiculous. How do people not realize they’re crying? I suppose it’s when too much else is going on.
“I didn’t cheat on you.”
“And you expect me to fucking believe that? You’re pregnant! You must have cheated on me!”
“You have to believe me. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t cheat on you. We had sex without a condom. We’ve been together for two years.”
It was frantic. It was rushed. It was more like this:
“You have to believe me! I swear I didn’t cheat on you! Wehadsexwithoutacondom! We’vebeentogetherfortwoyears!”
But that doesn’t look very professional.
“Fuck you. You fucking bitch.”
Neither does that.
His voice was angry, but steady, in a shaking way. He sounded like he was trying so hard to control his rage. When he said that, I thought of my stepdad. And I was really glad I hadn’t told him in person.
And I didn’t reply. I just cried.
“You’re a fucking bitch!”
I was especially glad I hadn’t told him in person when he started to lose control.
There were so many things I still wanted to tell him, but he was so angry. I didn’t think he was going to listen. I tried anyway.
“Listen to me. Please, please listen to me. And believe me. This baby is ours. And I love you. And I love this baby. And I want to keep it. You can play whatever role you want, but I’m going to keep this baby. And she – or maybe he – is going to live a wonderful life and I’d love for her – or maybe his – father to be involved in that wonderful life. And that’s you. It’s you, it’s no one else, and –”
I had to stop to take a breath. And sob. I wasn’t even crying anymore; I was sobbing.
He didn’t say anything. I didn’t think it was because he expected I had more to say. I knew he hadn’t listened to a word of it.
He was breathing heavily into the phone. I was sobbing heavily into the phone. And that’s how it was for a few minutes. I was afraid to break the silence. Breaking silences was always hard for me, but especially this one. I didn’t know what to say. Everything I thought of felt so wrong.
Finally he spoke.
His voice was a little steadier, a little more even, a little more under control, but still equally as angry.
“I never want to speak to you again.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I want you and your baby out of my life.”
I didn’t think there was anything I could say.
“You’re a whore. And you deserve this.”
That’s what I was most afraid of.
“And I don’t.”
But he did.
And he hung up.
I fell onto my pillow and cried. I wasn’t sure what to do. I expected him to understand. To love me. To love that baby. But he didn’t.
So I told Alexx about the whole thing. And I loved her. And she loved me. And she loved the baby.
6
I wasn’t a whore. But for a long time I believed that I was.
People told me I was a whore pretty often. My stepfather, my ex-boyfriend, my friends. The word gets thrown around as a joke so often amongst friends, but it really isn’t. It resonates more than most other jesting insults.
This story concerns a friend of a friend. I wouldn’t tell this story because it’s not mine, but it seems relevant. To keep it a little less confusing, I will refer to these friends as Ellen and Mary. Ellen is my friend. Mary is her friend.
Ellen and Mary had been very wholesome girls. Both of them had talked about little sexual exploits and been asked for them by certain men, but both had decline with a certain fervor for a very long time. Despite that, both of them still had at least a little desire to give it a try, find out what it’s like, and explore.
Ellen had been in contact with a boy for a year or so. They’d been close friends as first, but the friendship disintegrated into his lust for her. She’d always rejected him, but then one day she started to open her mind and flirt back. And another day. And another day. And another day. Eventually she agreed to let him give her a ride home. She knew it would mean messing around in his car and that’s exactly what happened.
The entire situation was very awkward, but somehow beautiful. They never kissed. He had a girlfriend; she had a boyfriend; kissing seemed inappropriate. So instead they kept eye contact while she stroked him and he caressed her. She promised never to tell anyone, but she broke that promise by telling Mary.
Mary immediately called Ellen a whore. Ellen’s conscience stepped in and called her a whore. Ellen felt awful. Mary said she hadn’t meant it. They both moved on.
Under a month later, Mary found herself in a similar situation. Over the course of a week, a friend of hers had started making little suggestions to her. Mary made little suggestions back. They flirted and teased and then they did something about it. Soon after the beginning, she agreed to let him give her a ride home. She knew it would mean messing around in his car and that’s exactly how it happened.
Mary went farther than Ellen and with much less emotional attachment. They kissed and touched and when it was over, he drove her home and Mary told Ellen.
Ellen called Mary a whore in the same jesting manner Mary had called Ellen a whore. Mary had felt bad but didn’t speak up. By the time she said something, she resented Ellen just a little too much. Their friendship was never the same after that.
After hearing myself called a whore so many times when I’d done something to be a little ashamed of, I definitely believed it. And I was like Mary and I didn’t voice a concern to my friends. That would have meant telling them the whole situation which I wasn’t prepared to do. I’m not even prepared to write about it yet. Most of my friends still don’t know.
Actually, most of my friends still don’t know about my pregnancy.
I wanted to never tell them. When I started to show, I wore big sweatshirts every day. Now it’s a habit. I still wear big sweatshirts every day. My best friend asked me if I was pregnant and I said no. I knew they would judge me. I knew it would get out and strangers would judge me. It wouldn’t matter that the father was my boyfriend of two years. It would matter that I was irresponsible, and I’m well aware of that.
I had a hair appointment for the week after I told my mom I was pregnant. We’d been planning out a hair-do with a little bit of excitement and I’d asked all of my friends for input. I eventually decided on dark brown with a few pink streaks. My mother told me I couldn’t get the pink streaks because pregnant girls aren’t allowed to look pretty. She was right; I needed to be punished for my bad behavior. This was my fault.
If I’d told anyone else why I couldn’t have had the pink streaks, they would have said the baby was punishment enough. None of them would have understood that as much as being pregnant at fifteen was inconvenient, it was a great gift.
I don’t think anyone can understand how wonderful it is without being directly involved. I think Alexx understood it. She also understood that I wasn’t a whore. She convinced me that I wasn’t a whore. Or maybe I convinced myself that I wasn’t a whore. I don’t know. I’m just glad that feeling subsided.
7
Before I’d found out I was pregnant, I’d been failing all of my classes. I never cared about school that much. Just before I’d found out I was pregnant, Alexx had convinced me to raise my grades. The weekend before school came back to session after winter break I did seventy-two assignments to catch up. My grades raised a little. Alexx was proud of me. I was proud of me.
Then I found out I was pregnant.
And I threw away the seventy-third assignment.
Alexx convinced me to study for my finals, but it didn’t help too much. I still failed every class and I still have to take remedial classes next year. It just seems so insignificant compared to everything else that was going on at the time.
Maybe that’s why teenagers aren’t supposed to have babies. Not because we can’t support them, but because they directly interfere with our educations.
I want to do better in school. Kind of.
8
I have another confession.
I found out I was pregnant on January 4, 2009. On December 31, 2009, I drank. A lot.
Alexx and I got a lot closer that night. We were texting from tipsy to passed out. I told her I needed to go to sleep but couldn’t sleep unless I fell asleep on her head.
The next day I spent with my older sister. She liked to get my drunk, but only on special occasions. Like New Year’s Eve. Every New Year’s Eve she’d get me drunk and take me bowling. I looked forward to it every year. Not just because I was drunk, but also because it was one of the few times I felt like I truly loved my sister. She’d gotten me drunk the night before and she decided that it was so entertaining that we should do it again to start the New Year.
I got drunk twice.
I got really, really drunk twice.
I was pregnant with a little baby and I got drunk twice.
9
The night I told my parents my step dad was taken to prison. He was kept there for a few days. The day after I told the father of my baby he was released. I was afraid to go home.
I went to my aunt’s house after school. She brought me fast food. I craved fast food a lot while I was pregnant. I found a new affection for anyone who would bring me fast food while I was pregnant. I stayed there, chomping happily on fries, until a while after dark, but I couldn’t spend the night.
When I went home, he was angry. Thankfully, my mother protected me for that night. She protected me and my baby. I didn’t sleep almost at all. I was so scared of what he’d do, but at least it was okay.
The next night, however, was different.
The next night he left me alone while I did my homework, didn’t speak to me at all while we ate dinner, watched TV with my mom afterwards and let me go about my own business. My mom went to bed and he said he was going to stay up to watch a movie or something. My two little brothers were tucked in and snoozing comfortably. It was around ten. I was lying in my bed in my room with music playing on a quiet setting, texting Alexx, and rubbing my pregnant stomach affectionately.
There was a knock at the door.
The doorknob jiggled.
I had locked it. I almost always locked my door when I was inside. I spent a lot of time in my room because I wanted to be isolated from the rest of my family. If I’d wanted to see them, I would spend a lot of time in the living room. So I locked my door. This way I always knew when they were coming and usually they all retreated.
There was another knock at the door.
My brothers tried to pick my lock once or twice, but they never quite got the hang of it. I was really thankful for that. When my sister needed me and my door was locked she’d slip little notes under my door. Sometimes I’d slip notes back, sometimes, I’d unlock the door, sometimes I’d ignore all of it. I’d only ignored her when I didn’t notice or I really didn’t want to deal with the world. Before I got pregnant I had only ignored her notes a couple of times. After I got pregnant I ignored almost all of them. Even if I read them, I hardly ever reacted.
There was another knock at my door.
I turned my music up.
The doorknob jiggled some more and then turned. He’d picked the lock.
“Baby, you know you’re supposed to answer the door for me.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“And baby, you know you’re supposed to answer me when I talk to you.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“And baby, you should probably look at me when I speak to you.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“Or baby, you know I might just make you.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“Baby, is it that you want me to make you?”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“Alright baby, I guess I’m going to make you.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
He started towards my bed. His footsteps resonated through the room, even though the cushioned carpet didn’t make a sound. My heart started to pound. With fear. I tried not to be afraid. I tried to take it without caring. For a while I had succeeded in that goal, but then I was indifferent about everything. I had decided that I’d rather suffer for an hour than never smile again, so I was afraid of him again.
He stood at the side of my bed, towering over me.
“Baby, we need to do something about that baby.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply. But I did move a pillow over my stomach.
“You know, baby, I hated prison.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
“And baby, you should be punished for sending me there. I didn’t deserve that.”
I wanted to scream that he did. But I didn’t look at him. And I didn’t reply.
“Baby, I’m going to have to punish you.”
I change my pants as soon as I get home. I change into pajama pants. Not because I think they’re more comfortable than jeans, but because people started to notice that all of my jeans had rips and tears in strange places.
He tugged on the bottom of my pajama pants. And they came loose. I held on tight to the waistband, but it didn’t do any good. They came down to my ankles and he pulled them off. He threw them over the foot of my bed.
“Baby, you might want to move that pillow.”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
He tore it away from me. He threw the other ones I had around me so I wouldn’t roll onto my stomach onto the floor. He pulled off my underwear and tossed it behind him. I heard him unfasten his belt and pull down his zipper. I heard the sound of someone pulling off a pair of jeans. It’s a familiar sound, but one that’s a little difficult to explain. I associate that sound with my stepfather. I thought of it when I watched the father of my baby strip so methodically. It haunts me. The sound of jeans hitting against carpet.
“Baby, are you going to spread your legs or me? Or do I have to do it myself?”
He actually said “gonna,” but that doesn’t look very professional.
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply.
I wonder if he liked it when I was submissive. That’s how I was at first. I didn’t know what was going on. He told me that if I was a good girl I would trust him and I did. I was young when it started. I didn’t even know that the function of my “privates” were for sex. I still called them privates then.
There was a time when I fought. After my first sexual education class that my mom signed a permission slip for. He came into my room a couple of nights later and I was scared. I knew it was wrong. I’d asked a lot of questions in class that day. My friends made fun of me. Every time they embarrassed me by bringing it up, my being swelled with hatred for him. When he tried to touch me again, I resisted and fought. He just laughed and pushed me aside.
Then I became like I was that night. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t reply. I barely resisted. There was no point in wasting energy on it.
He forced my legs apart.
And the rest is too gruesome to share.
* * *
I’d been texting Alexx that night. I told her I’d fallen asleep. She asked me if I’d slept well. I said yes.
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