Because I’ve called myself that. A million times since I found out last Thursday in the woods.
I’ve called myself names.
I’ve called myself a stupid, idiot slut who couldn’t keep her legs closed for her almost ex-boyfriend. A stupid, idiot slut who didn’t think about condoms.
Who couldn’t move on and now her life is ruined.
In my most emotional and irrational moments — which have been a lot in the past week — I’ve cursed at him. I’ve hated him for ever coming into my life, for making me fall in love with him, for being so difficult to forget, so difficult to hate and so easy to love.
I’ve thought about not telling him too.
I’ve thought about keeping it a secret.
Just to spite him. Just to make him suffer. Just because he hurt me two years ago and just because I don’t want anything to do with him.
I don’t know. I’m irrational.
And pregnant.
I am pregnant.
Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant.
At eighteen.
I’m freaking pregnant.
It’s a word that never ever gets out of my head now. I keep saying it to myself and I keep touching my belly.
I keep thinking about what I’ll do.
How can I ever turn this around? What good can ever come out of this?
I’m ruined, aren’t I?
My life is ruined.
But then two days ago I woke up and my mind was clear.
It was so clear that I decided something.
I decided that I could call myself names and cry about what happened. I could call it a mistake and curse at the fates. I could punish myself like I’ve always done. Or I could wipe my tears and take charge.
I could make a plan. I could be strong like my mom was and do what needs to be done.
Besides, punishing myself in the past has never worked, has it?
Something that he taught me himself.
So I’m not going to do it again, and this time I have someone else to think about other than myself.
So I’ve been reading up at the library.
Apparently, they have pregnancy books. Like actual pregnancy books, not biology stuff. I wonder who thought to add those to the catalog, at a girl’s reform school no less.
But anyway, I’ve been reading and I’ve been making lists.
Because I read somewhere that you should make a list when you’re anxious. And I’m anxious. Books say that anxiety is a common symptom of being pregnant.
So I can’t eat meat. I’m throwing up day and night. I’m anxious and emotional. And I cry a lot too.
But it’s okay.
It’s fine.
I’ve got a plan.
It’s not a perfect plan, but this is all I have.
My girls seem to like the plan, but they hate parts of it.
“I really think you should reconsider,” says Wyn in a hushed voice because we’re at the library. “I really think there has to be another way.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, trying to calm her down. “It’s going to be okay.”
Wyn doesn’t listen. “Remember what Salem was saying the other day? She could talk to Principal Carlisle for you. I bet if Salem talked to her, we could find a way. I mean, I don’t think Salem’s her favorite person right now but still.”
Wyn’s talking on Salem’s behalf because Salem’s not here right now.
She’s taking a few days off.
Because remember the problems that she had? Or rather the problem: Arrow Carlisle.
Yeah, that problem blew up last weekend and resulted in what I think — and both Poe and Wyn agree — has to be the biggest ever scandal at St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers.
Well, until they all find out about me.
That I’m pregnant.
But anyway, that’s the bad news, the scandal. The good news is that I think — and again both Poe and Wyn agree — that the soccer god, Arrow, might be crushing on her as well.
I mean, we’re not sure because he hasn’t said anything — because he’s a guy and he’s stupid — but I’m really crossing my fingers that he soon will.
“Okay, fuck talking to people,” says Poe loudly before she remembers where we are. Then with a lower voice, “We could try to keep it a secret for a while. I mean, you’re not gonna start showing until your seventh month or something anyway. By then it will be too late.”
I can’t believe she said that.
Especially when we have all these pregnancy books open at the table in front of us.
I look around to make sure no one is listening in before telling my dear friend, “It’s the fifth month. You start showing in your fifth.” I point to the book. “It says so right here: ‘you’re glowing and you’re showing.’ Which if my math is right is going to come around in March.”
Then before they can all start arguing again, I shut it down. I tell them that this is the only way.
But I have to do the hardest thing first.