I should be running. I should be studying. I should be eating dinner. I shouldn't be telling you this.

Juno's pregnant. She told me. Sat on my front lawn, all cool and cucumber-ish, and said, "So, guess what? I'm pregnant."

Two minutes, two days, two infinities passed, and I asked her what we should do about it. She acted like it was no biggie, nothing to freak and jump out a window over, so I did too. She told me she had it covered, and she was sorry it happened, and that she'd see me at school. And I asked her whose idea it had been, but she hopped on her bike and rode off.

And then I went running. And she grabbed her books and met me in the science lab. And I let her copy my notes. And we ate lunch, and went to our classes, and said goodbye, and went home.

And I'm home now.

I should be putting my gold shorts on, jogging, so maybe I'll be the fastest runner on the team. I should be in my room, with my book open, taking down tonight's physics notes. I should be downstairs, in the kitchen, getting some Kool-Aid to drink with my French toast and sausage. I shouldn't be telling you this.

I'm looking at my yearbook, at her picture, at her note.

She said something about getting rid of the baby. I'm kind of hoping she doesn't, because it would be wizard to see a little mutated combination of the two of us. A 'Bluno,' or a 'Jeeker.' And it would have her eyes, and my nose, and her hair, and smile, and sense of humor. And, I don't know, maybe my legs, because Junebug says she likes them.

I want to pick up my hamburger phone and call her. And hers will ring, same hamburger as mine, and she'll answer it, and I'll tell her that our baby will be beautiful, like her, and she shouldn't do anything to it. And maybe she'll think I'm selfish, because I'm not the one with a bun in my oven, and I'm not puking up whatever I ate last, and I'm not going to have to be the one shooting it out. And then maybe she'll say I'm right, she should tough it out, because did I know babies have hearts and fingernails, just like us, just like Su-Chin said?

And then, what would we do with it? My mom would spear me through with a fork if she knew.

I don't call. Junebug's dirty underwear is balled in my hand. I never gave it back to her. I probably won't ever give it back to her. And I'm not sorry we did it, and I don't think I'm sorry that any of this happened, because maybe it'll make her love me the way I love her.

I shouldn't be telling you this.