~17~

~Chapter Seventeen~

And then as the sail is hoist
You find your eyes are growing moist
All the fears never voiced say you have to make your final choice

~Pink Floyd, Childhood's End~

I'm starting to look different.

My face is a little fuller, the weight I've gained is definitely noticeable, and it's becoming more and more difficult to button my jeans.

It's starting to cause whispers.

Some stories floating around the halls at school are scarily accurate. I'm not sure who said it first, but the person who said that I am pregnant is right. It just starts to fall apart when they speculate on who's baby it is or how it happened in the first place.

I've heard that it's Damon's, that he is cheating on Rebekah with me. And that I'm not sure who knocked me up, that the choices are between Damon and Enzo.

The amateur detectives actually have some logical theories. Everyone is leaning toward the second scenario, at least that's what Caroline says (people keep asking her to verify, just as they had about the previous rumor). They think that's why Enzo and Damon fought and why Elena wants nothing to do with me.

It's not exactly the truth, but it's closer to it than the normal caliber of theories about any scandal that's ever graced my ears.

That doesn't bode well for me, but I guess it's the most interesting gossip my classmates have heard since last year, which shouldn't say much because we've only been in school for a few months. Though something tells me that nothing will top this story

I feel like I'm a sideshow attraction because of it. For the past ten minutes, everyone who has walked by my table in the cafeteria has been staring at me. Two freshman who I saw at the cheer-formation meeting held by Care and Elena kept their eyes trained on my stomach before sitting at the table adjacent to mine.

And that's one of the more polite ways people have checked to see if the rumors held any water.

Part of it is my fault; I should have known better than to come in here. It's meatloaf day, and while that used to be one of the more palatable menu options, the smell is now killing me—slowly, in a way that can't be stopped by breathing through my mouth.

But going to the courtyard is even more annoying, believe it or not. I'll be able to eat without fear of being caught gagging every other bite and I'm able to read a book or look over my notes. Sounds better, right?

Wrong.

I'm a sitting duck outside. People are able to spot me with ease because no one really comes outside when the temperature begins to drop, when the trees are almost naked, and the colorful leaves have withered up in huge piles on the grass. Raked, but not removed from the area.

That makes my peers more brazen.

They will venture outside to see if they'll be able to get the scoop; so they can dangle the information in everyone's face, hoping to gain favor with the popular kids—if you think there can even be popular kids in a town as tiny as Mystic Falls, where ninety-five percent of our population has known each other for longer than most of us have been alive.

And it's stupid.

Because most of us know what our classmates are all about. But, somehow, that only makes people like Rebekah and Klaus more sought after—because we all know they have money and they are considered "exotic" for not actually living within the town's limits. It's what makes Damon everyone's wet dream—his good looks and general disregard for anyone but himself makes him so different from every other boy we've grown up with. He's not like Matt—the stereotypical good guy you'd expect to find living here.

He's an anomaly.

And, according to most girls, the human embodiment of a god.

Hence his very aptly named God complex.

If a stranger walked in the building, they would know the social hierarchy by simply watching the interactions happening during lunch for five minutes.

And they'd also know that the girl who's a shoo-in for being voted Most Likely to Succeed in the yearbook is knocked up and no longer fits the category.

"Guess what I did?"

I glance up from my reading assignment to see Damon standing in front of me, bright blue eyes sparkling like they always do when he gets something he wants. Happy with a tinge of pompousness. Everything about him screams of inflated self-worth, the kind that reinforces the thought that he will never not get what he wants.

"Should I be scared? Because I'm scared."

He pretends to consider it. "As much as you know I'd like to tell you yes, I'm going to say that's a hard no. I think you'll be proud."

"Still scared."

"You suck. Here I am about to pour my soul out to you, hoping for your approval and this is how you treat me?"

I give him a pointed look. "I've found that with you a hard no could mean many different things."

"Yeah, but they're usually good things."

"Okay, fine, I guess I walked into that one." I hold my hands up in concession. "Just tell me what you did."

"I took some advice a good friend of mine gave me recently." He lifts his eyebrows as if to say, I told you so.

"And what did this friend tell you to do?" I'm a little on edge. This could go many different ways.

"She told me to stop hanging around this girl because someone's feelings would get hurt."

"Wise friend you have," I comment nonchalantly.

Damon shakes his head. "Not really. Usually she just keeps talking to me about being a good person until I lie and say she's right. If I didn't, I don't think she'd ever shut up."

"Maybe she's just thorough. Maybe she just wants to make sure you understand what she's saying."

"She is thorough—in more ways than one."

I wish my legs were long enough to kick him from my spot on the bench. "Spit it out, Damon."

"There you go again… bossing me around. Do you ever get tired of nagging me?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Right—that's a no. I knew that. Anyway, I escaped the threat of holy matrimony, which is a lot like death by crazy psycho bitch."

"Okay… and?"

"Ugh—can't you just let me tell the story? You're no fun!"

"Fine. Go on."

"Thank you," he says with a heavy sigh. "So, this psycho bitch tried to tell me I couldn't do something that I clearly didn't need permission for. I mean, what the fuck? She's fucking delusional if she thinks she can tell me what to do. Anyway, I dumped her. Which means I can spend more time with my BFF. I'm thinking ice cream and a re-watch of The Bodyguard. Are you game?"

"Duh," I say lightheartedly. "Are we going to my place after the appointment or yours?"

"Do you have the ice cream with the brownie chunks in it?"

"I haven't touched it since you put it in the freezer the other day," I promise.

"Your place," he replies, not missing a beat.

I nod thoughtfully. And then I think about the aforementioned appointment. I have another ultrasound scheduled for this afternoon. It's an important one, too. If everything looks good, we should be able to find out if the blob-like creature I'm sharing my insides with is male or female.

I try to keep things as technical as possible—if I don't then I start spiraling into this cycle of what I can only describe as acceptance vs. denial and that's how I ended up on the phone with Damon, who tried his hardest to coax me out of my existential crisis even though it was two-thirty on a Tuesday morning.

"What do you think about that, by the way?"

"The Bodyguard?" he plays dumb. "I can't believe I let you talk me into watching it more than once—"

"The appointment," I interrupt. "Not that you didn't know what I meant."

Damon shrugs. "I think it'll be informative."

"That's it?" He has to know we are teetering on the edge of having to do something. Anything to keep us from free falling into disaster. Yes, we know what we want, but now we're going to have to put in the work needed to achieve that.

"I think that this whole thing is crazy, Bonnie. I think it's risky and dumb and there's a huge chance that we'll end up making an even bigger mess than before. But I know some things, too. I know that there's no going back now. I know that you are one of the smartest people in this hell hole. I know that even though we didn't always like each other, I always respected you. And, most importantly, I know that if I have to be stuck with someone for over a decade, I'm glad it's you."

"I'm glad I'm stuck with you, too," I say quietly. I'm still processing what he said. Somehow, hearing all my thoughts coming from Damon, makes me feel better.

Like it will be okay, even with the odds stacked against us.

Statistically speaking, this is bullshit. But Damon is staring at me so earnestly, how can I doubt him? He didn't offer any solutions, not really, but he wants to and that's what I need right now.

Motivation.

He doesn't say anything back. We sit in complete silence. I study him carefully, confused as to how I could have been so right about him and so wrong at the same time. Now, I see him differently. And I know what that difference means, it makes my toes curl and stomach flip. I smile, I don't really want to, but I can't help it.

"Are you okay, Bennett?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You look like you're on some bad acid trip."

"I just like you—and well, I always told myself if that happened, then I would probably self-destruct."

His eyes wander from the top of my head to where my body becomes obstructed by the table. "You're still in one piece."

"I know. I'm in shock."

He shakes his head. Chuckles. "You are so weird sometimes, Bonster."

"I'm sorry you feel that way." I snip defensively.

Another laugh. "Don't be," he stands up and walks over to me. "I like it."

I freeze when I feel his lips on me cheek. Damon does, too. Clearly he forgot that he isn't trying to get back in Elena's good graces. That I'm Bonnie and gestures like this are reserved for turning my best friend into a babbling, flustered mess.

And then he remembers.

Just like that, he straightens up and nudges me on the arm. "Meet me by my car when the bell rings."

"Uh, yeah. That's the plan."

"Right."

He walks away.

My last class of the day is history, taught by everyone's favorite teacher: Alaric Saltzman.

He's young—twenty-four tops—and has only been teaching in our school for just over a year. Caroline had been so enamored by him in eleventh grade that she was the first person in our class to sign up for a meeting with the guidance counselor.

We have a quiz.

It's short, simple, and takes me twenty minutes to finish. It's mostly fill-in-the-blank and multiple-choice questions, with lines of text taken straight from the textbook.

I remain at my desk for a minute after I put my pencil down. A quick glance around the room shows me that everyone else is still working, but I know that won't be for long.

This assignment is basically a free A with the weight of a test score attached to it. Something to boost the entire class's average. It's also an opportunity for Mr. Saltzman to dismiss the class early, allowing us to go to the library or the courtyard until the final bell rings.

Damon and I need to be off school grounds before then. The last thing we need is to give anyone more reason to talk about us spending so much time together.

So, paper in hand, I approach Mr. Saltzman's desk.

"Here you go," I say cheerily, placing my work inside the designated basket. "Have a good night, Mr. Saltzman! I'll see you tomorrow."

I can only take one step forward before he stops me. "Bonnie?"

Crap! So close… "Yes?"

"Can I speak with you a moment?"

I look from him to the rows of desks on my left. Some people are starting to finish, their pencils hitting their desks much louder than necessary. Others are trying to sneakily use their phones, lit screens glowing in the shadows under desktops.

"Of course, what do you need?" I don't meet his eyes. Instead, I look at the posters hanging above the whiteboard, right next to a pad of chart paper. Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr,. Susan B Anthony, the Washington Monument…

"Follow me," he stands and heads for the door.

My head is down as I exit the room. I'm sure this will fan the flames somehow, in some horrifying manner, and before I can stop myself, I think of all the things that could be said about me tomorrow morning.

Maybe Bonnie is in trouble for cutting class to make out with Damon, maybe she's flunking history, maybe Mr. Saltzman is sleeping with her.

I hold my books closer to my chest, focusing on the double doors located at the end of the corridor. I hear the door close with a faint click. His gaze doesn't leave me to check on the class through the window. I really wish it would, as I have no idea what he could possibly want to discuss with me.

"Don't worry—it's nothing bad, Actually, I think it's good."

Well, I can't say that I don't want to hear some good news for a change. "Alright… what is it?"

"Every new teacher is required to be in charge of a club," he explains. "Or a department—really, anything that might require a leader. And, as you can probably guess, nobody is all that interested in joining a history club… and, well, Miss Fell has the head of the history department on lockdown."

"Isn't she an English teacher?"

"Yes—I voiced the same concern, but apparently those titles are first come, first serve." Alaric does nothing to conceal the agitation in his voice.

I shift my weight from side-to-side, hoping to relieve the aching in my feet and lower back. "No offense, Mr. Saltzman but how do I fit into this?"

"I want you to help me organize a history night at your mother's museum."

"Um, my mom's museum isn't a history museum—it's science."

"That's even better!" he exclaims. "It'll be a cross-curriculum night! The district loves when you can show that you can teach across multiple subject areas."

"I guess, but there's a brand-new exhibit so everything is geared toward that." And I don't want to plan a meeting—especially not one that would encourage my parents to feign interest in my schoolwork. One that will make it look like I'm all for science being the basis of every academic area.

"Oh Bonnie," they'll say. "You're so into biophysics that you're bringing science to all the subjects! Great idea!"

But I make the mistake of looking at Mr. Saltzman. He looks so hopeful, eyes begging for me to tell him yes.

And I do.

I don't even realize I'm doing it. I only know because my teacher is now beaming at me, hand on the doorknob, ready to dismiss me for the day.

At least this conversation is almost over.

"Thank you, Bonnie! This will be a great addition to your recommendation letter. Yale loves this sort of thing!"

Yeah, because Yale is my primary concern right now. "You're welcome."

Of course, Mr. Saltzman doesn't know that I have bigger issues to take care of, but that doesn't mean I don't feel as though I've wasted valuable time agreeing to do something I know I shouldn't have.

~~X~~

I hurry down the hall, nearly dropping my books onto the floor as I push the door open. The sun shines brightly in the sky, a clear, cloudless fall day. A good omen in my grandmother's opinion.

I rush down the steps, past the courtyard, and over to where Damon parked his car. He's already there, but his back is turned toward the football field, away from me. He's watching something, but I don't know what.

Nobody is out here with us. Not a student or a teacher or a visitor. The only living creatures in our vicinity are the squirrels gathering nuts and the birds chirping overhead as they fly south.

I go over and stand by his side. "You okay? You look like you wish you were on an acid trip."

"No," he replies softly, introspectively. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Schrodinger's box."

"Wow, that's both impressive and deep." I regard him with fake suspicion. "Who are you and where's my best friend?"

"Ha, ha, very funny Bennett."

"Thanks—really, though. What's wrong?"

And then he isn't staring straight ahead anymore.

"Nothing," Damon answers. "I was thinking about us. Sometimes, it's weird to think about how much I hated your guts."

"I thought we already hashed this out."

He lets out a breath. "We did. It's not a bad thing. I was just thinking—last time I checked, free thought wasn't illegal."

"It's not," I agree. I am having a hard time reading Damon. The vibe seems more tense now. The words he speaks don't sound as sure. It doesn't give me a good feeling. "I was just checking on you."

"I'm good."

"You seem good," I remark, a little snide.

If he catches on to undercurrent in my tone, he doesn't show it. He doesn't even respond. The next thing I know, he's in the car, gazing at me through the windshield with an impatient expression.

I get in and he flashes me a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You're definitely slower than me. Admit it."

I sigh, shaking my head. "Fine—this one time you were more efficient than me."

"Not quite what I wanted," he puts the key in the ignition. "But I'll take it."

We didn't talk much on the ride here. The strangeness between us hasn't dissipated, and I am trying not to read into it too much. The same receptionist from before checks me in, with that same chipper attitude, and upbeat demeanor.

I wish some of it could carry over to Damon, but it only seems to darken his mood further. We walk over to the waiting are, opting to sit across from each other. Instead of the inappropriate commentary on diagrams of the female anatomy I had been expecting, he just slumps back and begins thumbing through something on his phone.

I pick up a magazine and turn through the pages until I stop at an ad for diapers. The woman in the photograph is overjoyed to be holding the baby in her arms. The company touts a product that doesn't leak or come undone, claims to make motherhood easier.

And I wonder if it could really be like that.

I'm jealous of this young mom, who is really only a model, envious of the fact that she can happily embrace her child without worry or judgement.

Irrationally angry that she is allowed to have those moments.

I toss the magazine back onto the table, in search of one that doesn't advertise baby supplies. My fingers curl around a worn copy of Time when I hear my name.

"Bonnie?"

"Yes?"

"You can come on back." The nurse smiles at me and I don't know if I can return it.

I clear my throat to get Damon's attention. He looks up, sees the woman looking at the two of us, and stands up. Wordlessly following us back into an exam room.

I chew on my bottom lip anxiously as I wait for the cold gel that Google told me would come. My eyes are closed, my breathing slow and steady. I don't acknowledge the odd feeling of the equipment moving over my abdomen.

I'm just glad it isn't like the last one.

Gone is the invasive wand. In its place is unbearable need to pee (which has definitely intensified this time around). It's actually worse than the first ultrasound because there is a very real possibility that I might pee all over the table I'm lying on.

The ultrasound technician goes over the various body parts my baby has developed and informs me that everything looks as it should. I open one eye to peek at the picture on the screen. It doesn't quite look like a person yet, but it no longer resembles a deformed jellybean.

It's both awe-inspiring and frightening.

"Would you like to know the sex?"

I prop myself up and nod resolutely, casting a glance at Damon, who echoes my affirmative by nodding stiffly in our direction.

We don't even have to wait a complete second before she tells us. "It's a girl. Congratulations!"

"Thank you," I murmur, and I can feel my eyes beginning to water. "I'm sorry, I don't usually get emotional like this."

The tech smiles warmly at me. "No problem, sweetie. It's normal."

"Not for me," I insist, sitting up and grabbing a tissue from the box on the side table.

Damon isn't crying. I knew that wouldn't happen, but I still can't tell what he's actually thinking. He stares at the image without fear, disappointment, or glee.

It's like he's gone completely numb.

That's not a good sign.

I listen as I'm assured that while it wasn't commonplace before, my emotional responses have changed for a reason and not to worry. Everything looks good thus far. We are both very healthy.

"You and the baby," she clarifies, though I would be stupid to think she was referring to the statue of a man sitting in the chair across from us.

Me and the baby.

I'm suddenly very overwhelmed by how real that statement has become.