||

pregnancy only
happens to sluts.

at least, that’s what
I might have said
if you’d asked
how I could snicker along
with the other girls
when an unlucky cheerleader’s
flat figure started to swell
and she hoped against hope
that she was just
a
few
weeks
late.

but the date
with a little red dot in the corner
on the calendar
tacked to my bedroom wall
was getting farther

and



farther away-

I tried my best to ignore it
until I was throwing up
nearly every morning
and the internet said
it was either pregnancy
or cancer
and then I thought
maybe I should
take a test
just to eliminate the worse option
of the two

I skipped first period
(damn, enough of that word)
to walk to the gas station
on the corner
and I couldn’t stop
looking left,
right,
and behind myself
because honestly
I was expecting
my old Sunday School teacher
to come strolling in
or something

and when I set
the little box up on the counter
and took my wad of lunch money
out of my pocket to pay
I was so nervous
I dropped all the coins
and they scattered around
on the dingy floor
and I couldn’t make eye contact
with the guy
that helped me pick them up.

I couldn’t walk into the school
with it
so I tried to slip into
the grungy, one-stall bathroom
with some semblance
of subtlety
but really it felt like I was being escorted
in by a mariachi band or some shit

In a feat of true gymnastics
I somehow managed to avoid
touching a single surface
in that bathroom
while I...you know...

and then it was just
a matter
of waiting

girls on the Honor Roll
don’t get pregnant
I don’t own a single
mini skirt
and I’ve never even
tried on a pair of yoga pants

I’ve been accepted to Cambridge
with a decent scholarship,
I take good care
of my little brother,
I scratch my dog behind his ears
every time I pass him
snoozing on the couch
hell, I’m even a blood donor

and besides, that pill is
99.9% effective

but then I guess someone has to be
the 0.01%-

there’s a knock on the door
and I jump backward,
giving myself a charlie horse
on the paper towel dispenser

“Shit!”
I cradle my elbow,
adding quickly: “Occupied!”

again I’m picturing my
Sunday School teacher,
this time standing outside
the door
tapping the toe
of her orthopedic shoe
and tsk-tsking
at my language

but now
I’m just being cruel
and anyways
the alarm on my phone is going off
and that means
it’s time

I pray for good measure
or maybe out of habit
before flipping it over

| | but it has to be a fluke
because the second bar
is a bit lighter than the first;
I knew I should’ve splurged
for the more expensive one

I shake it
like it’s some kind
of Etch-A-Sketch
and if I rattle it hard enough
that fainter line
will disappear altogether
but it only looks more defined
when I stop

and my eyes are starting to
fill with tears
and my breathing is ragged
and I’m remembering the time
I forgot a pill a couple of months ago
and took two the next day
reasoning that I could just balance it out
and I’m feeling sick again
when another series of knocks
meets the door:

“Mam, there are other customers waiting-”

I wrap it in
a huge wad
of toilet paper
and stuff it in
the pocket
of my jacket
and push my hair
back in the mirror
and rub my eyes
until they’re sore
and fling the door
into the cashier
with his hand
poised to knock again
and apologize
at least
a dozen times
between the little black rug
outside the bathroom door
and the rack of snack cakes
I back into
on my way
out of the store.