The nurse took one look at Allison and ordered her over to the cot where sick kids were supposed to wait while parents were notified, or until the kid realized that he wasn't that sick after all, and maybe he could take the math test. Coarse white sheets covered the cot, a flat foam pillow under them on one end. Allison sank gratefully down onto them. With Jackson's help, she had been able to walk all the way down here, but she'd had to do most of it with her eyes closed in order to keep from falling over. The nurse asked a few questions then disappeared into another room.
"Jackson," she said—her voice caught; she cleared her throat—"Someone needs to get Scott." She knew she was repeating herself, but why wouldn't he listen?
He shook his head, ran a finger over one eyebrow. "I'll stay with you," he replied, once again ignoring her. But the next thing he did was pull out his phone and start tapping, his eyes flicking to the door as if he were afraid of getting caught. His furtive expression reminded her of one she'd seen on her boyfriend's face so often recently.
At the formal there had been a long moment when Allison had been certain that Scott was about to tell her something. Even when he sprang the L word, a part of her whispered that that was the start of the confession, not the end. Then Coach Finstock had descended on them and, with a triumphant grin spread across his face, grabbed Scott by the nose and duck-walked him out the front doors. With the music blaring all around, she couldn't hear what words passed between them, but Scott's color was high and his eyes were wide in panic. She tried to follow, but Finstock threw his arm out in a clear signal for her to stay put.
That was the night.
She'd left the dance as soon as she could and snuck over to Scott's house. He hadn't been home, so she'd taken a seat on the porch, wrapped her shawl tight around her shoulders, and waited. When he finally stumbled home around three o'clock in the morning, her arms had long since gone numb and she was losing the fight against the violent shivering in her body. Scott's embrace had been one of relief and desperation, even as she could sense that the door had closed on confessions. He smelled of smoke and ashes, pieces of crushed leaves stuck to his clothes and hair. She didn't ask, and he didn't volunteer. Whatever he'd wanted to say wouldn't be said that night—though he didn't have any problem repeating the L word. And she found it easy to give in to other promises.
Not until later that morning, when she finally made it back home, did she learn about Lydia's attack and Aunt Kate's death. The details in both cases were sparse, and she knew that she wasn't being given the whole story. But, somehow, getting the whole story didn't seem so important any more. She had her own secret.
A couple weeks later, her period didn't arrive. She'd spent a week with crossed fingers, certain that the stresses of the month were just playing havoc on her body. Even though she knew otherwise, she refused to name the reality. On the one hand, the word terrified her. On the other, this really was her secret—at least for the time being. Yes, she was being immature and petty and vindictive to use this as another verse in the "I Know Something You Don't Know" song, but she liked being the secret holder for once. Especially as it became progressively clear that the version of the song everyone else was singing was designed to exclude her voice. It was because of that small, vicious thrill of retribution that she kept the knowledge to herself for so long. By not speaking the label to anyone, she could revel in the small revenge it allowed, instead of having to think about the bigger picture.
"I'm pregnant," she whispered, now. To Jackson. The first time she'd said those words out loud, to anyone, and it was to Jackson. They tasted of a kind of betrayal. She cringed, hugged her shoulders. "Please don't laugh at me."
Jackson's head shot up from his phone, though his fingers tapped a few more keys. He stared at her, his blue eyes bored into her as though he was peeling away the layers of her abdomen to check for himself. "Are you sure?" he asked.
She nodded, the curls bouncing next to face. A new wave of dizziness washed over her and she had to slap a hand down onto the cot to keep upright. She waited for him a crack a joke or offer a tactless comment. Isn't that what was supposed to happen next? Someone would question her morality, her sanity, her ability to think. She listened to the clock tick in the office, the scuffing of Jackson's expensive shoe on the floor, waiting for a response.
Jackson finally managed to pull one together. "Shit," he said. He dropped the word into the silence as if there were no more accurate summary. Then, "Sorry—" he shook his head as if he hadn't meant to swear, slid the phone into his pocket. "I don't know—"
Just then, then nurse reappeared in the doorway. He was a middle-aged man of some east Asian descent with crow's feet deeply etched around eyes that now looked heavy with concern. "I've called an ambulance," he said to Allison, "and left messages for your parents to meet you at the hospital. I'm going to keep trying them."
"Why?" Jackson demanded. "She just needs to rest for a few minutes."
The nurse raised his eyebrows, crossed his arms over his chest. "How about you let me do my job and I don't kick you out?" he asked, tone low but no nonsense. His gaze softened a little when he looked back at Allison. "Is there anything I can get you? A bottle of water? A blanket?" Off her mouthed, "no thanks," he responded, "The ambulance will be here in a few minutes. Don't worry."
Now that he'd said that, the worry dropped on her like a collapsing ceiling. What did he mean by that? What was there to worry about? For a second, the same questions flashed over Jackson's face. Then he reached some kind of decision, turned on his heel, and stormed into the main office after the nurse.