by Wilde, Ora
So gratifying that I began to shiver. My knees weakened. My toes stiffened. And every part of me - EVERY single part of me - started to tingle.
The intense heat that once started in my gut has possessed my entire body, and it wanted to explode. The pressure was too much. I couldn’t contain it any longer.
So I yielded my defenses, and with it, all the doubts and the hesitation and the worries I had.
I surrendered.
And I came.
A gush of euphoria surged through my system, claiming every part of me, embracing all of me.
I moaned, as lightly as I could, as he kept spearing my cunt. He didn’t stop. He kept penetrating me... moaning with me... his body tensing up as if he was going to explode.
And explode he did.
With a rather loud yell, he came, his semen bursting from his manhood for what seemed like ten seconds or so.
And when he was done, he allowed his body to drop on my back. He gave me a tight hug and kissed my nape.
I should have found that moment sweet.
But I didn’t.
I was thinking of something else... something that I didn’t even anticipate when we started to make love... something that prevented me from enjoying the satisfaction I just received... something that made me forget that he was even there... something that conjured a world of fear and uncertainty that made me very anxious and afraid...
He came...
And he didn’t pull out.
8
The Waiting Game
Three things happened that Saturday which should have made me happy, but they didn’t. Well, they did... to a certain extent. But not as much as they should have. Somehow, they actually made matters even worse.
When I woke up that morning, I heard the sound of people outside our house. I put on my robe and went down to check what the commotion was all about. The first floor was empty. My dad and my stepmother weren’t there, but there were people talking outside. I proceeded to the window and took a peek. I saw three guys, holding brushes and buckets of paint, working on the facade of our home.
Finally, dad was able to get some help in getting rid of the vandalism that was daubed on our wall three weeks ago. I have been asking him to do something about it. It was such an eyesore. Strangers in the neighborhood would see the word “LEVA,” whatever that meant, smeared on the exterior of our residence and they’d think that we’re some kind of cult or something.
In due time, he told me. At first, I thought he was just lazy, that he didn’t think of the graffiti as a big deal. They were just kids, our neighbor’s son told him. What harm could they possibly do, my father added.
Eventually, I realized that he was just having problems with our budget. He worked as a barber down at Bedford Avenue, for a shop that has been there since the nineteen twenties. Then, all those high end salons and big name franchises entered the scene, and people just didn’t go to barbershops anymore. He still had a fixed pay per week. But most of his earnings were from tips. If there were no patrons, there were no gratuities... and our family’s income suffered.
Aunt Susan has always been a housewife. More than once, she suggested to find work so that she could help with the expenses. My dad shot down that idea time and time again. He loved her so much... just as how he loved my mom... that the thought of her doing some menial work pained him. He’s quite old school. He wanted to be a good provider, and in his mind, that meant being the sole breadwinner in the household.
How he found some extra cash for the painters outside baffled me no end. Did he have to borrow money from his brothers? Did he apply for a bank loan? Did he have to sell some stuff? If he did, were some of those stuff mine?
The workers were almost finished when I saw them. I went out and they smiled at me.
“Job’s done, Ma’am!” they politely and gleefully exclaimed.
I gazed at the facade and it looked brand new. Amazing how a newly painted wall can make the entire house look so much different.
I thanked them. They packed their things and left. They didn’t ask for their payment. I guessed dad took care of it already.
I went back to the house and proceeded to the kitchen. I was starving. I’ve always felt very hungry in the morning the past couple of days.
I was pleasantly surprised to see that breakfast was ready. Bacon and omelette. Aunt Susan probably got up early to have prepared that meal before they went out.
But where did they go?
I chomped on the food like a raving lunatic who had fasted for months. Usually, half an omelette would’ve filled me up. My petite frame just can’t handle a lot of intake. But that morning, I finished an entire serving and I was still hungry.
I poured some coffee on my mug and sat on the Lazy Boy on the right side of the main door... dad’s favorite spot. He wasn’t home so I got dibs on his personal property. That Lazy Boy was very dear to him. It was a gift from one of his most loyal customers since the nineties, Edward Thorne. He was also one of the richest men in Sacramento. When he died in 2013, my dad was devastated. Eddie shared a lot of great stories, he lamented, I’m gonna miss those and I’m gonna miss him.
I sat on the ultra comfortable seat and tried to enjoy my mug of caffeine.
Coffee has always been one of my morning rituals.
But something was strangely different.
Somehow, the aroma of the coffee - which I found as addictive as its taste - was quite repulsive for my smell. I thought I was coming down with a cold or something, hence, my sense of smell was compromised. But as I took a sip, I discovered that even the flavor was revolting.
What was wrong with me?
I placed the mug on the lamp table beside the chair. I never touched it again that day.
The doorbell rang and I immediately ran towards the door. I opened it and I saw my father and Aunt Susan, holding a rather huge box - around a foot wide and a foot tall on all sides - smiling giddily at me.
“Hey guys! What’s up?” I greeted them.
And like tools - a word I feel guilty to use in describing my folks, but there was no other appropriate term at that time - they just stood there, with those ridiculous looking smiles still plastered on their faces.
“Stop it! You’re scaring me,” I told them. “This is like a scene from Stepford Wives, but instead of wives, I have to deal with brainwashed parents.”
“Oh, you’re being overly theatrical again, Andrea,” my father retorted. “What’s wrong with being happy and smiling?”
“Me? Overly theatrical?” I responded. “Coming from the guy who cried and cried until he fell asleep when Jay Leno retired? For the second time?”
“Hey! I practically grew up with the guy,” he reasoned out.
“So... what’s with this Brady Bunch treatment all of a sudden?” I asked, puzzled by their unusually good mood. “I’m so used to the doom and gloom that pervaded this household.”
“Oh nothing,” my dad answered with a smirk.
“Quit the delays, Honey,” Aunt Susan finally remarked. “Here, Andrea. This is for you,” she added as she gave me the box she was holding.
“For me?” I questioned, my bewilderment heightened. “What for? It’s not my birthday. It’s not Christmas.”
“Open it,” she answered as she excitedly grabbed my father’s arm and held it tight. “You’ll see soon enough.”
And so I did.
The box was light, as if it contained nothing. Its size was quite deceiving. What was inside it? Even a bunch of cotton swabs would weigh heavier.
Once the wrapper was off, I pulled out the lid.
And I saw it.
A key.
One, solitary key.
“What’s this?” I asked, shocked. I had an inkling... but I didn’t want to believe it. It was almost impossible anyway. I didn’t want to be disappointed.
“Are you blind, girl?” my dad replied. “It’s a key.”
“I know it’s a key,” I said. “But for what?”
Skittishly, I darted out the door, towards the driveway... then I saw it...
The model wasn’t new, not by a long shot. The paint job needed some work. There were noticeable scratches on the tint of the windows. The left side of the rear bumper was smashed, a testament to the driving prowess - or the lack thereof - of the previous owner.
Lime green and radiant under the morning sun, it wasn’t the most beautiful car in the world.
But for me, it was perfect.
I looked at my folks, and they were still smiling at me. I smiled back and thanked them profusely.
“A Ford Focus, 2006 model,” my dad proudly exclaimed, unmindful of the fact that it was manufactured more than nine years ago.
“Dad... we... we can’t afford this,” I told him worryingly. “How could we... how could we even pay for this?”
“Don’t worry about it, Pumpkin,” he calmly said. “I’ve taken care of it. It’s not like we have to pay for it every month for God knows how many years.”
“Okay... but how?” I continued to ask. “How were you able to afford this?”
“Don’t concern yourself withsmall matters like that,” he responded. “What matters most is that my little girl is going to college in a few months, and she’ll need a car.”
“I’ll need a car?” I was baffled by his statement. Why would I need a car when I don’t even know what university I will attend for college. What if I get accepted in a school at the other end of the country... like Pennsylvania or Ohio...
Before my dad could answer, an elderly man garbed in a light brown polo shirt and a dark brown pair of pants, carrying a satchel that looked empty at first glance, approached us. It was Mr. Peniski, the mailman who serviced our neighborhood.
“Hey Alfred,” my dad greeted him. “What brings you to our street, my friend?”
“Hey Jim,” he greeted back, “long time no see. Darn internet. No one sends real mails anymore except billing companies.”
“That’s true,” my dad chuckled. “So what have you got for us? Some bills? I just paid this month’s dues last week.”
“No,” Alfred answered. “I have an envelope here, but it doesn’t look like a bill,” he continued as he opened his satchel and grabbed what seemed like the only content inside - a large, brown envelope wrapped in plastic.
So, he was in the neighborhood because he was going to deliver a mail.
That got me thinking.
The mailman never delivers on a Saturday. So what brought him to our place? Somehow, his presence on our driveway made me feel something different... something thrilling in an uncanny sort of way...
He put on his glasses, narrowed his eyes, scrunched his nose and read the recipient of the package.
“Andrea Higgins,” he uttered. “It’s for Andrea Higgins.”
My eyes widened. A mail? For me? On a Saturday?
I snatched the envelope from his hands and started to run back to the house. It took me a few steps to realize how rude that may have seemed for kindly Alfred who has always been a fixture in our street since I was a toddler.
“Thank you!” I yelled at him as I looked back. Then I continued to dart towards the stairs, towards my room, towards my bed.
I threw myself on the mattress and started to rip the plastic that covered the package. I drew out the envelope and opened it. Inside was a letter.
A letter from UCLA.
I took my time reading it.
A statement of my name. The usual salutation. A summary of the application procedure I have undertaken. And a sentence that would change my life...
It is our great pleasure to offer you admission to UCLA for the First Semester of SY 2015-2016.
For nine months, I have wished for nothing more than to receive that letter. It would have meant the world to me. It would’ve been a guarantee... that Finn and I would attend the same school together. It would’ve been the perfect scenario... that I’d be with him and home would just be a couple of hours away.
But with everything that has happened...
And with everything that I feared would happen...
I didn’t know if I still wanted to go the UCLA.
Finn broke my heart. I had sex with my stepbrother. And it has been eight days since I missed my period.
The things that happened today... they should have made me very, very happy. To a certain extent, I was still joyful for them... but not as ecstatic nor as excited as I should be. The front wall of our house has finally been cleaned, but the smell of fresh paint made me nauseous. My new car was a wonderful surprise, something that my dad worked very hard for... which would only make his eventual disappointment even worse. I’d rather go to a school other than UCLA, even if that university offered the best opportunities for what I wanted in life.
And I haven’t seen Nash in three weeks...
I felt so alone with everything that I was confronting.
I held my tummy and started to feel it. Was it getting bigger? It looked very, very flat to me. I inserted my fingers inside my underwear and touched my slit. I drew out my hand to see if there was blood. There was none. I still haven’t had my period, though there was no spotting that usually preceded gestation.
There was only one way to find out with all certainty.
I needed to get a pregnancy kit and determine if the cause of my disquietude was actually real.
I dressed up and prepared to go out, whispering one single word over and over again...
Negative, negative, negative...
9
Five Is High
Take it out for a joyride, my father said, and so I did. Little did he know that it was part of my plan.
He wanted me to go around the street a few times just to test drive the car. Be back in ten minutes, he instructed, don’t go far. I had something else in mind. I drove out to Lincoln Highway, went east for some five minutes or so, before turning left at Mosquito Road. That was far enough. There was a a convenience store there, right beside a gas station. Surely, no one from our neighborhood would visit that place just to buy some supplies. No one would recognize me.
I parked right outside, then alighted from the vehicle and went in.
I was nervous as hell. My knees were trembling as I awkwardly sifted the products from the shelves... products I didn’t even intend to buy. The old lady at the cashier looked at me more than twice. Did she think that I was an amateurish shoplifter, what with my hands trembling as I checked out the boxes on display? Or did she want to assist me as I seemed to be confused about what I wanted to purchase.
But I knew what I wanted to buy. I knew what I needed to buy. I was just taking my time, trying to survey the area, trying to ensure that no one I knew was nearby.
Empty-handed, I approached the counter and the lady greeted me with a smile.
“Do you have, uhm...” I struggled to continue.
“What is it, dear?” she asked, very much willing to help me out.
“One of those things that people use to...” I answered, still having a hard time to speak out the name of the thing I needed.
The kind lady smiled once more, then opened the drawer right below the desk. He grabbed a small, pink box and showed it to me. The label read FIRST RESPONSE Early Result Pregnancy Test.
“This one?” she continued, still with her friendly grin.
I just nodded my head.
She scanned the barcode and read the cash machine.
“That would be $15.99,” she said.
It was quite pricey for something I only had to use once. But if it was going to give me the peace of mind I so desperately sought, it was well worth the cost. I opened my purse and handed her two Hamiltons. She gave me some coins as change.
But before she could put it in a paper bag, the door beside the counter opened. It was the restroom, and a middle-aged man went out.
&nbs
p; “Thanks Linda,” he said. “Damn burritos got me again.
The old lady laughed. They knew each other... that was apparent. But based on how comfortable they were with each other’s presence, I figured that they have known each other for a long, long time... this lady who operated the convenience store and this guy who...
Oh my God!
