Jumping Off Swings (11 page)

“I
T’S NOT TRUE,
” my mother says. She’s holding a dish towel in her hands. Her knuckles are white, she’s clutching it so tightly.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table. The tabletop smells like Murphy Oil Soap.

“It is,” I say.

“Shut up!”

She’s never said that to me before. I don’t think she meant to say the words out loud. She covers her mouth with her hand as if she just said the
F
word.

I look down at the grain in the wood. I clasp and unclasp my hands in my lap.

“I’ll get an abortion,” I say. The word and its meaning echo in my brain.
Abortion. Abort. Terminate. End.

My mother turns away from me and looks out the window above the sink at our snowy backyard. Our playhouse is out there. The one she and my dad gave to Luke and me for Christmas when I was in first grade and Luke was in second. Luke wanted my dad to help him build a tree house in the big oak tree at the back of the yard, but my mother said it would be unsightly. Instead she made my father order a kit from Little Victorians. My father and Luke spent a weekend assembling it. They spread all the different-size boards out on the lawn, and I helped make piles of the various screws and bolts and things they needed. As soon as the house was put together, my mom painted it the same colors as our house. Beige with white trim.

Luke said it looked like a dollhouse and refused to play in it, even though he’d spent all that time with my dad building the thing. But I spent hours alone in that house. Only in my mind I wasn’t alone because I had an imaginary dog and cat, Ginger and Cocoa, to keep me company. I had tea parties with them and told them all my secret worries and dreams.

Luke and I always wanted real pets. Something warm that you could cuddle or hold on your lap. But pets are too messy. They shed. They smell. One Christmas my mother actually got us each a goldfish as a compromise. Luke and I put them in the same bowl so they wouldn’t be lonely, and we took turns having them in our rooms. They swam in circles in the water, looking at me with big, pleading eyes. Bored eyes. All I could do was touch the cold glass with my finger and wait for my orange fish to swim past, brushing the side of the clear cage with its tail.

My mother sniffs. She puts her hands on the edge of the counter in front of the sink. I think she’s holding herself up.

I breathe in the clean smells slowly, filling my lungs with pine scent. People always say to take a deep breath before you do something brave. It’s supposed to calm your heart. But mine is beating so fast it hurts.

“Mom,” I say, “I’m going to take care of this. No one has to know.”

Her shoulders are shaking.

“How could this happen, Ellie?” she asks without turning around.

I don’t know how to answer.

I breathe again. “You don’t have to take me to the clinic. Just give me permission. Corinne will take me.”

She reaches her hand to her face. I’m sure she’s wiping away tears.

“How?” she says again, almost in a whisper. “You’ve always been a good girl.”

I hear their words in my head:
You’re so beautiful.

She tips her head downward toward the sink. I bet she wishes there were some dishes to do, but she always cleans the dishes as soon as she clears the table.

“Mom?” But she still won’t turn around. “I’m sorry.”

I wait for her to come to me and hold me and tell me I will be OK. That
she’s
sorry she didn’t give me the girl talk she should have. That she’s sorry she never warned me to be careful. To understand the difference between words and love. To know when to stop. To say no.

I wait for her to scream at me. To shake me and tell me what a fool I am. I wait for her to do something. Anything.
Please.

But she stays at the sink. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t touch me.

Not even my mother can love me.

I
T’S BUSY WHEN WE GO BACK TO THE CLINIC
for the final visit. The first time, I waited for almost two hours while Ellie got poked and prodded and tested and educated about her choices. Liz went to the exam room with her, so I had to sit by myself, watching people come in and out for reasons I could almost guess by the looks on their faces.

Today, Ellie sits between Liz and me. We wait quietly, seemingly fascinated by the purses we hold in our laps. When a nurse comes for Ellie, I stand up and give her a hug. I barely feel her hands touch my back. I want to tell her that a few months from now, this whole thing will be just a bad memory. I want to tell her she’s doing the right thing. But I know she won’t forget. And she wouldn’t believe me. So I don’t say anything at all.

I try not to look at the other women and girls waiting their turns. They know I’m here as a friend. The lucky one. Only one of the girls is here with a boyfriend. They sit across from me, holding hands. The boyfriend rubs his thumb back and forth across the top of the girl’s hand in a calm rhythm. She rests her head on his shoulder. He stares straight ahead.

I have to get out of here.

It’s cold outside but sunny. I lean against the brick building and close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face. On any other day, this would feel good. But today, all I can think about is Ellie. Ellie on some exam table with a hot light shining between her legs. I bet she won’t say anything, even if it hurts. She’ll just bite her lip and let them do whatever it is they do. My sister never told me what it was like. I wanted to ask, but then I heard her and her boyfriend crying together in her room when she came home afterward and I knew I never would.

It’s strange how such a hard thing brought Ava and Zack closer together. I wish Ellie had someone like him. I wish she wasn’t so alone.

I rub my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater, but it’s scratchy and doesn’t really wipe the tears away. I decide I should go back inside. I should be there when Ellie comes out. But as I make my way back to the door, Ellie and Liz are already coming out. Liz holds Ellie’s hand as they step into the bright sun.

I walk up to them, but I don’t know what to say, so I just walk behind them, back to the car.

Neither of them says a word all the way home. From the backseat, I watch the two of them, waiting for someone to say something. But Liz concentrates on the road and Ellie watches out the window. When Liz gets to my house, I feel awkward getting out of the car. I want to tell Ellie she’ll be OK. I want to tell her she’s my best friend. That she did the right thing. But I don’t. I get out of the car and walk to our front door.

It isn’t until Liz pulls out of our driveway that it hits me why it was over so fast.

Ellie didn’t go through with it.

And if she didn’t go through with it today, she probably never will.

I don’t even think when I press the numbers. I just want to hear his voice.

“Hello?”

I can’t say anything.

“Hello?” he says again.

“C-Caleb,” I manage.

“Corinne? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is shaky. “I’m sorry I got mad at you.”

“Corinne, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

I picture Ellie and Liz coming out of the clinic, their awkward silence in the car. “She didn’t do it,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

I bite my lips together with my teeth. Warm tears slide down my cheeks and neck.

“But what does it mean?” he finally asks.

“I — I think she’s going to have the baby.”

When I get to school on Monday, I find the word on her locker. I knew Kayla and Jessie were going to get back at me for kicking the bathroom door and making them spill their concoction and stain their clothes. I just never thought they’d take it out on Ellie.

But there it is, staring at me on her locker door just as I am about to slip a note inside telling her that I will stand by her no matter what. That she is my best friend.

I search the hall to see if Ellie is anywhere in sight. I spot her way at the end. She hasn’t seen the door yet.

I put the note in my pocket and use my hands to cover the big, ugly letters scratched into the metal.

S L U T

People walk by staring at me like I’m nuts, standing here with my hands on a locker door. But I don’t care. I’ll stand here all day if I have to. I swear I will.

Ellie can’t see this. Not now. Especially not now.

She just can’t.

I
’M NOT THE SAME ME ANYMORE.
I walk down the hallway toward my locker feeling — different.

I sat with Liz and Corinne in that row of chairs with all those other women and girls looking at me. Wondering what I was there for. If I was in as much trouble as they were.

They looked at Liz, too. I bet they thought she was my mom. She held my hand. She asked me if I was OK. I kept nodding and nodding.

“Yes. Yes. I’m OK,” I said. “Stop asking me.”

I didn’t want her to be like my mother. To cry and look worried. I didn’t want her to fall apart and make me feel like my life was over. I wanted her to be strong. I wanted going there to feel like any other doctor’s appointment.

So when she put her arm around me and tried to hug me close while we waited in the tiny exam room, I pulled away. I couldn’t handle anyone being nice to me. Not there. Not when I was about to do this thing. To spare everyone else the pain. To make it all go away.

Only I knew it wouldn’t. I knew I couldn’t ever make it go away.

And then the nurse came back and smiled at me. “Ready?”

Liz got up — too fast. Too fast. She pulled my hand, but I didn’t get up. I didn’t move.

Come on,
her pull said.
Let’s get this over with.

But I still didn’t move. I just sat there. I wasn’t nodding anymore. I was looking straight ahead.

So when Liz asked, “Ready, honey?” I said no.

“But it’s time.”

“No.” I said it louder.

Liz gently pulled my hand again, but I twisted it out of
her grasp.

“No.”
I think I yelled it.

Liz exchanged a look with the nurse, who was watching me with sympathetic eyes. I shook my head.
Stop looking at me!

The nurse came closer with her clipboard. “Sweetie? What do you want to do?”

“No,” I said, even though I wasn’t answering her question. I wanted to keep saying it. I wanted to
scream
it. For all the times I should have. For all the times I could only say it in my head. All the times I held it in so I wouldn’t disappoint the boys who told me they
had
to have me. Held it in while hoping they wanted more. Hoping they wanted me. Hoping they would stay and hold me and still want me. Hoping they would love me.

“No,” I said again. “No. I’m not doing it.” I tasted salt before I knew I was crying.

Liz pulled me to her and made some apologetic gesture to the nurse. We walked out.

In the hallway, I felt Liz’s arms fold around me, holding me to her. This time I let her.

When we got in the elevator, Liz wiped my face with a pink tissue. I didn’t look at her.

“We can go back,” she said. “We can give it a week and try again.”

“No.”

“Are you sure, hon? Have you thought about what it would mean to keep it? A baby changes everything.”

It’s what my mother would say.

“For the rest of your life.”

I watched our smudgy reflections in the metal elevator doors. “No,” I said to them. Even though I knew it meant I was going to have to face my mother again. Even though I knew she would cry and look at me like my life was over. Like
her
life was over.

No.

Even though I would have to tell my father, too. And Luke.

No.

Even though I would have to face everyone at school.

No.

“No.”

“OK, honey. All right. If that’s what you want.”

Liz put her warm hand around my waist and squeezed. “It’ll be OK.”

As I walk to my locker now, I feel that squeeze. I remember how, when she dropped me off, she took both my hands in hers and said the words again to my face. “You’ll be OK.” Like she really believed it. Even though she thought I was making the biggest mistake of my life.