Ugh, I've gotten more bad reviews, I'm considering just quitting this story. I'm sorry if you guys like it and I do quit, which probably won't happen, but if it does, I'm sorry. Well, here's the next chapter, and I hope to get good reviews. Thank you.

Sam's POV
A few weeks have passed and I still haven't told anyone other than Kitty and Freddie about the rape. I feel closer to Kitty now that she's told me about Mom and Dad, and I finally feel like she's my…I don't know, sister. For the first time in my life, I have a sister. A sister that cares. I really care about Kitty now, and she cares about me…I think.

So, anyway, a few weeks have passed, and I've been feeling sick, like nauseous. I've been throwing up a lot. I can't even keep down ham. And I'm tired all the frikkin' time. I've also not been wanting ham, and I want the strangest foods—strange even for me. I also have mild headaches, vertigo—funny, I didn't even know I knew that word—and I've…well, missed. Funny, those are the symptoms of women who are…oh, shit.

I'm so screwed.

I took a cab to the local drugstore—it's called Seattle Drugs, go figure—and bought a test thingy, along with some licorice. Sammy Jean likes licorice.

They rang me up right away and I noticed none other than Spencer Shay in the store. Oh, shit. Quickly I hid the box of the doom stick in my bag and tried to look innocent as Spencer spot me.

"Oh, hey Sam, I didn't see you there."

"Oh, what up, Spence?"

"Just picking up some candy for my newest sculpture, Willy Tonka and the Chocolate Stick Shift."

What?

He gestured to his car. Sitting on the dashboard was a toy Tonka truck. And he did have a lot of candy in his cart—er, basket—thing. Wow. Carly's older brother may be nice, but he has the mental ability of a seven year old.

We said our good byes and I left the store. Unfortunately, my cab had left, so I didn't have a ride. Great. Now I'll have to walk home. Or…Carly's house.

Well, if I really was…you know, I didn't want my mom to catch me coming in with the damn thing. But then again, what if Carly catches me? I guess that's a risk I'm willing to take.

I walked right in the door without knocking; Carly was on the couch texting Benji. Bleh. She looked up upon my entry, looking confused. She closed her phone (she had a slide phone thing with a keyboard—how do I get one of those?), throwing it on the table. "Sam?"

"Hey."

By this point Carly had given up on asking me what had happened on the night of the movie date. I wasn't prepared to tell her, thank God. But if I was what I thought I was, I'd have to say something eventually, and that's not something I want to do.

"Sam, what are you doing here? Spencer's not home, and…"

"My mom told me to come here," I lied, walking forward.

"Oh, okay. You wanna watch TV or something?"

"Okay, but first…can I use your bathroom?"

"Oh. Okay. You know where it's at."

"Thanks, Carls."

I walked into the bathroom silently. This wasn't going to be pleasant. If the outcome was a negative, terrific. If it was a positive, I was oh so screwed. Le major screwage.

Remove the test stick from the foil wrapper and take off the Overcap.

Take off the what now? I checked the diagram. Oh, that cap thingy.

Holding the test stick by the Thumb Grip…

These things have a thumb grip? WOW.

...with the Absorbent Tip pointing downward and…

Absorbent tip? Isn't that a fancy name for the thingamabobin that…?

…the Result Window facing away from your body, place the Absorbent Tip in your urine stream for 5 seconds only.

Now I know why they don't want teenagers to get pregnant—the test making companies are so picky that it's too much of a hassle. I thought the rest of the instructions weren't important, but at the very bottom it says in tiny letters:

You may soon see a pink color moving across the Result Window to indicate the test is working.

HA!

These test makers are hilarious.

Okay, so I just use this and that and…whoops!

I dropped the thing on the floor trying to wrench the stupid cap thingy off. They put those suckers on tight. I bent down to pick it up, hitting my head on the toilet on the way back up.

"Son of a bitch…!"

Nursing my injured head, I heard three knocks on the door—knock, knock, knock. "Sam, are you okay? I heard a thud and then you cussed, and…"

"I'm fine. Don't worry your pretty little head over me." I laughed. Her head was pretty, mine was throbbing.

"Uh…okay. You've been in there a long time, are you okay?"

"I'm just peachy."

She finally walked away, and I had some peace and quiet. I followed the directions to a T—five seconds only, Mr. First Response Man—and waited the longest five minutes of my life. The entire time I thought quietly to myself.

Where is The Penny Treasure when you need it?

Four minutes forty-nine seconds to go.

I feel like nachos. And spinach. And maybe some vegemite. Wait, vegemite is in Australia. And it tastes…well, gross.

Four minutes two seconds to go.

Oh, cheese sticks. I forgot to do my book report. Not that I actually read the book. But it's due tomorrow. And I can't exactly turn in…well, nothing. Again.

Three minutes eighteen seconds to go.

Hey, a nickel!

Three minutes one second to go.

Okay, so in my pocket I have the cap thingy, the instructions, a wadded up napkin from some restaurant, a shoelace, and my new nickel.

Two minutes fifty-one seconds to go.

I'm not sure who's shoelace it is, to be honest. I just stole it out of Gibby's sneaker the other day when I…oh, wait.

Two minutes thirty-eight seconds to go.

I want to watch Girly Cow. Then things would go a heck of a lot faster.

One minute nine seconds to go.

Knock, knock. "Sam, I'm starting to get worried. Open up."

One minute to go.

"Not now, Carly."

Fifty-seven seconds to go.

"Ugh…!" She walked away.

Forty-five seconds to go.

Doo da doo da dum. Hey, that's a nice song…

Ten seconds.

I put my finger in my mouth and yanked it out. It made a pop! sound. I didn't know I could do that. But now I do.

Time.

I sighed, hesitating before looking down.

Okay, Samantha Jean Puckett doesn't cry. No matter the circumstances. Except for last year when I had to get a job. But still, she doesn't cry. No frikkin' way. So two pink lines on a white doom stick—which was appropriately named—won't force any tears out of my eyes.

Not even if those two lines meant I was pregnant.

Please review. I'd be happy. But please, constructive criticism only! I don't like getting flames, and I'm not just speaking for myself when I say not to flame. No one likes being flamed, it makes us feel bad. I've decided to do random last laughs at the end of chapters instead of writing what I felt about reviews, considering the flames I get. So please review!

Random last laugh: My mom doesn't want people she doesn't know following her on Twitter.

--Maddie Marie