Eleven Weeks (8 page)

November 30

I
FEEL
like I’m in
Groundhog Day
. Only, it’s more like Groundhog Minute. And it goes a little something like this:

Check watch.

Wonder where Kate is.

Listen to girl in cubicle one vomit her guts up.

Be thankful that the Coal concert is in the venue next door, so after the time is up I won’t have to visit these toilets and possibly get vomit on my new—
hot
—shoes again.

Check watch.

Sip beer.

Repeat
.

Okay, so I may be exaggerating a little. It has only been five minutes of waiting, but when you’re leaning up against a white tiled wall in a small-as-a-freaking-snail-shell toilet cubicle, waiting for the little stick you’ve peed on to change colour, five minutes sure feels like a long time.

I put my beer down on the toilet seat, and check my watch again. It has been five-point six minutes since I’d managed to perform what I am now referring to as a great feat of skill and athleticism—peeing into the world’s smallest cup so I could stick a piece of white plastic into it.

The minimum wait time was three minutes, but I hated the thought of checking and reading it wrong, or checking and it not being fully developed, so I’ve left the gross little cup on the floor until now.

But now, five minutes in, almost double the time the box said the little genies inside the stick need to work their pregnancy-foresight magic, I have no more excuses.

It is time.

I take another swig of my beer, and place the empty bottle in the tiny toilet bin. Sure, it may not have been the most hygienic place to have an early-evening beverage, but given my current state of nerves and the freak out I’d experienced since I found that stupid pill on the floor of my car, it seemed relevant. I was late. Not the good, fashionable kind—no, this was a
late
of the maybe-a-sperm-and-my-egg-got-it-on variety. It was only frustrating I hadn’t found the time alone in my multi-sibling household to test this out sooner.

I bend down and grab the top of the plastic stick from the cup. I give it a few tiny shakes, because
ew
,
pee
, and then hold it up in front of my face, my eyes scrunched shut.

I take a deep breath in, sucking it right to the bottom of my lungs, and let it go through pursed lips.
I can do this. I can freaking
do
this. I can—

“Stacey? You in there?”

My heart leaps into my throat and I slam my body back against the door, as if she knows exactly what cubicle I’m in, exactly where to find me, and exactly what it is I’m doing.
Just keep breathing …

“
Stace? Babe?”

I tilt my head back and let it slap against the wooden door behind me.

“I saw you walk in, and you’ve, um … been here a while, and I wanted to know if you need me to get you a water or anything.” Kate pauses, and I swallow. “Or, like, some gastro meds?”

I drop the stick and spin around, flinging the door open and charging out into the basin area of the ladies room.

“I do
not
have gastro!” I say, my hands flying around me in defiance.

“Sorry, I just thought that maybe, you—”

“Just because a girl spends five minutes and”—quick watch check—“fifty-six seconds in the bathroom, she has to be having a diarrhoea episode?”

“No!” Kate’s hands fly in front of her face. “I wasn’t saying it had to be that, I just—”

A girl walks past her, her eyebrows nearing her hairline as she purses her lips. She is not impressed. She walks into cubicle three.

“Hmm?” I fold my arms across my chest.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Kate looks up at me with those blue pools of emotion from under her thick, dark lashes, and smiles. “And I was worried you had gastro.”

I slowly nod. More guilt washes over me. She’s had an embarrassing father incident recently, and is planning on losing her V-card tonight. I’m screaming at her for trying to get me some medication.

My mind runs through the options:

Tell her you’re a sleazy ho and slept with a guy you don’t remember, and so you’re doing a pregnancy test.

Admit that you have gastro, endure severe teasing, but come out of it skank-scent-free.

Say you’re in there
for a friend she doesn’t know
… and seriously hope the girl in cubicle one is over her gastro-vomiting stint and that you don’t have to follow through in a support role.

“Well, I’m fine.” I nod. Denial it is. Seems like the easiest route to take. “Hey, so how are things with your dad?”

Kate runs a hand through her long brown hair and it falls back into place perfectly. Looking closer, I can see the cracks in her façade. The purple bruises under her eyes. The way her lips press together before she speaks.

“It’s … complicated.” Kate pauses, looking at herself in the mirror. She grabs a compact out of her handbag and powders her cheeks. “And tonight’s the big night on top of all that.”

“Eee!” I squeal, grabbing her arms and pulling the puff away from her face. “I’m so freaking excited for you! Are you nervous?”

Red flushes over her face, and I mentally kick myself. Of course she’s nervous.

“You are going to be fine.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. It’s hard to believe that my best friend is a virgin, and I could be a pregnant.
Ew
. To a guy I don’t know.
Double ew
.

Kate looks at the floor, pressing the toe of her ballet flat and rubbing it into a spot. “I’ve just got a lot going on right now.”

“I know, hon. I can’t even imagine, with this, and your dad drunk, and—” Kate takes in a sharp breath, and I bite my lip. Another girl struts into the bathroom. God, this Coal band really are popular if they’re attracting skanks of the fake-boobed, botoxed-lipped proportion. “Look, you’re gonna nail it tonight. Just relax, remember to breathe, think sexy thoughts, and hey, maybe go down on him first, so he’s lubed as well as you.”

“Ew!” Kate groans.

“Excuse me, are you still using that cubicle?” the girl asks, hands on her clearly visible hips.

“Yeah, just a sec.” I give Kate one final squeeze as Booby and Lippy makes her move toward my cubicle.

Kate walks out the door and I turn and slam the cubicle door in Booby’s face, clicking the lock shut behind me. It’s now been at least eight minutes. I can’t hide from this anymore.

I bend down to pick up the stick, and a tiny part of me, connected to my heart? It dies.

It dives off a cliff.

It falls through endless space, with no respite in sight, and then it crashes on the craggy rocks below, impaling itself.

I hold the white piece of plastic level with my eyeline. My hand shakes, and I try with everything I have to keep it solid. To keep it steady.

I blink, twice, trying to focus on the little white stick with the thin pink lines on it.

Two lines.

Pregnant.

My knees shake, literally shake, like they do in movies, and I’m no longer looking at a stick. All of a sudden I’m on the cold, tiled floor, one hand in a pile of suspicious wet substance, the other holding the tiny white stick high above my head to prevent contamination.

“I’m fucking pregnant,” I whisper.

Everything goes black.

I
F SEVEN
shots of tequila had gotten me into this mess, I didn’t see any good reason why it couldn’t get me out of it. I needed to forget.

“Tequila, thanks.” I hand over a note to the bartender, and he nods, turns away, then slams a glass down in front of me.

I pick it up and walk to the side, then take a sip. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat, thick and acidic, clawing its way down through my insides. Ugh. That tastes horrid.

I look back over at the bar where people line up, pressing for the bartender’s attention. I spot the bottle of Patron on the shelf, the no smoking signs, the responsible service of alcohol signs, the—

The sticker. Right next to the bottle of tequila, funnily enough.

Drinking when pregnant can harm your baby.

Frick.
Really, God? You’re going to guilt trip me now?

I have no idea what to do with this stupid not-even-real-yet human, but I don’t know that I can murder it. I raise my glass to take another sip, but the stupid sign catches one of the lights and flashes, mocking me, taunting me.

I press my body up against the wall. After a quick look to either side, I spill the drink on my shirt, then dip my fingers in the glass and pat a little behind my ears for good measure. Yes, I am crazy, but I don’t want to drink—because I’m pregnant—but I do want Kate to think I’ve been drinking—because I don’t want her to know.

I wonder if I can get drunk by osmosis? I silently pray for a yes.

Shaking my head, I search for Kate in the crowd. She’s right where I left her, her eyes fixed on the stage. God, she’s a good girlfriend.

I push my way through the crowd, but it’s hot in here. My arms stick to my sides, and my vision blurs in and out. My head pounds, and I clutch my stomach.
I turned down tequila for you, womb spawn! Quit it with the dizzy-making.

“Are you okay?” Kate puts her hand on my arm. I didn’t realise I’d been swaying, but as soon as she steadies me, everything stops moving. Lesson learned.

“I … fine,” I stutter out. She raises her eyebrows, and I ignore her. She’s never been one for drinking, and I’m sure she’s judging me, but I don’t mind. Right now, I’d rather her judge me on booze over babies.

Minutes later, Dave & The Glories come on stage, and Kate lets out an almighty cheer that makes something in my heart snap. Seeing her, so proud of Dave—someone who loves her—someone she’s going to travel across the country for …

I look up on stage for Michael, and there he is: striking his notes on the bass guitar like it’s so freaking easy, so second nature to him to make an instrument sound that good. His eyes roam over the audience, floating over all the girls who cheer the name of his band.

And then they land on me.

Me
.

Heat rushes through me as I grin, one of those ear-to-ear numbers you see in cheesy romance movies. What had he said to me the night of that party? What if …

I blink.

I’m pregnant.

I blink again.

Michael looks away.

What the hell am I thinking? He hasn’t asked me out before, and he is in a band about to go on tour. Michael and I don’t stand a chance. I’m pregnant with some random guy’s baby.

I glance at Kate again. She nods her head, mouthing all the words. She’s so cute; her eyes are focused on Dave. I can’t wait to get some time alone with her, to talk through this whole freaking mess. Hell, maybe I’ll even tell her how I really feel about Michael. From the sly comment she made while we lined up to get in, I have a feeling she might suspect anyway.

Halfway through the boys’ set, someone hands me a drink, and I knock it back without thought. God, I’m thirsty. And my vision is … vision …
baby
. How my brain gets there I didn’t know, but it does, and the feeling is like being knocked over with a lead balloon.

A pair of unfamiliar arms creep around my waist and I shrug them off, only to feel them force their way back again. I look down in irritation and push them away again.
Find one of the million single girls here
, I feel like saying. That is, of course, before I remember I am single.

Even if I have a baby growing inside of me.

I shake my head. Maybe I need to find a random guy. Someone to take my mind off this shit for one night, until I can work out what the hell I am going to do.

Arms from behind me move with my hips, rocking up and down to the beat of the music. It’s sexy and slow, and feeling his strong arms around me, his hardness behind me, the sweat of his body against mine … it makes me temporarily forget.