Bumps on the Road [on hold]

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Camdyn

“I'm really sorry that you have to do this by yourself.” Carlie mutters, keeping her eyes focused on the road ahead.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve done plenty for me.” She feels guilty that she can’t come with me to my first appointment with the obstetrician because she has to go to work. It’s not her fault that she has to work as a teller at Bank of America to support herself—because being an art major is not equivalent to having tons of money.

She’s about to say more, but I shake my head slightly and look at the papers in my hand. Carlie printed out the new patient forms for me while she was a work on Friday. I had yet to fill them out.

Now, we’re about ten minutes away from the doctor’s office and I’m forced to pick up a pen and do it. At first, I’m able to answer the questions quickly—almost mechanically—providing information such as my name, birthdate, social security number, and basic medical history. However, once I get to the pregnancy related questions, I freeze.

One particular question makes me pause: Do you know the date your child was conceived? Yes.

It was the day after my junior year ended—the first day of summer—and I was a wreck.

I’d walked down the stairs that morning expecting a nice stress free day to hang out with my family; instead, I was greeted by my parents sitting at our ancient dining table with solemn expressions. My Dad had gotten laid off again and, the worst part, it didn’t look like we’d have enough money to send me to a good university even if we sold our minuscule condo.

I’d always known that I would need a scholarship to go anywhere but community college, but, until that moment, it had never sunk in exactly how easy it would be for me to screw everything up.

Still, I convinced myself that it was nothing to worry about and stepped outside to grab the mail. On top of the stack of junk mail was an envelope with College Board’s blue logo on it. I smiled to myself, convinced that the contents of this envelope would erase my worries.

I was wrong.

A couple months prior, I had taken an SAT practice test and expected the incoming scores to be better than any of my previous ones. I tore the envelope haphazardly, a jagged line splitting it in half. Almost as soon as I got the crisp paper out of its container, I dropped it.

The scores were the worst I’ve ever had. A 620 in math, 590 in critical reading, and 600 in writing. For most of the schools I planned on applying to, I’d need at least a 700 in each section to even be considered. I don’t get my act together by December, I’m screwed.

The first thing I did after that was rip the paper in half and run to my room. I was planning on hiding in there all night, but a call from one of my few friends stopped me from a night of lonely self pity.

Somehow, against all laws of nature, I ended up at a party on the rich side of town, wearing skinny jeans, a purple tank top, and a pair of four inch heels (courtesy of my friend Phoebe). Even crazier, I got drunk. Not tipsy. Not buzzed. Completely and utterly drunk.

Phoebe handed me my first beer of the night, but there were countless others both given to me by flirting boys and grabbed by my own hands. There was reckless dancing, careless flirting, and apparently a boy charming enough to make me give away my virginity and so sexy that I've dreamed about him multiple times since.

That's all I know about that night because coherent thoughts didn't return to me until I was waking up in my sister's apartment with a skull-splitting headache.