she says, trying not to blow any
of it out. I don’t know if it’s good
or not. But whether it’s the weed or
the beer or the combination, I am
definitely woozy. Do people really
like feeling this way? In the back,
Chloe and Kurt seem to have hit
it off. They’re sitting really close,
and she’s laughing at some dumb
joke he’s just spouted. Then they get
really quiet and I think they must
be kissing, not that I want to get all
voyeuristic or anything. I’m glad
when Lucas parks the car in an upscale
neighborhood where, I’m sure, the candy
is plentiful. “Hey. What are we putting
our candy in? Did you bring a bag
or a pillowcase or something?”
The Question
Makes Lucas and Kurt bust up.
We’ll be collecting pillowcases
from, um, some volunteers, says Kurt.
I have no idea what he means
until we get out of the car. Chloe
and I follow the guys, who scope
out the action on the street. They
wait for the kids with parents along
to go by. But when they spot a group
of older kids walking unaccompanied,
they motion for us to hide behind
a tall, unlit hedge. As the kids
pass by, the guys jump and yell, Boo!
It scares the bejesus out of them.
Then the boys swipe their candy and run.
Nothing else to do but run, too.
It was mean, but it isn’t the worst
trick Lucas and Kurt play tonight.
Chloe
The Worst Trick
The guys play tonight
isn’t stealing candy from
middle schoolers. That’s
funny,
really, especially the way
those kids yell to come back,
like we would. What’s sort of
unfunny
is smashing jack-o’-lanterns
on pretty front porches and
squishing chocolate bars into
Depends,
and leaving them on the front
seats of unlocked cars. Still,
we laugh and go along. But
on
the far side of funny is when
Harley says she’s going to be
sick, and Lucas asks Kurt, Is
your
phone handy? And when
she falls on her knees and
pukes up her guts, it’s in full
view
of an active camera.
Mikayla
Funny
How fast word spreads
when the word that’s spreading
is “pregnant.” I told one friend
and by the next day pretty much
the whole school knew. Okay,
maybe that’s a slight exaggeration.
Let’s just say by the next day,
people who used to admire me
seemed to be looking down on me
or avoiding eye contact completely.
There were some notable exceptions.
Audrey marched straight up, gave
me a big ol’ hug. I know it’s hard.
But you’re doing the right thing. I wish
I would have been as strong as you.
She’s the only person who has told
me I’m doing the right thing. It’s good
to know someone is in my corner.
Still, I wasn’t happy about Emily
opening her mouth. I caught
her at lunch. “Why did you tell?”
You didn’t say it was a secret,
and I only told Margot. She’s got
a big mouth. I’m sorry, I guess.
“A huge mouth, apparently. But
whatevs.” It was going to happen
eventually. I’ve got to get used to it.
And it might not have been so bad
except I had to bump into Kristy.
I expected smugness. I got sympathy.
Hey. I heard about the baby,
she said, examining me for signs.
I’m sorry about Dylan. He’s a pussy.
Don’t know if that means they’re
together or not. And, really, what does
it matter? But I had to say something.
And What Slipped Out
Of my mouth was, “Yeah, he
totally is.” And in that moment,
it hit me. Yeah, he totally is.
Weeks of hurt exploded in a flash
of nuclear anger—a mushroom
cloud stamped with the word “pussy.”
He’s nothing more than a fucking
pussy, and who needs one of those
for a father? Not my baby, for sure.
Except, it’s still our baby. And why
should he be able to deny that? No
freaking way. He can’t. He won’t.
Goddamn it, what happened to my
clear-cut life? Goals. Forward
movement. Being in love. Swamped
with love. Six months ago I would
have laughed in the face of anyone
who claimed my love for Dylan—and
his reciprocal devotion—was all
in my mind. It was real. It is real.
I love him now more than ever.
Even if he is a pussy. Even if
he is screwing Kristy. He can’t love
her. And how can he possibly not
love me? Just because there’s
a baby—half him, half me?
How do I convince him to come
back? How can I make him see
that the two of us can only be
better when we become three?
I tried seducing him. It worked—
for fifteen or twenty minutes. I tried
cajoling him, which only got his back up.
I go for my ultrasound this afternoon.
Will seeing a picture of our—his—
baby make him understand the stakes?
I Sit Alone
In the waiting room. Other women
are also here solo, reading magazines
or checking their phones. The lucky
ones wait with their men, most
of whom look excited to be included.
They hold their partners’ hands,
bounce them on their knees, as if
those hands are promises of what
will be in the aftermath of what has
already been. Some of the ladies
look ready to pop. Will I really get
that big? Have a giant balloon belly?
Right now, it’s just a little pooch,
but it is noticeable and it’s growing.
A nurse comes to the door. Mikayla?
I get up and follow her, excitement
building. I’m going to see my baby.
We go into a small room and the nurse
says, There’s a hospital gown.
Put it on, open in the front. You
can keep your undergarments
on. I’ll be back in a few minutes.
She closes the door and I do as
instructed, really wishing I could
go pee. They made me drink four
glasses of water. A full bladder
is supposed to make baby viewing
easier. I get back up on the padded
table, just as a knock comes on the door.
The tech pokes his head in. All ready?
“Sure.” The guy is kind of cute, and
I’m most of the way naked, which
makes me a little uncomfortable,
even if he has seen it lots of times
before. The nurse returns and
watches
as the tech rubs a cold gel substance
on my belly. Okay, he says. This device
is called a transducer. It sends sound
waves into your body, where they reflect
off internal structures, including your baby.
He moves the transducer around
my tummy, tells me to hold my breath
several times. Now the sound waves
reflect back to the transducer, which
creates an on-screen image of your baby.
Look at all those fingers and toes. Ten
of each, I’d say. And . . . do you want
to know if it’s a boy or a girl?
“Yes. Please.” It comes out a whisper
and when he says it’s a girl, I start to cry.
Something About Knowing
She’s a girl—that I can use the word
“she” and contemplate pink dresses—
makes everything completely real.
Dr. Ortega comes in to discuss what
the ultrasound shows—a healthy
little girl with all her parts in all
the right places. And while I keep
nodding my head, I’m only half
listening. I keep looking at the printout
they gave me of my daughter in
utero at twenty-one weeks. I think
what she’ll look like when she’s born.
Will she have dark hair like Dylan’s?
Blue eyes like mine? Will she have
perfect pitch and sing soprano, or
will she pitch a perfect softball?
She moves inside me—a dragonfly.
I Get Dressed
Take a totally necessary pee.
Clutching the grainy photograph
of my baby, I am about to leave
when someone says, Hello.
Mikayla, right? It’s Mrs. Trask.
I’ve only seen her a couple of times.
The last was at her daughter’s wake.
She is thin. Pale. Drawn. “Oh, hello.
Yes, I’m Mikayla. How are you?”
She shrugs. Okay. It’s been a hard
few weeks, but it’s getting a little
better. I miss her terribly, of course.
I can’t even imagine having such
a sick child, let alone dealing with
her death. “I’m so sorry about Shelby.”
Thank you. And . . . For the first time,
she notices my condition. Looks
like congratulations are in order?
That makes me smile. “Depends
on who you’re asking. I just had
my ultrasound. It’s—she’s—a girl.”
I offer the printout like it’s great
treasure and she takes it the same
way. She is a girl. Wow. This reminds
me of when I got Shelby’s ultrasound
results. I so wanted a little girl,
and I was nervous she’d be a boy.
I tried for eleven years . . . She sputters
a little, but continues, It was the happiest
day of my life. Her eyes fill with tears,
and she wipes them with one hand,
returns the photo with the other. Well,
congratulations. To you. And whoever.
I Drive Home
Caught in a tornado
of confusion. Life
isn’t fair. Why me?
Why did I get pregnant
with a baby girl no one
wants? I mean, I think
I want her, but maybe
I don’t. Not if I have to
raise her alone. Why me,
when women like Mrs.
Trask try for years to
get pregnant. Hope for
years to have a little girl.
And then they succeed,
only to lose that daughter
to a fatal illness? Total
suckage. I’m having a girl.
I have the pic to prove
it. But who can I share
it with? No one cares
but me. Not even her
daddy. Not my friends.
Not my parents or my
grandparents. Life isn’t fair.
Kristy
Life Isn’t Fair
I
have Dylan back. But look
at the circumstances. It wasn’t
because he came to his senses,
decided what he felt for Mikayla
was more lust than love. He still
wanted
her when he dumped her. The only
reason he left was because
he knocked her up and, despite
his demands, she refused to take
the easy way out. I never expected
to
respect her. If circumstances
were different, I might even like
her, and learning the truth
has made me like Dylan a lot less.
It would be so much easier if I could
gloat.
Instead, on an almost cellular
level, I kind of want to get even
for her. “Pussy” doesn’t cover it.
Dylan is a major asshole.
Shane
Ducking for Cover
Lately, that’s what it feels like
I’m doing. Hiding out. Getting by.
Just barely. I’m faking my way
through school. Most of my teachers
don’t care. They’re just hanging in there
long enough to qualify for a pension.
But one or two have noticed
how I show up for class physically,
Ms. Luther, my creative writing
teacher, keeps using the D word.
D, for depression. I suppose that has
a lot to do with the poetry I keep
handing in. On time. As assigned.
The problem is, she lets us choose
what we want to write about. Death
figures prominently in mine. Death,
externally, and death internally.
And Also Death as a Character
This is one of the poems she liked:
Death waits impatiently
outside my door. We are betrothed
and he wants to set a date.
It will be a marriage of shadow
and light, matrimony in sepia.
Death waltzes on my lawn—
a delicate dance meant for two.
But I’m not sure of the steps,
and I don’t want to look like a fool.
So I watch from behind the glass.
Death calls to me in breathless
whispers. Coaxing. Coaxing.
His voice is soothing, and when
he hums, his song is a lullaby.
I close my eyes. And listen.
She Gave Me an A
On that one. But then she called me in
for a private talk. When I got there,
copies of my poems were on her desk.
I’m mandated by law to report what I see
as a possible—probable—problem.
Beyond that, I like you, Shane, and
I just want to make sure you’re okay.
Yeah, yeah, I know she meant well.
That she’s worried about me. But somehow
it just pisses me off. So, now I’m sitting
here, seething, waiting for my counselor,
Mr. Albert, to call me into his office. Apparently,
I’m not the only student with issues.
I’ve been here close to an hour. Finally,
the door opens. Out comes one problem
kid. And now it’s my turn. Come in, Shane.
I’d really like to wipe that phony
smile from h
is face. Maybe with acid.
Except then he’d look like the Joker
or Two-Face or something. He motions
for me to sit in the big overstuffed
chair. Looks like I’m in here for
the long haul. He pulls a short stack
of papers from his desk. Leafs through.
This is some interesting poetry,
Shane. Pretty good, but there seems
to be a common theme here. Do you
want to talk about it? He heaves a sigh.
“Not really.” I think I’ve disappointed
him. But what does he want me to say?
He sighs again. Sometimes talking
about what’s bothering you can help.
A Slow Burn
Creeps out of my collar, up my neck.
My ears must be the color of cranberries.
“What’s bothering me is that my little
sister died. She was only four. Now,
how can talking about that help?
No amount of talk can bring her back.”
Mr. Albert swallows and his Adam’s
apple dips really low. I’m sorry about
your sister. He thinks a second, then
adds, Did you know that the death
of a loved one can result in depression?
It’s really very common. And treatable.
Great. Now they’ll want to lock me
away in some crazy ward. “Look.
I’m sad about Shelby. Sad, and angry.
But I’m not depressed and I don’t
need treatment. All I need is time, and
for people to quit worrying about me.”
He’s not quite ready to let it drop.
Okay, so tell me. Are you eating?
Sleeping? Do you hang out with
your friends? Or are you keeping
to yourself? Your schoolwork has
slipped a little. Trouble concentrating?
Jeez, man. Is he spying on me?
I try to joke my way out. “My
mom’s cooking sucks and sleep
is overrated. Look, Mr. A., I swear
I’m okay. I’ll study harder and bring
my grades up. Thanks for caring, though.”
In my opinion, you are displaying
classic symptoms of depression.
I’m going to call your parents and
give them the names of a couple
of good therapists. Now he smiles.
Just don’t shoot the messenger.
If I Only Had a Gun
But I don’t and I wouldn’t want