Eleven Weeks (4 page)

“Hi, I would like to, uh …” I clasp my hands together, so tight I’m marginally concerned they’ll merge into each other.

“Yes?” She nods, her eyes alive.

“Get-the-morning-after-pill-please,” I spit out, all as one word.

“Right.” She stops spewing rainbows and starts sending me vibes akin to what she would have if someone interrupted her
Eidelweiss
. “Right this way, please.”

She gestures to a seat over to the side of the counter, and I take heavy steps over to it.

“The pharmacist will be with you shortly.” She gives a curt nod, and departs for behind the desk, where I see her whispering to a tall and very distinguished looking pharmacist. She points, and raises her eyebrows, and I think she even smirks at some point.
You can’t trust those nuns …

The pharmacist takes six long strides over from the counter and stops in front of me. “Hello, Miss …”

“Allison.” I nod. “Stacey Allison.”

“Right, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand, and I reach over to clasp mine in his, pumping it up and down with confidence.

His forehead creases with confusion, and he tilts his head to the side. “Take a seat?” he asks, as the realisation sets in. He was gesturing to the chair. Not initiating a handshake gesture.
Awkward
.

I lower myself and sit in what could possibly be the world’s least comfortable plastic chair. Perhaps this is just another reminder to the kiddies. Don’t have unprotected sex. Look where they might make you sit.

“You’re here for the morning-after pill,” the pharmacist says, scribbling something down on a notepad in front of him.

“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
Manners, Stacey …

“Did you have unprotected sex?” He all but lowers his glasses to give me the full father-effect glare, and I shrink back against the unyielding green plastic.

“I … I don’t actually know.” I shrug. What else can I do?

“You don’t … know.” He frowns.

“I had too much to drink and sadly, I don’t remember the event.”

Even as I say the words, the reality of what I’ve done hits home. Yes, people drink. People drink all the time. But to the point of forgetting? To the point of going home with a stranger, when you’re only just knocking on the door of legal drinking age?

My stomach roils and I feel sick again. What the hell was I thinking? This is not the solution to my
how the hell will I cope with life stuck in this stupid town
problem.

“Are you over eighteen?” The pharmacist squints at me, and it makes perfect sense, because right now I’m an amoeba. Less than that, even.

“Yes, I am, actually.” I picture my license in my head. Thank goodness I finally am legally allowed to drink. “And, I should add, this is the first time I’ve ever drunk so much I don’t really remember details, and the first time I may have had unprotected sex.”

And that is true.

And even though I don’t remember things like, say,
who the hell took me home last night
, I do remember other things. The party. Michael, strumming his bass on stage. The seven tequila shots.

One kiss, scorching my neck.

Two hands, pulling me closer.

Too close.

“So you could have had unprotected sex, and you’re taking the pill to be sure,” the pharmacist continues, as if I’m not flaying myself with whips of remorse.

“Yes.” I nod. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.

“Are you on any other form of birth control, or do you have any other medication you are currently taking?” he asks, after scribbling a few notes down on the piece of paper in front of him. I shake my head. “And this wasn’t your first sexual experience?”

Six very vehement head shakes to that.

“Have you had a pap smear before?” This time, the pharmacist lowers his voice, and I’m almost not sure who is more embarrassed here—him, or me.

I dart my gaze to the corners of the room. Two pensioners, one middle-aged mum and a kid.
Thank God
. “Once.”

It’s only a little lie. How’s he going to know?

“I’m going to give you the morning-after pills to … ahem ... minimise the risk of—”

“Whoa, whoa, what do you mean
minimise
?” I narrow my eyes.

“The morning-after pill is only ever eighty-five per cent effective.”

I swallow.
Fifteen per cent, hey …

“However, I would recommend that you see a doctor”—I give a sharp intake of breath—“
today
and get some STD checks done, too.”

I suck in a deep breath through my nose. Part of me wants to ignore him, but a larger part doesn’t want to risk it. Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck living in this town. And if I do have some weird freaking disease transmitted by Guy I Don’t Remember, I’d rather know what it is. So I can get rid of it. And keep it under wraps.

“Cool. Sounds good.” I smile. And I nod. Because, der.

“Right. Just wait here a minute, and please fill out this form.” The doctor pushes a piece of paper toward me with some basic admin questions and I scribble my details across it, barely checking it twice.

Minutes later, he returns with a small white box, and the same attitude he possessed when he walked over the first time. I’m fairly sure Mary Poppins has turned up her nose.

“Right, this is your—”

But it doesn’t matter what else he says. All that matters is that Michael,
my
Michael, is walking into the pharmacy.

Frick.

“Thanks so much.” I snatch the box out of his hands and stuff it into my handbag.

“You pay up front.” The pharmacist furrows his brows, and tilts his head toward the counter.

“Yes, and I will. Just, you know …” I trail off. You know, what? You know, how embarrassing it is when the guy you have crushed on your entire life, who thinks you may have spent the night with someone else last night, walks into a pharmacy while you’re getting the morning-after pill?
You know, that?

The pharmacist swallows. I keep my gaze fixed on him. “There are two pills. You can take them both together, or, if you’re concerned about nausea, we recommend taking them twelve hours apart.” My stomach lurches. I’m concerned about nausea, all right. “It has to be noted, though, that you do need to take both. If you do not …” The pharmacist keeps on talking, but I glance behind one more time to see if I can spot Michael. He’s looking at sunscreen, picking one bottle up, putting it down. The next bottle up, putting it down … what for? Summer holidays, tour …?

Focus, Stacey.

“And therefore the percentage rate would be less effective. The same goes if you have any health issues, such as vomiting, or diarrhoea, post taking the pill. This can render it less effective.” This time, the pharmacist glances over to Michael. “Should I be directing this talk to him …?”

“No!” My eyes widen, my heart sprinting at a dance-party rate. “No. I got this. Take the pills, twelve hours apart. Go to doctor, have people swab at vagina. Anything else?”

The pharmacist fixes me with a glare that can only be described as
screw you
. “Yes. Don’t drink so much.”

I’d love to argue, but the guy has a point.

“Stacey!” Michael says my name, and I spin around.

“Michael, hey.” I smile, stepping away from the pharmacy counter and closer in to him. As soon as I do, I’m hit by that freaking scent again. Gosh, why does he have to smell so
good
?

“What are you up to?” he asks, at the same time as I say, “What are you doing here?” Because seriously, what is he doing so far from home?

“I had to get some new guitar strings, and the music shop here is so much better than the one near home.” He’s smiling, and it doesn’t feel like the venom, the anger that was in his voice earlier, is still there. Instead, he seems genuinely happy to see me.
Odd
. “What are you here for?”

“Oh, you know …” I shrug, and look around. “Girl things.”

Michael’s cheeks flush red, then he swallows, and they regain a semblance of their normal colour. Gotta love
girl things
. Best. Line. Ever.

“So, about before—”

“I wanted to say—”

We both look at each other.

“You go first.” I smile, lips pressed tight.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t believe you.” Michael runs his hand through his hair. “I think, the thing is, I was just hating the idea of you being with some random guy so much. I just … Phew!” He widens his eyes, and I can’t help but catch his contagious smile. “I just … after what we spoke about last night, I thought you’d just … betrayed me.”

There. That look of belief. That look of honesty.

I feel like I’ve killed a puppy dog.

I’ve murdered a dream I don’t remember.

“No,” I rush out. “I mean … you know I don’t remember what was said.” There’s no point lying about it. “But I would never want to hurt you! And, you know, I … You know, we …” I search for the right words, but they’re so far out of my reach they could be angels. You know how you flirt with me, but you never take action? You know how I like you a heap, but my best friend is dating your best friend, and I hate him? You know how you’re about to tour the country with the world’s most famous band and I am always going to live in Lakes?
You know, how you’re this awesome guy who has never seriously been into me, and I’m some stupid blonde who needs to get the morning-after pill?

Because that’s probably the main thing it’s gonna boil down to.

He is everything.

I’m nothing.

And despite that moment we shared this morning, the first real thing I’ve felt from him since we met, we will never, ever work.

“It’s fine.” Michael throws an arm around my shoulder, pulling my body tight to his in the way
friends
do. It says everything and nothing all at once, and I want
this
. I want him, me together.

It sucks that it will never work out.

We start walking toward the counter, and I pray that he’ll go in front of me so I can discreetly reveal my purchase to the cashier.

“We’re good. What’s one night between friends?” He smiles and gives my bicep a squeeze, and I genuinely think he means it. Either I’ve convinced him of my lie, or he doesn’t care enough not to play along.

Either way, it’s a win.

Michael drops his hold on me and pays for his sun block. He gives the woman behind the counter money to protect him from skin cancer.

He leaves the store, but I see him waiting outside for me. Because he’s a good person. Unlike me.

I walk up to the counter as Michael did only seconds before. Only I give the lady money to protect me from having a baby.

Since I’m having the world’s greatest day already, I decide to stop at the sexual health clinic on my way home. Because, you know, why not add embarrassment at the hands of a medical industry professional to my already rapidly growing list of below-average things about today?

I sit in the waiting room for what feels like hours, racking my brain, trying to work out what Michael told me last night, and, oh yeah,
who the hell that guy was
.

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” the receptionist sticks her head over the counter to reassure me. I give a wan smile. She’s said that three times already, the last occasion being forty minutes ago.

My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my pocket, bringing it up in front of me. A lady to my right gives me a disapproving eyebrow raise, as if the vibration from my phone had interrupted her silent musings.
Cow
.

Kate:
Happy birthday, hon! Hope you’re having an awesome day with considerably less shots than you drank last night. Can’t wait to celebrate your being of legal drinking age again later in the week. xoxo

I smile and type out a quick text of thanks, then check my messages again. There are a heap of tags on social media, birthday shout-outs from all my school friends and even one from my cousin, June. Still nothing from Mum or Dad.
Odd
.

“… and if I do that, the burning will stop?” A short, grey-haired man hobbles his way down the hall, leaning on his walker for support. Behind him, a tall bespectacled doctor nods, and says, “That’s correct.”

“Jeanie will be pleased to hear that!” The old man chuckles, and I smile. This doctor hears embarrassing sexy stuff all the time. At least my problem doesn’t involve any strange itching or burning.

“Miss Allison, come through.” The doctor gestures down the hallway behind him and I scramble to my feet, walking toward the open door at the end of the hallway.

Once inside the small room I sit down. The walls are a stark white, with a row of Perspex holders containing brochures on all different topics lining the room. I catch a glimpse of
What An Itch Can Really Mean
before I snap my head forward and stare at the doctor, who is now sitting down in front of me.
Focus, Stacey.