We Are Not Okay

by Natália Gomes

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks again.

  I shrug because I don’t know what else to do.

  ‘Did you eat lunch?’

  I shake my head and skim the floor with my eyes.

  She shuffles around her handbag for a few seconds then pulls out an array of snacks not for the health conscious: bubblemint gum, half a pack of fizzy strawberry laces, and a Double Decker bar.

  I shake my head again and turn away before my stomach speaks for me.

  ‘Are you sure? You look like you could do with some food.’

  ‘That’s not food.’

  Trina smiles. ‘She speaks. Thank God. I thought I was going to have to get the nurse.’

  ‘That stuff will rot your teeth,’ I add. ‘Plus it’s all sugar. It’s just going to get converted into fat cells eventually.’

  Trina rolls her eyes. ‘You know way too much about this.’

  ‘I read a lot of magazines.’

  ‘Junk. All of it.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Sure it is. Diet this way. No, wait, diet that way. Lose weight by doing these three things. Lose weight by not doing these three things. Eat this. Eat that. Don’t even think about eating that. It’s all junk.’

  My eyes drop down to the floor. The tips of my boots are dotted with flecks of mud. I raise my head and turn an ear to the doorway. The hallway outside is silent. Classrooms will all be full by now. Bags under desks. Chairs pushed back. The SMARTBoard on pause, waiting to awake from Sleep mode to show another dramatisation of the Battle of Bannockburn. Attendance would have been taken by now. The history teacher will be writing a cross beside my name, before handing it to a chosen trusted student to transport it down the hallway to the front office. In a few minutes the office will be crosschecking today’s absence with the dozens before this. I bite my lip and hug my knees in tighter.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be somewhere right now?’

  I shoot her a look. ‘Shouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but no one misses me in class. I’m not exactly university bound. No one expects me to actually turn up to class and do the work.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shrugs and pulls out a fizzy lace. Within seconds her lips and chin are dotted with sugar sprinkles as she chews loudly, and with an open mouth. Two of my pet peeves.

  ‘Sure you don’t want one? They’re really sour. That’s how I like them.’

  Before I can say no, my hands slowly move up to the open pack. She shimmies one out from the pack and tips it into my outstretched hungry fingers.

  ‘Don’t worry. People will get bored soon,’ she says, as I chew my fizzy lace wildly. ‘You can report him on Facebook, you know?’

  ‘I know.’ I do know, but people kept telling me over and over again as if that’s an option I didn’t know about. I know I can report him, that I can tell my parents and his, that I can go to the headmaster or my guidance counsellor. I can do all of that. But what I can’t do is erase the photos from people’s minds or erase the last few weeks from mine.

  ‘Do your parents know?’

  I shake my head. They wouldn’t understand.

  ‘I know I’ve said this before but you can talk to me, you know.’ The words hang heavy in the air, waiting for me to hungrily reach for them.

  But how can I voice my emotions, my fears, when I can’t even understand them myself? So instead, I shake my head again, spit out the sweet that’s now left a bitter taste on my tongue and fade back into the crowd that roams the hallways, and my nightmares.

  LUCY

  The waiting room is cold.

  I shiver and wrap my grey blazer around me tightly, trapping any warm air. My eyes fall to the pile of magazines on the table in the centre of the room. Metal chairs with blue cushions line the walls and all face forwards, towards the magazine table. Lifting up out of the chair, I lean into the table and start picking through them with a cautious finger. The only ones I notice are:

  Parenting Joy.

  Mother & Child Yoga.

  Cooking For Fussy Children.

  What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

  Building the Ideal Nursery.

  Eating Right for You and Baby.

  I flick the finger away and plop back into my chair, spine against wall, hands empty. I don’t know what I was expecting to find on the table at the Family Planning Clinic. Probably not images of happy childless women in sequin dresses and glossy lipstick on the front covers of Glamour, Vogue or InStyle, advertising the single unburdened lifestyle.

  A redhead walks into the waiting room and momentarily gets excited over Building the Ideal Nursery. She whips it off the table and plops down in the chair, hungrily consuming every word and every inch of the white wooden cot, pastel-coloured wall, and frilled bunting on the front cover. She glances up and I catch her eye. I immediately become aware that I’m still wearing my school uniform. She doesn’t need to say anything to me. It’s all there. All in her eyes. Exactly what she’s thinking when she looks at me. Exactly what she wishes she could say to me out loud.

  I’m such a cliché, I could punch myself. Young, unwed, pregnant schoolgirl. Sitting here in my school blazer, the Head Girl patch sewn onto the breast pocket. I’m supposed to represent leadership, initiative and brains. Right now, I have none. I don’t even have dignity. When I can’t stand her stares of judgement any longer, I stand up and move to the corner of the room.

  Leaning against the white wall, I instinctively smooth down my white shirt and tuck it into the edges of my black skinny jeans, which press roughly against my stomach. I never used to consider my shape or size. I’ve always been thin. I’ve always danced. Ballet, jazz, tap, modern. I did it all. But I can’t do any of that now. A baggy white shirt under my blazer hides any weight gain better than a tight black leotard. Plus all that moving around might spur another vomit session. But this time much more public. And harder to clean up, I’m sure.

  ‘Stephanie.’

  No one glances up. I rock back and forth on my heels, still tugging at my white shirt. I can’t seem to get the middle centred.

  ‘Stephanie?’

  I glance up and see the receptionist looking at me, pen in hand. ‘Oh yeah. Stephanie. That’s me.’ Swinging my satchel over my shoulder, I follow the nurse into the first room on the left. The rooms are a stark white like the waiting room. Even the chairs match. Thankfully no baby-filled magazines here. No, probably more important things to discuss.

  ‘Hi Stephanie. My name is Joanne and I’m one of the nurses here.’

  Faint pearly pink lipstick stains her front teeth but I don’t say anything.

  ‘If you don’t mind, a urine sample,’ she says, handing me a small plastic cup with a pink lid.

  ‘Oh.’ I take the cup from her hands, almost dropping it on the floor. Wiping the clamminess on the sides of my jeans, I follow her to a toilet outside the room at the other end of the waiting room. I have to pass the redhead again. She glances up and watches each step I take until the toilet door but pretends to be looking at the clock on the wall above my head when I look at her.

  I feel eyes on me, from her, from the receptionist, from the other girl who just walked in the door. They’re all watching me. They’re all judging me.

  When I squeeze into the tiny cubicle, I slide out of my jacket and hang it up. But when I sit, I can’t pee. I’m too nervous. So I shimmy out of the toilet, back into the waiting room.

  I approach the receptionist who’s reading a magazine on her lap. ‘Um, excuse me?’

  She tips her head, and shoos away the magazine, letting it drop to the floor. ‘There’s a water fountain over there.’

  Nodding, I hurry over to the fountain and lap up the water that flows freely from the curved spout. I drink as much as I can, resisting the urge to throw it back up. Then return to the toilet, where I’ve left my bag and coat.

  After I pee, I return to the room where the nurse sits and waits for me. ‘OK, great. While we wait for it to be checked, we’
ll fill out a brief questionnaire. Then we can go over your results and talk about your plans. Does this sound OK?’

  Before I can in agreement, she pulls out a white form attached to a clipboard and starts filling in my name. I clear my throat and swallow hard.

  ‘How old are you, Stephanie?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Your address?’

  ‘Um…’

  She glances up.

  ‘Do you need to know that information?’

  ‘You have the option to put “Anonymous” or “Not Applicable” for any question.’

  ‘OK, um, let’s do that then.’

  ‘OK. And what do you do for an occupation?’

  I gesture towards my grey blazer.

  ‘Ah, still a pupil at school?’ She uncrosses her legs then crosses them again the other way. In the corner, a small fan sputters round. A very slight but quite irritating breeze hits me at the side of my face. Does she not see the weather outside today?

  ‘When was the last time you had your period?’

  ‘The tenth of August.’

  ‘You know that for sure?’

  ‘I put a star in my diary every month on the exact day it ends.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very organised.’

  That’s me. Organised. Not this person. Definitely not this person.

  ‘It helps me to keep track.’

  ‘And what was the date you were last active?’

  ‘Well, I took a Pilates class a few weeks ago but I haven’t gone back to my usual dance classes since I first found out.’

  She smiles then clears her throat. ‘No, I mean sexually active.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ My cheeks burn under this overhead lighting. Is it hot in here? Yes, it is, it’s so hot in here. I’m now very grateful for that fan in the corner. ‘Um…I’m not sure exactly, maybe late August before school started back?’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘No, not exactly.’

  ‘OK. And was this your first time?’

  I squirm under the weight of my jacket, feeling the fabric itch my arms. Why is it so damn hot in here? I turn my head to the door, wondering what that excited redhead is talking about with her nurse. Definitely not this. I doubt she had to answer questions like this. Firstly, she probably gave her real name and address, and also the nurse likely checked out that chunk of silver on her left ring finger.

  ‘Stephanie?’

  I turn back to her and bite my lip. ‘No.’

  Her eyebrows raise then fall quickly as she appears to compose herself. Her pen scratches away at the white paper on the clipboard.

  Scratch.

  Scratch.

  ‘But I was in a serious relationship with that one. Very serious. We were going to get married…one day… maybe…at least I think we were.’

  Scratch.

  Scratch.

  ‘We might still, you know.’

  ‘And when did you take the pregnancy test?’ she asks me, not glancing up.

  ‘September. I made a note of the date right there. And it was positive. In fact, after the first one I took five more. And they all said positive.’

  ‘One would have been sufficient.’

  ‘No, I get that now,’ I snip back.

  ‘And if you’re pregnant, will you tell the father?’ She stops writing. ‘Do you know who the father is?’

  ‘Of course I know who the father is!’

  She hovers her pen above the clipboard and sits back in her chair.

  ‘Sorry. I mean, no, I haven’t told him. Or anyone actually.’

  ‘Do you plan to tell him?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘OK,’ she finally says. She lays the clipboard down on her desk and turns her chair back to me. ‘And if you are pregnant what do you plan to do next?’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to help me with that? This is the Family Planning Clinic. Isn’t it your job to help me with a plan?’

  The door knocks and another nurse appears from around the corner. She looks at me, in my uniform blazer, and her nose scrunches. She hands a vanilla-coloured envelope to Nurse Joanne then backs out of the room.

  The nurse opens the folder and her eyes skim from left to right as she consumes the words. Then she closes it and attaches it to the back of her clipboard. ‘Positive. You are pregnant. We can schedule an internal examination with the clinic doctor on staff here for next week, but what I suggest is that you consult with your usual doctor—’

  ‘Pregnant?’

  She cocks her head to the side. ‘You knew this already.’

  ‘I…I…’ She’s right, I knew this. I didn’t need another test to confirm what I already knew, so why are my eyes watering? Why do I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe? My throat is tight and painfully stretches across my chest. I rub my neck, like I’m being strangled by someone standing behind me.

  She slides a jug of water closer to her and pours me a glass of water.

  I tip the glass back and the water flushes the pain away. Slamming the glass back down on the wooden table, I clear my throat.

  She raises an eyebrow and her brown-rimmed glasses creep down her nose. ‘Do you want to have this baby, Stephanie?’

  Biting my lip, I gaze down at my thighs, the tight jean fabric stretching at the knees. I shake my head but don’t say anything.

  ‘OK,’ she simply says.

  ‘Is that…wrong?’

  She slips the glasses off from the bridge of her nose and places them gently on the table. ‘Believe me when I say that you’re not the only one I’ve seen in here with an unwanted pregnancy.’

  ‘Have they been as young as me?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m tempted to ask if there would be anyone that I’d know, but I decide against it.

  ‘Let’s go over what that would look like. You’d schedule an appointment for an abortion—’

  ‘An abortion?’

  ‘Yes, that is what you’re saying, right?’

  ‘I guess so…I just…abortion? That word sounds so… final.’

  ‘It kinda is. So you really have to be sure that’s the road you want to go down.’

  I can’t see it any other way. I don’t see myself pushing a pram down the street while my peers walk home from school, talking about the parties they’ll go to at the weekend, the shops they bought their outfits from, even the plans they have for after graduation. I’ll have no plans. The only life that awaits me after I finish high school is one filled with nappies, milk bottles, and a screaming baby that refuses to sleep. That is not my life. That is not me. I’m not ready for that. For this. ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  ‘So, let’s schedule a time for you to come in and meet with a termination specialist.’

  ‘Until then, how do I cover this up?’

  ‘Loose fitting clothes. Excuse yourself from PE, avoid any strenuous physical activity, drink plenty of liquids and eat well. It’s important to take care of yourself. Oh, and avoid alcohol and smoking. You know, just in case.’

  ‘Just in case what? Because I won’t be changing my mind.’ I scoop up my belongings and head for the door.

  ‘Oh, and Stephanie? If that is your real name, and it’s OK if it’s not—’

  I grit my teeth and feel my eyes skim the floor. I hate lying.

  ‘Reconsider talking to someone you’re close to. This is a very important and difficult decision and whatever you decide you’ll want someone there with you.’

  Pressing down on the handle, the door pops open. Turning back, I meet her directly in the eyes. ‘I don’t have anyone to talk to. I’m on my own with this one.’

  When I get outside, the cold air hits me like a train and I gasp for a breath. But it’s not enough. I can’t get enough air. I can’t get far enough away from here. I start running down the street, further and further away from the doors of the clinic, from the future that awaits me. And I don’t stop
running.

  My thighs ache, my feet pound the pavement hard. Then I remember what she said. I could keep running. Run so hard and so fast until this thing inside me dies. Then the decision would be made for me. I wouldn’t have to do anything. It would be like destiny stepped in. Like I wasn’t meant to have this baby. I wouldn’t need to go through an abortion, risk having that information on my medical records, risk anyone knowing, anyone else judging me. It would be so easy. So easy to keep running, to keep going.

  But I can’t do it. I can’t run. I won’t run. My body won’t let me. My legs stop and I collapse under the abrupt halt. And when I hit the ground, I start crying. I can’t stop. Tears flow from my eyes, spilling down my cheeks, onto the hard pavement beneath my hands.

  I’m so angry at myself.

  I’m so sad at having to do this alone.

  I’m so jealous of everyone who walks around me, so free, so unburdened.

  I’m so…everything.

  I curl up to my knees and scream into them, biting down a little on my thigh.

  I hate everyone.

  But mostly, I hate myself.

  My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I feel the reminder of the real world, everyone around me, against my leg.

  I wipe my nose against the sleeve of my coat and yank out the phone. Comments, more comments, about my posts. More likes.

  I feel sick. I’m disgusting. Everything I do hurts people. And I don’t know why I keep doing it. Or maybe I do, and I don’t want to admit it to myself.

  I post comments about Trina so they don’t find out.

  I post comments about Sophia so they don’t find out.

  Because if everyone’s looking at them, if everything’s laughing at them, then they won’t see me. They won’t see the bump that’s started growing above my jeans line. They won’t see the shame I carry or hear the lies I tell. And if I keep pointing the finger at everyone else, keep the wheels turning on social media, keep the jeering at school, then I can keep the eyes off me, the finger off me. And I’ll do anything for that. I’ll go to any means. I will say anything, do anything. Because I’m not them. My face can’t appear on the posts, my name can’t be dragged into anything. No one can ever know that I am pregnant.