Afraid she was about to faint, she dropped her head between her knees and attempted to breathe. If she fainted in the bathroom and crashed to the floor with a loud thud, her parents would dash up and bust down the door. They would find her passed out on the floor with the evidence of the pregnancy test—and the telltale strip showing TWO stripes. Two stripes! How could it be?
Finally her heart rate seemed closer to normal, and breathing became slightly easier. Sophie picked up the pregnancy test box and looked more carefully at it. It was kind of faded and old looking. Maybe it really hadn’t worked properly. Was it possible that there was a shelf life or some kind of expiration date on a kit like this? Or that it really needed the full seven seconds to work properly? She wanted to try it again but knew that wasn’t going to work just yet. So she drank six glasses of water and just waited and waited and waited. But it just wasn’t working.
Finally, feeling like a failure—like, how can someone be so dumb as to mess up a simple test like this?—she put everything from the kit back into the bag, not leaving a trace of it behind. She shoved it back into her purse and retreated to her room.
Maybe the test was faulty. Maybe she’d done it wrong. Because whatever those two stripes were trying to shout at her,
Sophie did not want to listen. She couldn’t believe it. And until she could do the test correctly or possibly get a new test, she refused to believe it. She would push the skewed test results from her mind and would focus on homework instead. The queen of denial still reigned.
She went online to do some research for a journalism project, but soon she got distracted in researching home pregnancy tests and why they did or did not always work. To her relief, there seemed to be all kinds of reasons that her results truly were inaccurate. It seemed perfectly clear that her pregnancy test had not worked. Plain and simple, it was wrong. As far as she knew, she was NOT pregnant. Most definitely NOT. Really, God wouldn’t allow that to happen. He wouldn’t do that to her.
Just to be sure, she prayed. She confessed and repented and begged God to forgive her, to wipe her slate clean, to make her new, to give her a fresh start. And she promised that she would never, never, never break her vow to him again. If he wanted, she would become a nun. Okay, she wasn’t even Catholic. But she could convert.
6
It was about one in the morning when Sophie woke up with a strong urge to use the bathroom. As she was climbing out of bed, she remembered the pregnancy test. Seven seconds . . . Maybe she should just give it one more try. Hopefully it would work properly now. This time there would be only one stripe showing. And then she could rest easy.
She fumbled in her purse, trying to keep the rustle of the paper bag quiet as she took out the kit and removed a test strip. Then she put the kit back in the bag, shoved it back in her purse, and hurried to the bathroom.
Seven seconds was no problem this time. In fact, she probably could’ve done several strips. Satisfied with her effort, she set the damp strip on the edge of the bathtub again and then waited. And waited. She wasn’t sure if it had really been five minutes, but she decided to sneak a peek.
Two stripes were showing again.
Sophie stuck the telltale stick in the pocket of her T-shirt to deal with later as she flushed the toilet. She returned to her room, climbed back into bed, and cried herself to sleep.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Her mom was gently shaking her shoulder. “You’ll be late for school.”
Sophie jerked awake and stared up at her mom. Did she know? Had she found the kit? Was Sophie’s nightmare about to turn into a waking reality?
Her mom smiled. “You must’ve been really tired. Did you know it’s ten minutes until eight?”
“No way!” Sophie looked at her clock. “I better get moving.” “I’ll go toast you a bagel and you can eat it on your way to school,” Mom called as she hurried away.
“Thanks, Mom.” Sophie threw back the covers. There, twisted in the sheets, was the stick from last night. The nasty, awful, horrible stick. What if Mom had seen it?
Sophie slipped the stick in the bag that was still concealing the test kit. When no one was around to see, she would dump the whole works in a restroom trash can at school—get rid of the evidence. What she would do after that . . . well, she was pretty much clueless.
She quickly dressed, grabbed up her homework things, then dashed downstairs. She snagged the bagel, thanked her mom, and hurried out the door. Maybe she should get up late every morning. It might make life easier if she didn’t have to look her mother in the eyes. As for her dad . . . well, he was fairly oblivious to anything that didn’t involve sports or tires.
As Sophie drove to school, she decided there was only one way she would be able to make it through this day, and that was to pretend that nothing whatsoever was wrong. She would pretend that she wasn’t freaking out or about to have a total nervous breakdown. And if Oscars could be given to teenage girls who were able to delude everyone—including best friends, parents, teachers, neighbors, maybe even God—she would do whatever it took to win one.
By the end of her day, she felt she had succeeded. Joking had always been her best defense against any form of discomfort. Whether it was a mean girl taking a poke at her weight, an idiot boy gaping at her bustline, or a thoughtless teacher making her out to be “teacher’s pet,” Sophie had learned early on to deflect these situations with humor and wit. She’d realized this was a skill that would carry her through almost anything. Almost. “Hey, Sophie, are you going to stick around for the yearbook meeting this afternoon?”
Sophie turned around to see Wes Andrews trailing her. She and Wes had been friends since middle school. They’d both been journalism nerds for years now. Last year they’d been on the newspaper staff as well as the yearbook committee.
Sophie frowned. “Maybe not.”
“Maybe not?” Wes looked shocked. “Why not?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know . . . I guess I’m not really into it.”
He came over and dramatically placed his hand on her forehead. “Are you sick or dying or something?”
She pushed his hand away and faked a laugh. “No. I just thought I’d take a break.”
“Take a break from yearbook during your senior year? Are you serious?”
Sophie blew air between her lips as she struggled to come up with an acceptable answer or a joke. But neither came.
“Come on, Sophie,” he urged. “We need you.”
“I don’t see why. I mean, if I’m not there, someone else can step in and—”
“No one can take your place, Sophie. You’re brilliant.”
She smiled. “Thanks, but if I’m not there, someone else can be brilliant.” She tweaked his nose. “Maybe even you.”
“This is so wrong.” Wes grabbed their journalism teacher before he went into the classroom. “Talk some sense into her, Mr. Young.”
“Huh?” Mr. Young adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and turned to look at Sophie and Wes. “What’s up?”
“She’s abandoning the yearbook.”
Mr. Young frowned. “Is that true?”
Sophie just shrugged.
Mr. Young pressed his lips together, then slowly shook his head. “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie . . . have you thought this through carefully? Surely you realize that being on yearbook and the newspaper looks good on your college applications. And that your participation could possibly lead to a, well, some sort of scholarship.” He peered closely at her. “Are you willing to risk—” He was cut off by the bell. “Sorry, I have to go. But make sure you think this over carefully, Sophie.” Then he hurried into the classroom.
“So?” Wes’s brows lifted.
Sophie let out a quiet groan.
“Seriously, what’s the problem?” He studied her face as if looking for a clue. Suddenly she remembered what a great reporter Wes was, how he had a nose for news, and how he was an expert at getting to the bottom of a story.
“There’s no problem,” she said lightly
. “I guess I was just daydreaming about possibly having a life. You know, something beyond staring at the computer screen for hours on end, cutting and pasting and all that.”
He frowned. “But that is a life. I mean, don’t you want to take journalism in college? Don’t you plan to work in it after you get your degree? That’s what you’ve always said. When did you change?”
She considered this. “You’re right, Wes. And I do still want that. It’s just that—”
“I know.” He held his pen up in the air like a torch. “You got a boyfriend, didn’t you? During summer vacation you went and got yourself a serious boyfriend. Am I right or am I right?”
She shook her head. “No, you’re definitely wrong.”
But he didn’t look convinced.
“What time is the yearbook meeting?” She knew when it was, but it was a good distraction technique.
“Four. Same as always.”
“Fine. I’m going to run home and take a nap, and then I’ll see you at four.”
Wes grinned. “Be there or be square.”
She rolled her eyes. “More like be there and be square.”
“I better get to class before Mr. Young marks me late.”
“Just tell him you talked sense into me and I’m sure he’ll excuse you.”
Wes nodded and hurried into the classroom, closing the door behind him. Sophie just stood there and sighed. It seemed crazy to get involved in yearbook committee. That was a long-term commitment. And who knew where she’d be by the end of the school year?
Yet she knew that to quit those normal activities would only draw attention—raising a red flag that something really was wrong with her. Better to just play the game. Keep up the act. Maybe eventually she would figure a way out of this mess.
In the meantime, she just wanted to sleep. But as she started her car, her cell phone rang. She was tempted to ignore it, but it was her dad. And since he never called her, she was concerned. What if something had happened to Mom or Bart? Or . . . what if her parents had somehow figured things out? What if she’d left some scrap of evidence in the upstairs bathroom? What if someone had spotted her disposing of the pregnancy kit at school? What if they’d run a DNA test and . . . Okay, she knew she was being ridiculous.
“Hey, Dad,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Pumpkin,” he said in a surprisingly friendly tone. “Can I ask you a huge favor?”
“Sure, what?”
“Well, Marge broke a tooth eating Corn Nuts, so she’s got to run into the dentist, and I need someone to watch the front desk for a couple of hours. I remembered you get off of school early now. Would you mind?”
She so wanted to tell him to forget it, but he was being so nice that she just couldn’t. “Well, I have yearbook at four and—”
“That’s perfect. Marge was sure she’d be back here by four.” “Okay . . .”
“Hurry.”
“You want me to speed?”
“’Course not . . . just don’t dawdle.”
“Dawdle . . . yeah, right, Dad.” She told him good-bye and closed her phone. Great. Just what she needed—two hours of breathing stinky tire-rubber fumes.
Her dad knew she didn’t like working at the tire store. They’d been over that enough times over the years. Fortunately her mom supported her on this subject. But sometimes when he was in a pinch, like now, she’d help out.
When she got to the tire store, her dad was in the garage repairing a flat tire, and three people were waiting at the counter. The first guy wanted to pay for his tires and get the keys to his car—pronto.
“I already missed an hour of work,” he said, like she was personally responsible that his first credit card was just rejected and she had to run a second one. “And believe me, someone’s gotta pay the bills.”
“Sorry you had to wait,” she said in a fake-sounding cheerful tone. She watched as he signed the receipt, then handed him his keys. “Have a nice day, sir.”
He just growled “thanks” and hurried out.
“May I help you?” Sophie asked the woman who was next.
“I sure hope so.” The woman sighed and ran her hand over a very rotund midsection. “I want to get home before my kids do, and my back is killing me.”
“Sorry about that.” Sophie couldn’t help but stare at the woman’s large belly.
“Yeah, I’m due any day now.” She leaned her elbows onto the counter. “And my feet are so swollen I can’t even get into my shoes.” She sort of laughed. “Not that a young girl like you cares about any of that.”
Sophie stood up straighter. “So how can I help you?”
“Well, my neighbor just dropped me off, and my car’s supposed to be done by now, but I noticed it’s still up on that rack thing out in the garage. And I’m just hoping that there’s nothing seriously wrong with it. I brought it in for a brake job and—”
“Tell me your name and I’ll go and check on it.”
“Gansky. Tricia Gansky. It’s the red minivan.”
Sophie went into the garage and waited for her dad to finish tightening the last lug nut. He handed her the invoice. “This one’s on the house.”
“So what’s up with that red minivan?” she asked. “Is it ready to go?”
“Not even close. The lady thought she just needed new brake pads, but the drums are shot. I tried to call but got her voice mail.”
“So what do I tell her?”
He rubbed his chin. “Better let me explain this one. Why don’t you send her out here?”
Sophie frowned at the greasy floor. “She’s really huge pregnant, Dad. You wouldn’t want her to slip or anything.”
He nodded. “Good thinking. Tell her I’ll meet her in the waiting area.”
Sophie returned and gave the woman a halfhearted smile. “My dad wants to talk to you over there.” She nodded to the chairs. “Why don’t you put your feet up?”
The woman looked worried. “Sounds expensive.”
Sophie just shrugged. “I really don’t know.” She looked to the next customer, an old guy wearing a Dodgers cap. “Next.”
He took his time telling her his name and about how he’d just gotten these brand-new tires less than a month ago and this morning he had a flat. “They just don’t make tires like they used to,” he continued. “But everything’s like that. Instead of getting better, things just get worse. I don’t understand it.”
She handed him the invoice, and he peered at it.
“I don’t see the amount.”
“It’s free.” She handed him the keys.
He looked surprised. “Well now.”
She pointed to her dad’s writing in the description column. “And it looks like you better check your driveway for nails since that seems to be what flattened your tire.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Oh, I was doing a little woodworking project out there the other day. That must’ve been the problem. Well, thank you very much, young lady.” He tipped his cap and left.
Sophie glanced over to where her dad was using his hands to explain something to the pregnant woman. Not that it was helping since she was crying and clearly not getting a word he was saying. Finally her dad glanced her way and nodded at her like he wanted her to come over.
“Why don’t you get Mrs. Gansky some water, Sophie.” He stood and quickly exited into the garage. Her dad had never liked being around women’s emotions. He didn’t know how to deal with them.
“Here you go.” Sophie handed the woman a chilled water bottle and a couple of Kleenexes.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” The woman wiped her eyes. “I only had enough credit on my card to cover a basic brake job. And now I have to replace the whole works and it’s more than three times as much.”
“Sorry.” Sophie didn’t know what else to say.
“And my husband—he got laid off last spring, and we—we don’t even have medical insurance.” She was sobbing again. “And we’ve—we’ve got doctor bills and we’ll h
ave hospital bills and now—now this.” She loudly blew her nose. “I don’t know what we’ll do and—”
“Anyone working this counter here?” a middle-aged man called out.
“I’m coming.” Sophie patted the woman’s shoulder. “I’m sure it looks worse than it is.”
The woman looked up with sad eyes. “You’re so lucky to be young and free. Sometimes I’d do anything to just turn back the clock.”
Sophie nodded. She wanted to say, “Yeah, me too,” but didn’t. Instead she went to help the man at the counter. To her relief, the shop continued to be busy. And that helped to pass the time. Occasionally she’d glance over to see the pregnant woman still sitting there with her feet propped up on the table. She was reading Better Homes and Gardens and probably dreaming of better days.
Finally it was a quarter to four and Marge came back. “Bless you for helping out like this,” Marge told her as she slid her purse into the cabinet under the counter. She smiled and pointed to a slightly off-colored tooth. “The dentist gave me this temporary cap. The permanent one is supposed to look nicer.”
“Better watch out for those Corn Nuts.”
Marge grinned, then glanced over at the pregnant woman. “Is that the red minivan?”
Sophie nodded. “She’s having a really hard day.”
“I can imagine.”
“She might need a little TLC.” Sophie grabbed up her bag. “I have to get to a yearbook meeting.”
“You run along, honey. And thanks!”
Sophie took one last look at the pregnant woman and dashed out of the tire store. Once outside, she gulped in a huge breath of fresh air. Whether it was the tire fumes or seeing that oversized belly, Sophie was feeling nauseated. And she so didn’t want to have to explain why she had suddenly hurled in her dad’s parking lot.
She got into her car, opened all the windows, and quickly drove away. She’d barely gone two blocks when she knew she could go no farther. She pulled to the curb, jumped out of the car, and hurled right onto the street. A school bus passed by slowly, and the kids inside were laughing and shrieking and pointing out their windows like she was the funniest thing since SpongeBob SquarePants.
Anything but Normal Page 5
