by Cynthia Hand
So where was I? Oh yeah, Dawson. The missing condom. The days I thought I was falling in love with him. The regrettable song about how blue my eyes are. And now you.
Which brings me to about three months ago, when I sat in the hall outside his dorm room again, waiting for him to come back from play practice or choir or the art studio or wherever he was, because he was always out somewhere. It was the day after Valentine’s Day, I remember, and I hadn’t heard from Dawson in a couple weeks. I’d come to tell him about my little problem. Our little problem, I should say. I was leaning against his door, my knees tucked up to my chest, and every now and then I’d touch my stomach in complete disbelief, thinking about this weird little thing growing in there—this thing that was going to mess up everything. (No offense, X. I was pretty wigged.) And I thought, at least if he knows about it, we can decide what to do together.
Hours passed. He didn’t come. It was like ten p.m., and this was a huge problem, because I had a newly imposed “oh my God you’re PREGNANT, you obviously need boundaries” ten p.m. curfew on school nights, and I knew my stepmom was going to use me breaking the rules as yet one more reason I wasn’t qualified to be a member of the family. That and I had to pee.
So I started to cry a little (I’m not a big crier, but the hormones were going strong, and things seemed bleak in the moment) and when I looked up again, there was that guy Ted staring at me.
I got to my feet. “Have you seen Dawson?” I mumbled, wiping at my face.
“I think he’s doing a tech rehearsal for Hamlet. Uh . . . come in.” Ted unlocked the door and gestured for me to go into their room. He was still looking at me like I was a grenade that had been tossed in his lap, like I was going to explode.
Maybe I was.
I went in. It was better than sitting out in the hall. As I passed the closet I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. I had raccoon eyes from the crying and the mascara. My face was all broken out. I looked about the same as I felt.
“Here.” Ted handed me a tissue. I sat on Dawson’s bed—where all the trouble had started—and blew my nose. Ted was messing around with an electric kettle and rustling through drawers, until the next time I looked up, and he was holding out a mug of what looked like tea.
“I don’t have milk,” he said. “Sorry.”
For some reason I started laughing. I get like that when I’m upset, like when it’s the worst possible time to laugh, it bubbles up from nowhere, and I can’t stop. It’s inappropriate—I mean, I laughed at my grandmother’s funeral, and I loved my gran. This time was worse. This time I laughed so hard my sides hurt.
“Thanks,” I said after I calmed down. I took the tea and drank deeply, the hot liquid warming all the way from my throat into my empty stomach. I clutched the mug in both hands, warming them, too.
“You want a Pop-Tart?” Ted asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s cherry.”
“Okay.”
I hadn’t had a Pop-Tart in years. My stepmom didn’t allow that kind of unhealthy shit in the house. It was delicious, coating my tongue with a sweet greasy cherry-flavored film. I wolfed it down.
Ted sat on his bed across the narrow room. He didn’t seem to know what to say to me in this definitely-awkward situation.
“So he’s in Hamlet?” I said after I was done stuffing my face. I brushed crumbs off Dawson’s red-and-blue plaid bedspread and tried to wipe the mascara out from under my eyes.
“I guess so. It’s all he talks about.”
“Is he Hamlet?”
“No. Freshmen play the smaller roles, I think,” Ted said. “He’s like Rosencrantz or Guildenstern or one of those.”
I nodded.
“Do you want to listen to some music?” He knew from his other encounters with me that I liked music. That was probably the only thing he knew about me.
“Sure.”
He didn’t try to play any of Dawson’s records. He put on a Green Day CD that he played using his computer. I listened, more out of politeness than anything else. Green Day isn’t my thing. But Ted was nice. He’d gotten a haircut since that first time I’d seen him. He was wearing a shirt that read Q: How many programmers does it take to change a light bulb?
I still don’t know the answer to that question. I never read the back of his shirt.
“You’re into computers?” I asked.
“I’m a double major—math and physics. But I want to work with computers. I’m good at code.”
“Cool.” I had no idea what code was, but okay.
“What do you want to do?” he said.
“I’m not in college,” I said.
“You don’t have to be in college to want to do something with your life,” he said.
I threw up. I didn’t really have any warning, so I just leaned down and barfed on the tile floor, trying to miss the comforter. Instead I got a pair of black Converse sneakers that’d been sitting next to the bed.
Ted jumped to his feet. He was gone for a few minutes and then back with a stack of brown paper towels from the bathroom. He got on his knees to clean up the puke, but I tried to stop him.
“You don’t have to do that. I can—” The smell hit me, and I vomited again. Less, this time. But still. I wasn’t making it better.
I sat back on the bed, sweating. Ted quickly wiped up the floor. It was mostly Pop-Tart. I don’t think I’m ever going to eat another cherry Pop-Tart for as long as I live. He left again for a minute and came back with an actual mop and a bucket and mopped the floor.
He was so nice.
“You’re so nice,” I said. “You’re like the nicest boy I’ve ever met.”
“How many drinks have you had?”
“I’m not drunk.” I shook my head as he started to make some more tea. “No, thanks.” It might be a while before I drink tea again, too. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t seem okay,” he observed.
No shit.
“I’m pregnant.” I don’t know why I came out with it like that. Maybe it seemed easier than making up an alternative explanation.
Ted sat down. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I need to talk to Dawson.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“You could go to the theater and find him. I could walk you.”
“I don’t want to interrupt him. It’s kind of a big conversation to have. And I should do it in private, don’t you think?”
“Right. Well, he could be back anytime. You can hang out and wait.”
“Thank you,” I murmured. I lay back on Dawson’s bed and curled onto my side. Green Day was still playing. “Good Riddance.”
“I hate this song,” I breathed into Dawson’s pillow, and then I was asleep.
When I woke up Dawson was there.
“What the hell happened to my shoes?” he wanted to know.
“Hi.” I blinked up at him, disoriented. Ted was nowhere to be seen. The clock on the nightstand read past two in the morning. The parents were going to murder me. Or not, it occurred to me, as murdering me would also be murdering an unborn child, and that would be a PR nightmare. I smiled.
Dawson looked tired. He had dark circles under his eyes. But then I realized it was stage makeup.
“I don’t usually come home to find girls in my bed,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining.”
He pulled his shirt over his head and made like he was going to get into bed with me. I scrambled to sit up.
“No, I—”
He kissed me, then pulled away and frowned.
“Was it you who puked on my shoes? Those are my lucky shoes. I was wearing those shoes the night of the Pearl Jam concert. When I met you.”
“Maybe they’re not so lucky,” I said weakly.
“Oh my God, babe. Are you drunk?”
“I’m sixteen,” I said. “Why does everyone assume I’m drunk?” There had been a few parties, maybe, a few instances where I was not my best self, and that was mostly to blow off ste
am and give the finger to my straight-laced parental units. But I didn’t make a habit of it. I’m not a total lush.
Dawson shrugged. “I got drunk when I was sixteen.”
“No, I’m . . .” I took a breath. This was big. What would he do? What would he say?
I was about to tell him, I swear. But as I was looking into his face—that perfect face that was staring at me so unknowingly, so trustingly—I couldn’t do it to him. I couldn’t watch his expression when he realized how this was going to mess up everything. No offense, X. But it was. It kind of already had.
“I have to go,” I mumbled. “I didn’t mean to be here so long.”
“What? I just got here. Why did you—”
“I thought we could hang out tonight. I didn’t know about the dress rehearsal. And I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I have to get home.”
“Okay.” He walked me to my car. He kissed me. It was the last time he’d ever kiss me. But I didn’t know that then.
I got in the car and rolled down the driver’s side window.
“I’ll call you,” I said.
He smiled. “Not if I call you first.”
When I got home everybody was asleep. No one gave me a lecture or threatened my life or anything. The house was perfectly silent. I got into my pajamas and washed my tear- and mascara-streaked face and lay down in my bed. Then I mentally beat myself up for a while. Stuff like:
How could you not tell him?
What, you can spill the beans to the roommate, but not the actual guy who needs to know?
He deserved to know.
He had to know.
I had to tell him.
So I went to my desk and wrote him a letter. It wasn’t a long letter. Not like this one is turning out to be. It basically said: “Sorry, I didn’t tell you before, but I didn’t know how. I’m pregnant. I think I’m having the baby, but we can talk about it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Call me.”
This letter writing thing’s getting to be a habit.
I put the letter in an envelope I took out of my dad’s office, addressed it to Dawson’s college mailbox, stole a stamp, and stuck it in the morning’s outgoing mail.
Can you guess what happened next?
He didn’t call me.
Shocking, right?
I got the message, though. He didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Or you. We are on our own.
I guess that’s going to be a lot for you to process. Maybe you don’t want to know any of it. Maybe you want to stay out of it, too. And I couldn’t blame you for that. But now you know the story of your not-parents’ star-crossed love affair.
In with a bang, out with a whimper.
Did he break my heart? A little. Yes. But that’s how it goes. You live, you learn. Better to have loved and . . .
Whatever.
Peace out, X.
Yours truly,
S
10
“Cassandra McMurtrey to the front office, please,” calls the speaker next to the ceiling in my first-period chemistry class. “Cassandra McMurtrey to the front office.”
My heart starts beating fast. Anytime I get called to the office I think: this could be about Mom. The doctors could have found a donor—a new heart packed in dry ice in a cooler right now, in a helicopter, shooting through the air toward the hospital. Everything could go back to the way it was before.
Or it could be an entirely different kind of call. My dad could be waiting at the office with his brave face on. He could tell me that Mom is gone. Which makes me want to hide. Like if I don’t show up to receive the news, it won’t be true.
But I go. Of course I go. And instead of my dad, there’s Nyla outside the front office, leaning against the wall with her backpack at her feet, grinning at me.
“What’s going on?” I ask warily.
“Just go in there and get checked out,” she says. “Roll with it, babes.”
I go into the office.
“Oh, hi, Cass,” says the front office lady. “How are you?”
“You sent for me?”
“Yes. I understand that you need to be excused for the day.”
“Um . . .”
“And tomorrow, too, correct?”
“Um . . . yeah. I guess.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Your father called and okayed it.” She beams. “I think your dad’s terrific. My boy Aidan’s in his class right now, and he’s never loved a teacher so much. And your mother . . .” She gives me sympathy face. “I’ve been so sorry to hear about her health troubles.”
“Thank you.”
“Okay then, fill this out.” She passes me a binder with the sign-out sheet in it.
In thirty seconds I’m back in the hall with Nyla.
“You ready?” She could not look more pleased with herself.
“What am I supposed to be ready for, exactly?”
“You’ll see.” She slings an arm around my shoulders and walks me toward the front door.
In the parking lot, there’s my dad in his beat-up Honda, windows rolled down, grinning from ear to ear like we’ve won some kind of lottery.
I try not to laugh. Dad must have sent Nyla in to get me because he didn’t want to freak me out by calling me to the office himself, because he knows what I would think. That’s the cool thing about Dad—he’s a type A personality, although you wouldn’t know it from the ponytail and the way he never tucks in his shirts. He’s the planner of the family. And he always seems to think two steps ahead.
“You all packed, Nyles?” he asks Nyla.
“Yes, sir.” She lifts her backpack. I guess she’s coming with us.
“I call shotgun,” I say, and hop into the passenger’s seat. Nyla slides into the back.
“Where are we going?” But I already know. We’re going to Boise State. Of course we are.
“I want to go check out some Idaho colleges,” Dad says. Bingo. “So it technically doesn’t count as playing hooky from school, because I’m going to take you to multiple schools. I got a substitute for the next couple days. Packed you a bag. I picked a few outfits out of your closet, and they could be terrible. I’m warning you now.” He pumps a fist in the air and hoots like he’s at a concert. “Road trip! We’re going on a road trip!”
“Road trip!” Nyla joins in. “Woo!”
I shake my head. “You guys are weird, you know that?”
“Thank you,” Dad replies, like this is a compliment. “So both girls in the car? Check. Seat belts on? Check. You ready to go?”
“Check,” I say a bit breathlessly. “I’m ready.”
Dad floors it out of the parking lot. Five minutes later we’re speeding down the Yellowstone Highway to connect to the freeway. We pass the familiar little white brick building by the railroad tracks next to the bowling alley. It still has the original sign—“The Sugar Shell,” it reads in big yellow and blue letters across the front. The parking lot is empty. I can’t ever remember the parking lot being empty, not even for a minute, when my mom was running the shop.
“So Mom set this up, right?” I ask quietly.
“We all did—your mother and Nyla and me.” Dad takes one hand off the wheel to pat my shoulder. Then he looks at me all serious for a second. “We want you to have everything you deserve, Cass. Your best life possible. And it’d be nice if your best life included going to college. Preferably somewhere close by. And affordable.”
“Right,” I say hoarsely. Like not Juilliard. Like Boise State.
I can feel Nyla watching me. I crane my neck around to look at her. “How are you doing back there, traitor? How long have you known about this little plan?”
“Only a few days,” she says like it’s no big deal.
“You could have told me, you know.”
“But you love surprises, Cass. And I’m so glad I get to come along.”
“When Nyla told us that she’s interested in checking out the Idaho schools, too,” Dad says, “we knew that this weekend would be the perfect opportu
nity for both of you.”
I glance at Nyla again. “Wait. You’re considering Idaho schools? When did this happen?”
She smiles, though it’s her fake smile. “Of course I want to consider all of the options.”
“Uh-huh.” She is up to something, methinks. Something beyond moral support. I guess I’ll find out what soon enough.
“Here we go!” Dad steers us onto the freeway entrance and accelerates. My heart’s still beating fast—it hasn’t slowed down since they called my name over the school intercom. The trip suddenly feels big. Important. Like this is when the course of my life is going to get decided.
Right here. Right now.
I swallow nervously. I don’t know if I’m ready, maybe I’m not ready for all of this, but we’re on the freeway now, doing seventy-five miles per hour, speeding toward the future.
11
Dad brought school supplies. Of course he did. He’s got the entire trip planned out to like the minute, all written down in this blue notebook (a college-ruled notebook—a Dad joke) with a page for each institution of higher learning that we’re going to visit, divided into two columns: pros and cons. We start at Idaho State University, which is in Pocatello (Dad calls it Poca-toilet-hole—a kind of mean Idaho Falls joke) and then we head west to the College of Southern Idaho in Twin Falls. Both places are nice, fully equipped with the standard college stuff: classrooms, dorms, libraries, bleary-eyed students.
I can’t picture myself as one of them. It’s been hard for me to imagine going to college at all, ever since Mom said I couldn’t go to Juilliard. But I’m giving it the old college try (lamest joke ever).
Dad’s calling this our “Idaho college trip,” and we’re touring a bunch of Idaho colleges, but it becomes clear almost immediately that, for my father, at least, I’m still supposed to end up at Boise State. I’m not surprised by this, obviously. On the four-hour drive west we basically have the same conversation about five times:
