Captive - FourTris

Fourteen

MAY 7
8 MONTHS, 7 DAYS

I think I might be pregnant. I don't know how it happened. I don't know what to do or say. All day long, every time my stomach twinges, I think it might be cramps and I rush to the bathroom, but it's not.

We were so careful.

I know he cannot handle this. I know I need to find out first, before I say anything. He has too much on his plate. He has too much to deal with. I can't add this to it.

All day at school, I've been distracted. I keep counting the days on my fingers, in my notebooks, but every time, it's the same. I am two days late.

This can't happen. This will ruin it all. It will be the straw that breaks the camel's back. Some people can handle things like this. We can't. Not now.

PE is the worst. I was supposed to be playing basketball, but after the third time I got hit with the ball, I feigned sick and left.

It's not a lie. I do feel sick. I don't know if I'm sick because I'm really pregnant or I'm sick because I'm so scared, but either way, I feel weak and vaguely nauseous. I need to lie down. In a dark hole where no one will find me ever again.

I can't have a baby. Not now. Not in this world. Things have to be fixed first. Tobias and I have to figure out how to take care of ourselves first. He has to get better at controlling his anger and be happy, and we have so many things to fix.
I leave before sixth period. I don't even care that a guard sees me pull out of the gravel lot, rocks flying behind my little car. I know he wrote down my plate. I know I will get detention for this. It seems silly, detention.

Childish. Do they really think I would care?

I drive to Aberdeen, the next town over where no one will recognize me, and find a drug store. I'm ashamed of what I'm doing. I know I'm eighteen. It could be worse. But this is so wrong.

I buy three tests, just to be safe. I don't want to have to come back if one doesn't work right. I don't want to stand at the register, praying the clerk uses a bag you can't see through. I hate every second of it.

My stomach is twisting and turning so hard it's painful.

This can't happen. It will ruin everything. It will ruin me, break Tobias, and spite my mother. She'll hate me for sure now.

I take the tests to McDonald's and park in the lot, staring at those stupid golden arches that seem too bright and perky, that seem to be mocking me.

I'm frozen. If I go inside and take this test and it says positive, it will mean so many things. Things I can't handle. It will mean my life is really over. It will mean I can never be the person I used to be. I can never return to who I once was.

And I will have to tell him and I don't think I can do that. I don't think I can put that on his shoulders when they already sink with the weight of the world he carries. I don't think I can look him in the eyes and watch the disappointment and despair I'm sure will be there. A baby doesn't deserve a reaction like that. A reaction like I'm feeling right now—the utter dread and fear. A baby is supposed to be a happy thing, not a death knell.

An hour passes before I finally stuff all three boxes into my purse. If I don't do this now, I never will. I have to know. Not knowing is killing me.

I walk across the tile floor as if it's the plank, and these tests are my scarlet letter for all to see.

The bathroom is empty. I take the big handicap stall and hang my purse on the door. I set a box on the top of the paper dispenser, my hand a little shaky, and then I slide my jeans down and sit down on the toilet.

And then I see it ... and then I know.

I'm not pregnant.

The relief I feel is so swift and intense I collapse and bury my face in my arms, and rest on my knees and sob. All alone, in the McDonald's bathroom.