I push through the doors of the pharmacy on Essex Road on Friday afternoon. I've spent the day wringing my hands, sick with nerves, on the brink of tears. It's taken me until now to finally muster the courage to come down here. This isn't something I can simply ignore. But I can't be pregnant. I can't. Wes and I were extremely careful. Wes always wore a condom.
I'm relieved to see it's the cranky female pharmacist behind the counter and not her husband. I could never purchase a pregnancy test from a man. I'm not certain I can purchase one from a woman either.
"Good afternoon," the pharmacist greets me, barely glancing up. She's concentrating on painting the fingernails on her left hand.
I mumble a reply that I know she can't hear and move quickly toward the contraceptive aisle. I stop in front of the pregnancy tests and stare. They stare back, mocking me. I feel sick. I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up right here in the contraceptive aisle and the cranky pharmacist will toss me out and threaten to phone my mother. Oh, dear Lord. I cannot be pregnant.
"Can I help you with something?" the pharmacist asks. She has a bored voice like Sally White. She doesn't sound particularly helpful.
"No," I answer, softly, and continue to stare. I tug on my school sweater. I should have changed out of my uniform. This only makes the whole experience more embarrassing.
"You know," the pharmacist says, "nothing in that aisle will do you any good if you simply stare at it. If you have a question, please ask and I will assist you."
"I don't need any help!" I reply and grab the box nearest to me. I hurry up to the counter and slam the test down.
The pharmacist screws on the top of her nail polish bottle. She blows on her fingernails and peers at me over her glasses. Then she picks up the test and looks at it a moment. "It's really none of my business," she says and my stomach sinks, sensing a lecture coming on. That's all I need. Another Elizabeth Brewer in my life. "But I think you should wait to graduate high school before actively trying to conceive."
"Excuse me?" I reply, edgily.
The pharmacist flips the test around so I can see it. "This is an ovulation test kit. I suspect you want a pregnancy test. Unless, of course, you're attempting to discover which two days of the month to not have sex. In that case, I admit I am almost impressed by your clever, yet flawed, plan."
Great. The pharmacist is a comedienne.
I snatch the test out of her hand and whirl around, storming back to the contraceptive aisle. I won't give her the satisfaction of asking what ovulation is. Unfortunately for me, the pharmacist comes out from behind the counter, trailing after me, blowing on her nails.
I set the ovulation test kit back on the shelf.
The pharmacist immediately picks it back up. "You could at least return it to the correct spot," she says, lightly, and slides it onto a lower shelf. "Now, how late is your period?"
"I really don't need any help," I tell her, crabbily, and grab a pregnancy test off the shelf. I make sure it's actually labeled as such. "You can go back to your manicure."
"I have to wait for this hand to dry. How else will I ring up your purchase? Now, how late is your period?"
"A week or so," I answer, grudgingly. What an irritating and pushy woman.
"Well, then, you do need my help because that's the wrong test." She plucks it out of my hand. "This one isn't always accurate so early. We'll find you a better one." She begins scanning an unpolished finger over the pregnancy tests.
The pharmacy door swings open and the bell chimes. In stalks a thin brunette girl, slouched forward, clutching a stack of books to her chest. She isn't wearing a coat or scarf, even though snow is predicted at any moment.
"You're late," the pharmacist informs her.
"I'm here, aren't I?" the girl retorts, heading for the counter.
"You were supposed to be here at four o' clock. Your father's been waiting. You promised Uncle Malcolm – "
"I know what I promised!" the girl snaps and spins around. She's very pale with dark circles under her eyes. She's dressed very neatly, but looks quite ill. A string of pearls rests at her throat. "Can't you stop being a bitch for two seconds? Get off my back!"
The pharmacist places her hands on her hips. "When I decide to be a bitch, Emily Elaine, you will be well aware of it. I've been extremely patient with this attitude of yours. We aren't starting this foolishness again. If you insist of starting this up every few months, you're going to send me to an early grave!"
"You're always threatening to die and you never do it!" the girl exclaims. "You're never going to die! You're going to live forever. You're going to live to be two hundred years old and you'll still be bitching at me!" The girl disappears out of sight somewhere in the back of the pharmacy.
The pharmacist purses her lips so tight they actually disappear.
"Your daughter is charming," I tell her. I can't help myself.
The pharmacist brushes her black hair away from her face. "She's under a lot of stress. She doesn't get enough sleep," she says, briskly, and removes a pregnancy test from the shelf. "This is the one."
I snatch a second test off the shelf and follow her to the counter. She steps up to the register and rings up the first test. I slide over the second test and she rings it up, too. I want to be certain. I want to be certain that I am not pregnant.
Somewhere at the back of the pharmacy, raised voices boom. The pharmacist completely ignores the noise and holds out her hand. "That'll be fourteen dollars and twenty-eight cents," she informs me.
I take out my wallet and slowly count out the exact amount. I hand over the money and bite my lip as the pharmacist places the money in the cash register, then slides both pregnancy tests into a white paper bag. She folds the top over. I want to cry. I want to hug someone and be held and cry.
"Would you like your receipt?" the pharmacist asks, holding it out to me.
I shake my head.
"All right then." She drops it into the wastebasket. Then she picks up some pamphlets off the counter and hands them to me. Two have Safe Sex written in bold letters. One is for the Stoneybrook Health Clinic. "You should have a look at these," she says. "And whether or not you are pregnant, you should make an appointment at the clinic. Good luck with your test." She turns and walks away, disappearing between two rows of shelves. A door opens. "Stop yelling at her!" the pharmacist barks, then in a much calmer voice says, "Emily, we don't have to go to your uncle's. We can do whatever you want to do."
Well, no wonder her daughter's a brat.
I carefully shove the paper bag into my messenger bag and leave the pharmacy. Outside, December rages on, frigid and bitter, the chilled air biting at my face. I stand on the corner a moment, thinking of what's hidden in my messenger bag. How did this happen to me? It wasn't supposed to. Not to me. I finally step off the curb and walk to my car. As I turn over the engine, the pharmacy goes dark. I back out onto Essex and drive home.
Maria and David Michael are sitting on our front porch when I pull into the driveway. I scowl when I see him. Why doesn't Maria listen to me? I hop out of the car and walk around to the front of the house. Maria has an arm around David Michael's shoulders. His cheeks are tear-stained.
"What's wrong?" I ask, grouchily.
Maria looks up. "David Michael Thomas is upset," she explains.
Well, obviously.
"What happened?" I ask.
Maria looks over at David Michael, then back up at me. "Sam called last night," she says. "Elizabeth told him to stay away."
I am unable to immediately mask my surprise. I rebound as quickly as possible. "Everyone's better off," I tell them and continue into the house. I'm not at all shocked that Elizabeth would be so cold to her own child. That's just like her.
I walk up to my bedroom and shut the door. I lock it and take out the white paper bag. I spread the pregnancy tests on the bed, sit down beside them, and stare. I touch one. It doesn't seem real. I draw my hand back and rest it in my lap. I wish Wes were here. I wish he were here to hold me and comfort me and whisper in my ear that everything will be all right, regardless, and he will love me and take care of me.
I walk over to my desk and pick up the phone. I dial.
"What are you doing?" I ask Greer when she answers.
"Nothing. Beer and I were talking about going to a movie," she says.
I wonder when people will stop calling Bertram "Beer".
"Can you come over?" I ask.
"Yeah. Is something wrong? You sound kind of…queasy."
Can someone sound queasy?
"Just come over please."
"Okay. Yeah, sure, I'll come over. Do you want me to bring Sally?"
"I don't care."
We hang up and I wait. I stare at the tests awhile longer, then slide them back into the paper bag. I hide the bag beneath my pillow. And I wait. Several minutes pass and I hear a car door slam, then another. The doorbell rings. I don't move. I continue to wait. The front door opens and I hear the faint sound of Maria's voice downstairs. Greer's answers. Footsteps gallop up the stairs. A knock at the door.
"Come in," I call, voice breaking.
The doorknob jiggles.
"It's locked!" Greer shouts.
I stand and cross the room slowly and unlock the door. Greer and Sally slip into the room. They look so normal. Like normal teenage girls in jeans and sweaters. Like how I should look. Like how I should be.
"What's wrong?" Greer asks.
I shut the door and lock it. I return to my bed and sit, folding my hands in my lap. I bite my lip. I can't speak.
Greer and Sally stand in the center of the room, staring at me.
"You didn't go back to the middle school, did you?" Sally asks.
I shake my head.
"Did you go to his apartment?" Greer asks.
I shake my head.
"Does this have anything to do with him?" Greer asks.
I hesitate, then nod. I remove the white paper bag from underneath my pillow. I unfold the top and pull out one of the tests. I show it to Greer and Sally.
"Omigawsh," Greer gasps, a hand flying to her mouth.
Sally also clasps a hand over her mouth. I've stunned Sally White. I've rendered her speechless. Perhaps, I should consider this an accomplishment.
"How late are you?" Greer asks.
I shrug. "Over a week."
"I bet you aren't pregnant," Greer insists in a rush. "You've been stressed out. That's why you've missed your period. And I bet you didn't miss it. It's just late."
Sally recovers. "Didn't he wear a condom or something?" she asks.
"Of course!" I cry, offended. Does she think I'm stupid? "He wore one every time."
"Well, he didn't wear it properly then," Sally says, dryly.
"You aren't helping!" Greer hisses.
Sally almost looks embarrassed. She crosses the room to me and plucks the pregnancy test from my hand. "Greer's right. You've been very stressed out. We'll settle this once and for all. Come on, let's take the test." Sally starts toward the door.
"Don't let my little sister see!" I cry, lunging forward.
Sally tucks the box under her sweater. I stuff the paper bag with the other test underneath my pillow again. Greer and I follow Sally into the bathroom. Greer locks the door behind us. Sally opens the pregnancy test and unfolds the instructions.
"Have you ever taken a pregnancy test?" she asks Greer.
"No! I'm on the pill and I always use a condom, too," she replies, stiffly. She looks over at me a bit guiltily. "Not that you were irresponsible or…"
Even Greer the slut hasn't been dumb enough to get pregnant. But I am not pregnant. Absolutely not.
"Okay, Starshine," Sally says, staring down at the instructions. She holds the applicator out to me. "Do you want to pee on the stick or in a cup?"
I don't take the applicator. I back away.
Sally shakes it at me. "You have to take the test or else you won't know."
I reach out and take the applicator. "I'll use a cup," I say, quietly.
Greer ducks down under the sink and gets a paper cup. She hands it to me, then she and Sally go out to wait in the hall. I set the applicator and cup on the counter. I rest my hands on the edge and lean forward, holding my eyes tightly shut. I can't cry. I won't cry. I won't cry because I'm not pregnant.
I call Greer and Sally back into the bathroom when I finish.
"Why is the applicator still sitting on the sink?" Greer asks.
I shrug. I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub, legs crossed, hands folded over my knee.
"You have to take the test," Sally says a bit agitatedly.
Greer picks up the cup and dips the end of the stick in it. "How long?" she asks Sally.
"About fifteen seconds," Sally replies. She sits down on the floor beside the door.
Greer lifts the stick out of the cup. "Now how long?" she asks Sally.
"Three minutes or so."
Greer hops onto the counter, holding my pregnancy test. She crosses her legs like me. She holds the test so casually. I can't even look at it.
"We really did use a condom every time," I tell them. It's important that they believe me. I don't know why. "Even when I said it was okay not to."
"Why would you tell him not to wear one?" Sally asks, aghast. "Were you trying to get pregnant?"
"Of course not!" I exclaim. I'm not like that. Why would I do such a thing on purpose? To trap him? To make him stay with me?
"We believe you," Greer says with a sharp look in Sally's direction. "No birth control method is one hundred percent."
I look up at her, confused. "It's not?" I ask, feeling foolish.
Greer and Sally both appear taken aback.
"Didn't you ever take sex education?" Sally inquires.
"We don't have it at SDS."
"Didn't your mother ever talk to you about these things?"
I shake my head.
Greer and Sally frown and exchange another glance. I feel very stupid.
Sally checks her watch. "It's been three minutes," she announces.
Greer looks down at the stick and wrinkles her brow. "How do I know?"
"A blue line for negative, a pink line for positive," Sally answers.
I close my eyes. I don't want to see Greer's expression. I cover my ears. I don't want to hear her either.
But I do anyway.
"You're pregnant," Greer says.
I cry.
Greer and Sally let me be. Greer wraps the test in toilet paper and stuffs it back inside the box. She dumps out the cup and washes her hands. Sally just watches me, chin resting in her right palm. Greer returns to the counter, jumps up onto it and watches me, too. I cry and cry. Why is this happening to me? I can't have a baby! I can't get fat and wear maternity clothes and give birth. I can't do any of that. I'm only seventeen years old. I wrap my arms around myself and sob harder. Oh, dear Lord. I'm pregnant. I'm having Wes' baby. Our baby.
"I'm sorry, Starshine," Sally says. Her voice isn't bored and flat like usual. There's actual emotion in it. She sounds younger. She sounds like she's really sorry.
Greer hands me a box of tissues. "I'm sorry, too, Shannon," she says, quietly. "Maybe the test is wrong. Let's take the other one," she suggests. "Sally, go get it."
We take the second test.
I'm still pregnant.
I start crying again. I bury my face in my hands, rock back and forth on the edge of the tub. I don't know what I'll do. I don't know what I'll say. I don't know anything anymore. And beyond the sound of my tears, I hear a horrid little voice nag at me, pointing out a seed Sally planted. I raise my face from my hands to look at Greer and Sally. Sally's on the floor again, knees drawn to her chest. Greer's still seated on the counter.
"Do you think…"I begin, hesitantly. "Do you think…now that I'm pregnant…that maybe…"
"You can have an abortion?" Greer cuts in. "Absolutely. They do them at the Stoneybrook Health Clinic."
"No…I mean…I mean…now that I'm pregnant…"
Sally shakes her head. "No, Shannon, no," she says.
I drop my eyes to my knees.
"What?" Greer asks Sally, mystified.
"She wants to know if he'll want her back now that she's having his baby."
"Oh…" Greer says, slowly. "No. I don't think you should even tell him. You've done enough to him already."
My head snaps up. "He's going to find out!" I tell her. "I'm pregnant. I'm going to get fat. People will talk about me. Oh, dear Lord. Everyone's going to know!" I hold a hand over my mouth and let out a strangled sob.
"They won't if you have an abortion," Greer says, simply.
"I can't kill our baby!" I protest. "Would you have an abortion?"
"Absolutely."
I stare at her, astounded. I could never do such a thing. Never ever. But I don't want to be pregnant either. Maybe I'll have a miscarriage. Maybe I can make myself miscarry. I can throw myself down the stairs. Maybe Greer or Sally could hit me in the stomach with a sack of potatoes. That might work.
"Would you have an abortion?" I ask Sally.
She shrugs. "I don't know."
"I think Wes and I should make this decision together."
Sally scowls. "You are going to kill this man," she tells me.
"Don't tell him, Shannon. Please don't. Just get an abortion and move on with your life."
I bite my lip. Tears spring from my eyes once more. I lean forward, pressing my hands to my stomach, my stomach where Wes' and my baby grows inside.