by Deena Lipomi
“No,” Annie says. “It’s not food poisoning.”
“You look pale, sweetheart,” Mom says. “I think I should –”
“I’m pregnant.”
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Mom gasps, dropping her metal serving spoon with a clank, splattering cream of chicken soup on her pants.
“I think I’m pregnant,” Annie repeats, quieter this time.
Dad finally looks up.
I can’t swallow my mouth is so dry.
“Annie, please, sit down,” Mom says.
But she doesn’t. Annie inches into the hall with tears streaming down her ashy cheeks.
Dad is frozen, maybe with shock, until Mom says, “Charles?”
“I…Annie….” Dad stares at her, blinking, like he can’t focus.
It’s so typical Dad that I want to laugh. Why not act totally crazy while my family is breaking down?
“Pregnant?” Mom says again. Her blonde hair swings around her face as she turns to Dad, me, Annie.
“How do you know for sure?” Mom asks, leaning over the table so far I’m afraid she’ll fall into the casserole.
Annie stares at the floor. I want to run to her, hug her, comfort her, and scream at her. Yet I have no idea what to say, especially since my body is twitching so badly I need some comforting myself.
“I just know,” she says.
Dad closes his eyes. “Who’s the father?”
“Is it Brett?” Mom butts in. “Does he know? I need to call his mother –”
“No, Mom! Please! Please, don’t tell anybody.” Annie’s voice cracks and her hands fidget at her sides. “Please.”
Mom pauses, her hand reaching for the phone.
Dad sets down his fork. “How?” he asks like he’s waiting for a lecture on the birds and the bees.
“It…it was an accident,” Annie says.
Dad closes his eyes again, like he can’t quite get a grip on what’s going on.
Mom sucks in a breath, preparing a speech or maybe a wail.
“I’m going upstairs,” Annie whispers.
We don’t stop her.
I play with my fork, twirling it around noodles I won’t be able to eat. Guess that means I’m not angry.
Then what am I?
Mom snaps to attention and rubs her forehead. “What are we going to do about it?”
I’m not sure who she’s asking. I keep twirling egg noodles covered in congealing chicken noodle soup and soggy breadcrumbs.
“I don’t know,” Dad says, watching Mom.
A second later, Mom leaps away from the table, grabs her purse and keys, and slams out the front door. Her Honda roars from the driveway as much as an Accord can roar. For a minute I wonder if she’s coming back.
Dad massages his temples and then methodically finishes his dinner.
“Dad?” I say.
He brings his dish to the sink. “Not now, Melanie. Not now.” He picks up his negatives and disappears into his office, leaving me at the dinner table all alone.
Whatever. I don’t want to talk anyway. It’s not like there’s anything going on in my life.
Per usual Annie is important, Annie is the star, Annie is the chosen one.
***
Mom comes home half an hour later as I’m scrubbing the dishes and wishing I had a whole lot of chocolate – enough to bake a giant tray of double fudge brownies. A plastic pharmacy bag rustles in her hand. With only a grunt I can’t decipher, she charges up the stairs two at a time. I’m milling through the cupboards trying to figure out how to turn expired hot cocoa mix into a baked good when she comes back down. Mom slumps into a chair and runs her hands through her hair.
“She tested positive,” she says.
I let the cupboard door fall closed. Now I see what Mom was asking.
What am I going to do about it?
Chapter 3
Sixteen years ago, after I was born, Mom’s doctor told her she shouldn’t have any more kids. Getting pregnant could kill her. “But we always knew we had more love to give,” was what Mom told Annie and I when we were little and asked for the story of how we became sisters. Dad would lovingly pat Mom’s leg as she spoke and take snapshots for our family photo albums.
“So we applied to adopt a child from Vietnam, and soon we received a file about Tuyen, our Angel Annie. Her photograph was just perfect. Even your father, the photography king, agreed that a bad picture could never be taken of that little girl. We knew she would become part of our family.”
Six months later, Annie was a Mainer. Mom and Dad kept Tuyen, her Vietnamese name meaning “angel,” as her middle name because there was no mistaking that Annie was just that. An angel. Perfection. The polished Mainer daughter. Her flawless skin, deep brown eyes, and smooth black hair compared to my overcast greys, pink cheeks, and brown frizz. There’s no contest on which one of us attracts more attention. Especially male attention. Even when Annie was teased for being different as a kid, it wasn’t because she lacked a beauty gene, so it’s not any surprise that Annie is the sister who actually gets close enough to a guy to have sex with him while I’m the one who’s never been on a real date.
After Mom’s announcement that Annie is, in fact, pregnant, she marches into the office to break the news to Dad. My plan is to be as far away from him as possible when he finally erupts.
I hurry upstairs and pause outside Annie’s door, finally knocking with a shaking hand.
She opens it and then slumps into her wicker chair that creaks beneath her slight weight.
I close the door behind me and blurt, “Is that what you were trying to tell me yesterday?” Before you ditched me?
Tears pool in her eyes as she picks up the pee stick tester thingy. Gross. She holds it to the light and stares at it.
“Didn’t you use some kind of…birth control?” The words feel weird coming from my mouth. I’ve never had a need to discuss it before.
Annie flicks the striped stick into the wicker garbage can and turns to me with fiery eyes. “We did use a condom, OK? It broke. Things like that happen.”
That’s something you wouldn’t know about so don’t pretend to hangs in the air unsaid.
I tell myself to relax, that it’s still Annie, the sister who used to ask me to braid her hair and go for bike rides to the playground. Her sketchbook is open on her desk to a charcoal drawing of an angel. The edges of this angel’s wings are smeared like maybe Annie was crying over it. I move to the edge of her bed, take a breath to cleanse my tone of negativity.
“Fine,” is all I can think to say if she’s not going to share more.
Annie opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. Her tone changes, too. “Mel, what am I going to do?” Fresh tears wet her cheeks. “I’m supposed to meet Chloe and Samara at Justine’s tonight to study for finals.”
Instead of bearing her soul, she’s asking for advice on how to keep her friends in the dark? “Tell them you’re not feeling well,” I say.
“That excuse won’t last very long.”
“Use it for tonight and worry about the rest later,” I say.
“I should just hide all summer?” she asks, all mad.
“I didn’t say that.” Why is she mad at me? “Just tell them the truth then.”
She shakes her head.
“If they’re your friends, you should be able to tell them,” I say. If I got pregnant, I’d need to tell Kasey. She’d help me through it, no questions asked.
Annie rests her hands on her small stomach. “It’s not that simple.”
Of course it’s not. Her friends are jerks.
Except someone out there must know. Or at least have an inkling. Someone who donated his sperm to this occasion.
“Who’s the father?” I ask.
Annie hangs her head so her hair covers her face. I haven’t seen her hide like this since junior high. “I don’t want to talk about him,” she snaps.
I stand. “Fine. Whatever.” My voice cracks,
betraying my emotional cover-up.
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” Annie moves to her bed, lies down, and stares at the ceiling.
“Obviously,” I say.
She glares at me but doesn’t kick me out of her room. I take that as my cue to pry one more time.
“Was it Brett? After prom?”
Annie pinches her lips together.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell your friends. Just keep it all bottled up inside and go crazy with secrets.” I reach for the doorknob.
“Wait.”
I do, feeling her need for the first time in years. It’s what I want.
“You have to promise not to repeat anything. Not to Kasey, not to Mom and Dad. Promise.”
Do I want this?
The connection of her gaze to mine is so intense I want to look away.
“Mel?”
“I promise.”
“I mean it. If anyone finds out –”
“I said I promise,” I say.
Annie rolls over so her back is to me and she curls into fetal position, so appropriate.
“It wasn’t prom night. It was the next weekend,” she says.
I rack my brain for the date. Without my own prom attendance to use as a marking point, I have no idea when it was. Maybe a month ago?
Her tone grows softer with every word. “Remember that guy Harris? The one I met at Art Camp last summer?”
No, not really since I wasn’t exactly kept in Annie’s loop. But I did hear her talking about some guy from Albany to Justine and her friends. So I say, “The guy from Albany?” to keep her momentum going.
“He emailed me over April break,” she says. “He said he’d be in Buffalo at the Art Institute for a lecture and asked if I wanted to meet up with him.” Buffalo’s only about a twenty-minute drive from Ridgecrest.
“So you went out there,” I say, hearing the judgmental note in my voice.
Annie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Harris and I met for lunch,” she continues blandly until a smile creeps over her lips.
My cheeks heat up. Oh god, if she’s remembering what it was like to have sex with him, I don’t want to hear anymore.
Or do I? That’s what friends do, right? Share everything. I would tell Kasey…I think.
Annie sighs and buries her face into her pillow. “I don’t want you to have to keep another secret,” comes her muffled voice.
I can’t leave, and I definitely can’t leave her like this. “It’s fine,” I say like I’m brave.
Annie flips her head around and meets my eyes. “Harris is Vietnamese.”
“So?”
“You don’t get it.” Her voice gains strength. “You don’t know what it’s like to be different. Being with Harris made me feel normal.”
“Normal?” I repeat.
She takes it as a challenge. “Like I’m not the only Asian person in western New York.”
I shake my head. “No one’s teased you for looking different in years. You have tons of friends now. You have senior prom dates now.”
Annie frowns like I’m an idiot. “That doesn’t mean anything. Everyone at Ridgecrest High is white except for, like, five people. One’s a teacher.”
“So that’s the big secret?” I ask. “That the baby’s father is Vietnamese? Did you think I’d be mad about that? That Mom and Dad and Justine would be upset?”
She doesn’t correct me with the truth. Instead she shakes her head, curls onto her side, and draws her blanket up over her whole body including her head.
Conversation over.
Chapter 4
The next morning I want to lock myself in my bedroom so I don’t have to face my family (who I’m irrationally annoyed with) or friends (who I can’t tell about Annie).
When I promised Annie I wouldn’t share her secret, it was easy to keep. Now, when I’ll see Kasey in a matter of minutes, I wonder why I didn’t put some limitations on it. But if I break my promise to her now, then I definitely don’t deserve to be my sister’s confidant again.
But hiding out is not in the cards. At ten o’clock, I’m dutifully watching out the window for Kasey to pick me up so she can take me to my job at the hospital cafeteria. I’ve been pleading to my boss, Dexter, for as many hours as he can give me over the summer so I can buy my own car as soon as I get my driver’s license. Now that he’s found an extra shift for me, I can’t call in sick, confused, or distressed. Plus, I’d already asked Kasey to drive me to work before she heads to the vet clinic where she helps out her mom. I can’t cancel now.
“Hey,” Kasey says as I slide into the passenger seat. Mary J. Blige’s soulful voice fills the car.
“I totally owe you,” I say, buckling my seatbelt across my polyester work pants.
“I know. I’m thinking a quadruple scoop malt from Marshall’s next weekend.” She backs out of my driveway and zooms down the street.
Suddenly I’m struck that Kasey’s one of the five non-white people in Ridgecrest High that Annie was talking about. OK, that sounds stupid. Of course I knew she was black, but if it weren’t for Annie’s comments last night, I wouldn’t have noticed that I’m associated with 50% of the non-white kids at school.
“Do you ever feel left out at school?” I ask her.
Kasey looks at me like I have spinach stuck in my teeth. I should know; it’s happened. “Dude, what are you talking about?” she asks.
“Annie was saying last night that it’s kind of weird being one of only five non-white people in the school and one’s a teacher.”
Kasey breaks into laughter. “Wait a minute, your sister, Miss Popularity, is having an identity crisis?”
I shrug against the seat. “She said she feels different from everyone else.”
“She is the only Asian chick,” Kasey says. “At least my cousins are around to add to the African-ness of the town. Most of them are in the junior high, though.” She accelerates through a yellow light. “I guess if I grew up somewhere else, somewhere that had a bigger population of black people and then I moved here, I’d be more bothered by the lack of Ridgecrest color. Or more self-conscious. But this is the only town I’ve ever lived in so I have nothing to compare it to. I’m just used to it, ya know?”
“Annie hasn’t lived anywhere else either,” I say.
“Sure she has. Vietnam.”
“That was like fourteen years ago, when she was a baby. She doesn’t even remember that. She can’t remember that,” I say.
“Just because she can’t remember that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there,” Kasey says.
Sometimes I wish Kasey wasn’t so smart.
One Mary J. Blige song later, we turn into the parking lot of Ridgecrest Hospital and Kasey brakes at the main entrance.
“I don’t know how you can work here.” Kasey wrinkles her nose. “The smell of medicine mixed with old people? Ewww.”
I open my door. “All I smell is whatever’s on today’s menu.”
She grimaces. “I hope it’s not as bad as smorgasbord chili.”
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, stepping into the shadow of the five-story building.
“No problemo. And Mel?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Annie if she ever wants to talk, you’ve got my number.”
“I will.”
Kasey waves and takes off.
The walk to the cafeteria is an easy, drama-free trip. It doesn’t require passing any emergency rooms, blood banks, or patient beds. Only offices, an auditorium, and pairs of bathrooms lead the way. Patients, doctors, nurses, and visitors mill in and out of the cafeteria doors.
“I just want a brownie,” says a bald girl with a pink and purple headscarf as she tugs a woman’s hand toward the entrance.
“Let’s see what they have,” says the woman with the girl.
The pair reminds me of someone but before I can remember who, I’m at the back staff hall to the cafeteria and just on time for work.
“Melanie Mainer! How are
ya?” asks Dexter when I motor through the kitchen to the lockers. He’s a friendly guy, older than my parents but younger than my grandparents, and cool to work with. He wears his apron tied high over his bulbous gut so it flares around his waist like a muumuu. Compared to him I’m skinny, though I love the way he isn’t afraid to enjoy food or hide from it in shame.
“I’m good, Dex,” I say, ignoring everything in my life that isn’t good so I can focus on work. I grab the sauce-splattered lunch checklist. Prep & plate side salads. Heads of iceberg lettuce, bags of shredded carrots, and boxes of cucumbers and tomatoes wait for me in the walk-in fridge. I haul the veggies to the stainless steel countertop for chopping and plating where the breakfast crew is cleaning up and heading out.
No one who works here is my age, which means no one knows Annie from school. I’m free to be myself with my coworkers and hungry customers, and create meals without a history, judgment, or a gorgeous sister waiting in the wings.
In sixth grade my self-consciousness really began. Not only was I defending Annie against kids speaking in fake Chinese accents on the school bus, but my boobs popped out overnight and my stomach and thighs weren’t far behind.
The epitome of my humiliation was at the junior high talent night. My classmates tap-danced, played classical flute solos, sang show tune duets, and recited poetry they’d written. I prepared the one thing I excelled at creating and was certain the whole school and all our parents would be impressed: a three-tiered chocolate cake covered in vanilla basket-weave frosting topped with colored roses. It was my best cake design ever and I was sure it would win first place.
When my name was called to take the stage, I marched proudly from behind the curtain to the podium with the dessert on my grandma’s silver platter. Except my table wasn’t set up. The teacher in charge was MIA and the cake grew heavier and heavier in my eleven-year-old arms. I began to panic and sweat sprouted across my back.
Mom and Dad must’ve seen it all happen from the audience, but with the spotlights in my eyes, I couldn’t make anyone out and there was nothing they could do. All I heard was, “She’s gonna drop her cake!” followed by laughter. The reminder that all these eyes were on me sweated up my forearms until they could barely support my shirt sleeves let alone a heavily frosted cake.
