Boredom made me update so early. Plus I want to get farther in this story than what I'm at. Please review! :P

I examine an ad in the paper. The ad has a pregnant girl doing this overdramatic pose and the ad says, "Pregnant? Find the clinic that gives women choice. Women Now Health Center." At the bottom of the add it has the number to dial. I wrote it down on my hand.

I went to my bedroom and picked up my hamburger phone. I almost copied the girl's pose in the ad but then I realized, yeah, I'm not a miserable girl. A voice prompt speaking in Spanish came on. I copied the words with the prompt.

"Para instrucciones en Español, oprima número dos."

It then went on to say if I wanted English to press a bunch of buttons, and I pressed them all in succession. There was a pause and then the operator came on.

"Yes, hello, I need to procure a hasty abortion," I said. The operator replied but it came out muffled and in a low voice. "What was that? I'm sorry, I'm on my hamburger phone and it's kind of awkward to talk on. It's really more of a novelty than a functional appliance. Hold on." I took the phone away from my ear and shook it and smacked it a few times. I then brought it back to my ear. "Better? Okay, good. Yeah, as I said, I need an abortion…uh, sixteen… Um, it was about two months ago since the sex, mind you that's just a guesstimation…" She asked me a bunch of dates of what would work for me. "Okay, next Saturday? Great." She then said the few words that I hated to hear:

"How long have you been sexually active?"

I groaned inwardly. "It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, really. So next Saturday?" She confirmed the date and I hung up.

I hate it when adults use the term 'sexually active'—what does it even mean, anyway? Can I deactive someday or is it a permanent state of being? I first heard the term in health class when they were giving us the sex ed part of the year and the teacher put a freaking condom on a banana. Yeah, like a banana is going to have sex. I ate the banana after class.

But I guess Spencer went live the night we did it. I guess he hadn't done it before, considering he hasn't been married and can never keep a girlfriend, and that's probably why he got that look on his face—his moment of deflowering, his face was comically wide-eyed and his mouth was open, plus he had a look of shock on his face.

That night at dinner, me, my stepfather, my mom, and my half sister Madison. (A/N: I decided to throw the name Madison in there so that the name won't be entirely removed from the story.) Ever since Mom got married, we sit at a typical kitchen dinner—I got the trait of becoming pregnant with my boyfriend's child from her, as Madison was born out of wedlock—as my mom cuts my sister's potato for her. She's only six—you expect her to do it herself? Besides, Madison and sharp objects do not mix.

My stepdad started to talk about his day. I had zoned out for most of it but I did manage to catch some of it. "You should have seen this octopus furnace. I had to get my Hazmat suit just to get in there…"

My stepdad John used to be in the army, but now he's just your average HVAC specialist. My mom and my dad got divorced when I was five. My real dad lives on a Havasu reservation in Arizona with his new wife and three replacement kids. Oh, and he inexplicably mails me a cactus every Valentine's Day. I seriously have a pile of neglected cacti in the corner of my bedroom.

Then there's my mom, Melissa. She's obsessed with dogs, but she can barely keep a person alive, let alone a dog. She owns a nail salon called Bren's Tens—it used to belong to my Grandma Brenda—and she always smells like methylmethacrylate.

Madison coughed pitifully while my mom cut her potato.

"So, Sam, how did your little maneuver go last night?" John asked.

"Which maneuver, sir? The one in which I moved an entire living room set from one lawn to another or the one in which I cleared a sixty-four ounce blue slushie in ten minutes?" Yum. That was some good whatever the heck they put in those things.

"Sam?" my mom asks. "Did you happen to barf in my urn?" She knew about that? "John, you know that nice urn by the front door, the one I got up in Forks? I found some weird blue shit—I mean stuff, gunk—in there this morning." She only said stuff and gunk cause Madison's here, but she never did that for me. I knew the 'f' word by the time I was three.

I shrugged. "I would never barf in your urn, Mom. Maybe MB did it." Madison's nickname is MB because her middle name is Brianna. It's easier to say than Madison about half the time.

MB looked up at the conversation from her bacon bits that she was practically pouring blithely on her potato—she learned from me. I hoped she finished soon—my potato was awfully lonely with no bacon. Finally, John noticed the unusual amount of pig on her potato.

"Madison Brianna, if I see one more bacon bit on that potato I'm going to kick your little monkey butt!"

She finished putting on the final handful and put the jar thing back on the Lazy Susan.

The next Saturday I trudged toward the entrance of the abortion clinic. I recognized a lone abortion protestor immediately as Tureen. She was holding a hugely oversized sign with a picture of a baby that said in huge capital letters, "No babies like abortion." She was chanting something as I came nearer.

"All babies want to get borned! All babies want to get borned! All babies—" She stopped when she saw me approaching.

"Uh, hi, Tureen!" I said as warmly as possible.

"Oh, hi, Sam." Suddenly she sounded shy. She had changed a lot since eighth grade—she didn't talk nearly so fast anymore. "How are you?"

"Good. I'm good." I paused, trying to make small talk. "Did you finish that paper for Garner's class yet?"

"No, not yet. I tried to work a little bit on it last night but I'm having a little trouble concentrating."

"You should try some Adderall."

"No thanks. I'm off pills."

"Wise move," I said nodding. "I know this girl who had a huge crazy freak-out because she took too many behavioral meds at once. She took off her clothes—" I pantomimed ripping a shirt off. "—and jumped into the fountain at Ridgeway Mall and she was like, 'Blyyyyyyyy, I'm a kraken from the sea!'"

"I heard that was you."

That made me irritated but I didn't let it show. I paused. "Well, it was nice seeing you." I walked towards the clinic. She started yelling things at me, but I didn't turn around.

"Sam!"

I stopped, but I didn't bother to turn around.

"Your baby probably has a beating heart, you know! It can feel pain. And it has fingernails!"

Wow. Wait. A tiny undeveloped person has fingernails? I turned around. "Really? Fingernails?" I examined my nails for a second but continued walking. I pushed open the clinic door and went to the front desk. The receptionist was behind bullet proof glass and she was reading a magazine. The waiting area had pregnant women, misbehaved teens, and rambunctious, ill-behaved kids. It was semi-crowded.

"Welcome to Women Now where women are trusted friends. Please put your hands where I can see them and surrender any weapons or bombs." She talked with a bored attitude like she'd rather be somewhere else.

I put my hands up, flashing my best jazz hands. "Hi. I'm here for the big show?"

"Your name please?" She reached forward and grabbed a clipboard.

"Sam Puckett."

She cocked an eyebrow at me as she wrote it down. She thought I was using a fake name like Gene Simmons or Mother Theresa.

She handed me the clipboard and a pen. "I need you to fill these out, both sides. And don't skip the hairy details. We need to know about every score and every sore."

I lingered for a moment, examining the form. She reached out to a plastic jar with a bunch of purple rubbers. She picked up a handful of the ubiquitous condoms. "Would you like some free condoms? They're boysenberry."

"No, thank you. I'm off sex." I secretly would have loved one, but just to smell, not to use. If it was truly boysenberry flavored—and I'm not sure how that's possible—they'd smell delicious.

"My partner uses them every time we have intercourse. They make his junk smell like pie."

TMI.

"Congrats."

I took a seat in the waiting room and started to fill out the form. I rifled through a pile of old magazines out of boredom. They had stuff like mommy mags and Family Digest. I picked up an issue of Family and flipped through it. Then I looked over and saw a teen playing with her nails. She looked as nervous as I did. She bit her thumbnail and spat it out on the floor.

I turned away, keeping my eyes off her nails, Tureen's words echoing in my head. It has fingernails. Suddenly, I saw fingernails everywhere. The receptionist clicked her nails on the desk. Another woman blew on her fresh manicure. Another person scratched their arms—which desperately needed a shave, by the way. And yet another person was filing their nails. I looked and felt terror-stricken.

"Excuse me, Miss Poockett?" The receptionist had come over to get me. Suddenly I threw down the clipboard. I ran out the door quickly. The receptionist craned her neck and saw the door gently drift shut. There was no way I could go through with it then.

I ran through the street as fast as I could, passing Tureen. She smiled as I went by, calling after me, "God appreciates your miracle!" At that moment, I didn't care if a hobo appreciated my miracle. I couldn't think straight as I ran.

I ran straight to Bushwell. Carly was standing outside looking bored and I slowed to a stop in front of her.

"Hey, dumbass, I thought I was supposed to pick you up at five."

"I couldn't do it, Carly." I was kind of spinning in an awkward circle. "It smelled like a dentist's office in there. And they had these really horrible magazines, with like spritz cookie recipes and water stains. And the receptionist tried giving me these weird condoms that looked like grape suckers, and she told me about her boyfriend's pie balls!"

"Yum," Carly said laughing.

"And Tureen was there! And she told me, 'oh, yeah, the baby has fingernails'. Fingernails!"

"Gruesome. I wonder if the baby's claws could, like, scratch your vag on the way out or something?" She imitated a mutant baby and scratched at the air. She learned her gruesome story from me, I'm sure.

I hesitated before saying, "I'm staying pregnant, Carly."

"Keep your voice down, dude!" She said, coming down the steps and closer to me. "My granddad's in there somewhere, and he doesn't know that we're sexually active!"

"What does that even mean?" I asked, frustrated. "Anyway, I got to thinking on the way over. I was thinking maybe I could give the baby to somebody who actually likes that kind of thing. Like a woman with a bum ovary or a pair of nice Lesbos!"

"But then you'll get huge. And you'll have to tell everyone you're pregnant."

"I know. Maybe they'll canonize me for being so selfless."

"Maybe they'll totally shit and be super mad at you and not let you graduate or go to Cabo San Lucas for spring break."

"Spencer and I were going to Gettysburg for spring break."

Carly sighs, as if there's no helping me at this point. Suddenly her face lights up as if she gets an idea. "Well, maybe you could look at one of those adoption ads. I see them all the time in the Seattle Times."

"There are ads for parents?" Wow.

"Oh, yeah! 'Desperately Seeking Spawn.' They're right by the ads for like iguanas and puppies and used sports equipment. It's totally legit."

"Come on, Carly. I can't scope out wannabe parents in the Seattle Times! That's tacky. That's like buying clothes at the Pump N Munch."

Carly and I sat on a park bench reading the Seattle Times. There, Carly, I listened to you! We were wearing the coolest sunglasses ever, each of us slurping blue slushies. I had my pipe with me.

"The Seattle Times sucks," I said looking at the completely bogus ads.

"Yeah, but it sucks for free," Carly objected. Alright, it was true—in front of a Skybucks Coffee, we got two free issues of the Times.

Our teeth and lips were Windex blue as we turned the pages in the 'Desperately Seeking Spawn' ads in silence—it was actually called 'Desperately Seeking Spawn'. Amazing. I will never understand this newspaper.

"Look at this one," Carly said, spotting one. "'Wholesome, spiritually wealthy couple have found true love for each other. All that's missing is your bastard.'"

I read a different page with a tacky picture of a guy next to a really old piano. "There's a guy in here that giving away a piano. Free for the hauling! We should put it in front of Bushwell!" I sighed.

"You're not listening to me," Carly said dejectedly.

"No, I heard you. I just don't want to give the baby away to people that describe themselves as 'wholesome'. I'm looking for something edgier."

"What did you have in mind?" Carly said in annoyance. "A family of disturbed loners who are into gunplay and incest?"

"I was thinking a graphic designer, mid-thirties, and his cool Asian wife who dresses awesome and plays bass. But I'm trying not to be too particular." Okay, that was very particular.

"All right, how about this one? 'Healthy, educated couple seeking infant to join our family of five. You will be compensated. Help us complete the circle of love.'"

"Yeesh, they sound like a cult!" I cried in frustration. At this rate, we'd never find anyone. "Besides, they're just greedy little bitches, they've already got three kids."

Carly laughed and went back to her newspaper. Her face lit up. "Hey, Sam, look at this one!"

She handed me the newspaper and I looked at it, taking my shades off to see it further. It was an attractive couple. The wife was actually Asian like I had asked for, which was a coincidence. The ad read, "Educated, successful couple wishes to…" I stopped reading their description. They were Justin and Amanda Smith, and they were beautiful even in black and white.

That's all for now. Please review. Also, I have pictures of some of my OC's on my profile if you want to see what they look like. Also, I do not have the movie Juno. I use a movie script off a website that includes lines that were taken out, and in the final version of the movie, lines were added that were not in my script. The link to the script, too, is on my profile, along with the sunglasses Carly and Sam wore.

Eeveelution-Fangirl: Yeah, I started laughing when I wrote about Wendy and Jonah. It's pretty funny. :P And yeah, I like it when occasionally a story has a character that's OOC.

:D