My phone vibrates and I check the message.
Mum: U don’t need 2 thank me. Not like I have 2 go 2 ur college grad. Lol.
Silence.
I blink. Look again. But the message is still there.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Hell, my own parents sometimes make “dumb blonde” jokes about me. But knowing hurt is coming, knowing that there’s likely to be pain, doesn’t make you prepared for it.
It doesn’t numb the sting.
Michael’s jaw drops so low, I can practically see his tonsils. I shove my phone in my pocket, desperate to hide the offending item from his view.
“That’s not very supporti—”
“Just leave it.” I put up one hand, using it as a barrier between Michael and myself.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says. Those damn eyes are boring into my soul again. How’d he get so good at that? “It’s just that it seems kind of an odd thing for a mother to say.”
“She’s joking. She wrote LOL.”
“She probably thinks it means Lots Of Love.”
This time, I give him a look that I hope is somewhere between the Wicked Witch of the East and Cruella de Vil in intensity. “Can I please hop in my car now?”
Michael steps forward, and just as I think he’s finally doing something nice as I asked, he grabs my cell from my pocket and starts rapidly typing into it.
“Give it back.” I lunge for it, but it’s no use. The guy is practically a giant. With beanstalk legs and a large fictional package …
“Please?” I jump up to try and wrench it from his hands, but all he has to do is subtly shift from his left foot to his right one to keep me from reaching my goal. I grab onto his arm and pull, trying not to notice how good he smells—like pine and soap and man—and wondering if he’s always smelt like that.
“Here.” He hands it back to me.
“What’d you say?” I scroll to the messages section of my phone, but the conversation with Mum isn’t there. “Where … did you delete that conversation?”
“Joke or not, you don’t need something toxic like that in your life.” He’s all serious again. “You shouldn’t let people drag you down, Stacey.”
“Just one more reason why I need you to step away from my car.” I try to lighten the mood. Neither of us is laughing.
“I put my number in your phone”—Michael folds his arms across his chest— “not that I expect you’ll need it. But in case you ever can’t get in touch with Kate while we’re on tour. Or if you need a birthday bacon and egg roll, or something.”
Or if I need a guy to give me a lift home after I have sex with some stranger I can’t remember.
“Thanks.” I pull open my car door and slide into the seat, the engine turning over easily once I start her up. I am fairly sure I’ll delete the number as soon as I get home. I can’t have Michael. He’s more than I deserve.
I wind down my window and wave to him. “It’s been nice knowing ya.” I wink. I know I’ll see him again. Hell, he’s in a band with my best friend’s boyfriend. I have tickets to their show next Wednesday. I’ll be lucky to avoid him.
I accelerate and slowly move away when he raises his hand in the universal stop gesture. I slam on the brakes, even though I’m not really going fast enough to justify it.
Michael does a slow jog and halts at my window, resting his hands on the door.
“For the record, I know however many things you do, you’re gonna be great at ’em.”
“Things?” I blink.
“Anything. Everything.” He smiles, and the grin says it all. No matter what career I choose, Michael thinks I can do it. “All the things.”
Warmth floods me, from head to toe. But they’re only words … My subconscious is a doubting bitch, apparently.
I smile and dip my head. “Thanks.”
“No worries.” He takes a step back and pats the roof of my car, sending me on my way. I accelerate once more, but I don’t miss his parting words as I pull out of the lot.
“Who names five kids all starting with the same letter, anyway?”
I keep driving.
“And congrats on the drama score!”
When I get home, I go through my car, taking wadded up notes from class and walking them into the garage to throw them in the bin.
It’s dark in the garage, and the smell of metal with a hint of garden permeates the air. I lift open the garbage lid to throw my never-to-be-needed-again notes in, and that’s when I see it, sitting on the top shelf beside a giant box marked Christmas Decorations. A small metal tin, covered in black marker, my name scrawled in shaky print on the front.
Memories flash through my mind. Camping down the south coast. Chasing Thunder, our old pet dog. Playing dolls with Shae.
I pull the box down, then wipe the thick layer of dust from my hands on my school skirt. Not like I need to keep it clean anymore.
I know exactly what’s inside. The letters our teacher, Mrs Harris, made our twelve-year-old selves write to our eighteen-year-old ones. I smile, remembering the big deal Mum and Dad had made of me then. Back when everything was easy and simple, when Dad wanted to keep this memory trapped in a box. I wonder if they even knew we still had it.
The box creaks as I open it, and I pull the yellowed paper out. It smells like crayon, and something else—age, perhaps. I step outside, leaning up against the car to read my words, a smile playing on my lips.
Dear Eighteen-Year-Old Stacey,
Hi! You’re such a grown-up now. I hope you’ve gotten a heap taller, ’cause if not, you’re never going to be able to reach the biscuits Mum keeps on the top shelf of the pantry, and that’d suck.
I also hope you’ve gotten boobs like Shae’s. She has good boobs. All the boys say so.
More than that, I hope you and Shae are still best friends and that you hang out all the time. You won’t make up worlds anymore, or play tip, but maybe you’ll do grown-up things together—go to the movies, or visit cafes and stuff.
You’ll be finished high school, and about to go to uni, like Scott, and maybe you can be a lawyer or something. Something that will let you buy whatever house you want, so you can stay close to Shae and Sean and Scott and Steve. Or, maybe you could just buy a really big house so we can all live together, but so that Shae and you don’t have to share a room anymore. Then you could have sleepovers.
I don’t think you’ll be married, but you’ll have a boyfriend. He’ll be handsome and he’ll kiss you and your knees will feel weak, like Shae says hers do when Danny kisses her. You won’t fall over, though.
I can’t wait to be Eighteen-Year-Old Stacey!
Love,
Twelve-Year-Old Stacey
My heart is lead. It tick-tocks like a pendulum inside my chest, a heavy weight pulsing inside me. I bite down on my lip to stop the stupid tears from falling.
I’m not going to university. I doubt I’ll ever earn enough money to buy a house, let alone one big enough for the whole family—but why would I want to? Shae barely speaks to me, and the rest of them I only see on special occasions. I sure as hell don’t have a boyfriend—in fact, the guy I’ve like had a girlfriend, and then got a gig touring the country. Plus, he’s everything good.
I am nothing but trouble.
I crumple the letter up and open my car door, shoving it in my glove box. That one piece of paper is hurting me so much, and yet I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It’s a reminder that once I thought I could be something. Do something.
I grab my bag from the floor of the car, and that’s when I see I see it: a small cardboard box sitting on the floor.
“Shit,” I curse and snatch it up. With shaking hands I lift the lid. A quick tilt south and the silver foil packet comes flying out. On one side, there’s a popped hole where a pill once had been.
On the other, there’s one very-much-still-intact, not-consumed pill.
The one that in my sleep-deprived state, I clearly forgot to take.
Doubl
e shit.
November 30
I FEEL like I’m in Groundhog Day. Only, it’s more like Groundhog Minute. And it goes a little something like this:
Check watch.
Wonder where Kate is.
Listen to girl in cubicle one vomit her guts up.
Be thankful that the Coal concert is in the venue next door, so after the time is up I won’t have to visit these toilets and possibly get vomit on my new—hot—shoes again.
Check watch.
Sip beer.
Repeat.
Okay, so I may be exaggerating a little. It has only been five minutes of waiting, but when you’re leaning up against a white tiled wall in a small-as-a-freaking-snail-shell toilet cubicle, waiting for the little stick you’ve peed on to change colour, five minutes sure feels like a long time.
I put my beer down on the toilet seat, and check my watch again. It has been five-point six minutes since I’d managed to perform what I am now referring to as a great feat of skill and athleticism—peeing into the world’s smallest cup so I could stick a piece of white plastic into it.
The minimum wait time was three minutes, but I hated the thought of checking and reading it wrong, or checking and it not being fully developed, so I’ve left the gross little cup on the floor until now.
But now, five minutes in, almost double the time the box said the little genies inside the stick need to work their pregnancy-foresight magic, I have no more excuses.
It is time.
I take another swig of my beer, and place the empty bottle in the tiny toilet bin. Sure, it may not have been the most hygienic place to have an early-evening beverage, but given my current state of nerves and the freak out I’d experienced since I found that stupid pill on the floor of my car, it seemed relevant. I was late. Not the good, fashionable kind—no, this was a late of the maybe-a-sperm-and-my-egg-got-it-on variety. It was only frustrating I hadn’t found the time alone in my multi-sibling household to test this out sooner.
I bend down and grab the top of the plastic stick from the cup. I give it a few tiny shakes, because ew, pee, and then hold it up in front of my face, my eyes scrunched shut.
I take a deep breath in, sucking it right to the bottom of my lungs, and let it go through pursed lips. I can do this. I can freaking do this. I can—
“Stacey? You in there?”
My heart leaps into my throat and I slam my body back against the door, as if she knows exactly what cubicle I’m in, exactly where to find me, and exactly what it is I’m doing. Just keep breathing …
“Stace? Babe?”
I tilt my head back and let it slap against the wooden door behind me.
“I saw you walk in, and you’ve, um … been here a while, and I wanted to know if you need me to get you a water or anything.” Kate pauses, and I swallow. “Or, like, some gastro meds?”
I drop the stick and spin around, flinging the door open and charging out into the basin area of the ladies room.
“I do not have gastro!” I say, my hands flying around me in defiance.
“Sorry, I just thought that maybe, you—”
“Just because a girl spends five minutes and”—quick watch check—“fifty-six seconds in the bathroom, she has to be having a diarrhoea episode?”
“No!” Kate’s hands fly in front of her face. “I wasn’t saying it had to be that, I just—”
A girl walks past her, her eyebrows nearing her hairline as she purses her lips. She is not impressed. She walks into cubicle three.
“Hmm?” I fold my arms across my chest.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Kate looks up at me with those blue pools of emotion from under her thick, dark lashes, and smiles. “And I was worried you had gastro.”
I slowly nod. More guilt washes over me. She’s had an embarrassing father incident recently, and is planning on losing her V-card tonight. I’m screaming at her for trying to get me some medication.
My mind runs through the options:
Tell her you’re a sleazy ho and slept with a guy you don’t remember, and so you’re doing a pregnancy test.
Admit that you have gastro, endure severe teasing, but come out of it skank-scent-free.
Say you’re in there for a friend she doesn’t know … and seriously hope the girl in cubicle one is over her gastro-vomiting stint and that you don’t have to follow through in a support role.
“Well, I’m fine.” I nod. Denial it is. Seems like the easiest route to take. “Hey, so how are things with your dad?”
Kate runs a hand through her long brown hair and it falls back into place perfectly. Looking closer, I can see the cracks in her façade. The purple bruises under her eyes. The way her lips press together before she speaks.
“It’s … complicated.” Kate pauses, looking at herself in the mirror. She grabs a compact out of her handbag and powders her cheeks. “And tonight’s the big night on top of all that.”
“Eee!” I squeal, grabbing her arms and pulling the puff away from her face. “I’m so freaking excited for you! Are you nervous?”
Red flushes over her face, and I mentally kick myself. Of course she’s nervous.
“You are going to be fine.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. It’s hard to believe that my best friend is a virgin, and I could be a pregnant. Ew. To a guy I don’t know. Double ew.
Kate looks at the floor, pressing the toe of her ballet flat and rubbing it into a spot. “I’ve just got a lot going on right now.”
“I know, hon. I can’t even imagine, with this, and your dad drunk, and—” Kate takes in a sharp breath, and I bite my lip. Another girl struts into the bathroom. God, this Coal band really are popular if they’re attracting skanks of the fake-boobed, botoxed-lipped proportion. “Look, you’re gonna nail it tonight. Just relax, remember to breathe, think sexy thoughts, and hey, maybe go down on him first, so he’s lubed as well as you.”
“Ew!” Kate groans.
“Excuse me, are you still using that cubicle?” the girl asks, hands on her clearly visible hips.
“Yeah, just a sec.” I give Kate one final squeeze as Booby and Lippy makes her move toward my cubicle.
Kate walks out the door and I turn and slam the cubicle door in Booby’s face, clicking the lock shut behind me. It’s now been at least eight minutes. I can’t hide from this anymore.
I bend down to pick up the stick, and a tiny part of me, connected to my heart? It dies.
It dives off a cliff.
It falls through endless space, with no respite in sight, and then it crashes on the craggy rocks below, impaling itself.
I hold the white piece of plastic level with my eyeline. My hand shakes, and I try with everything I have to keep it solid. To keep it steady.
I blink, twice, trying to focus on the little white stick with the thin pink lines on it.
Two lines.
Pregnant.
My knees shake, literally shake, like they do in movies, and I’m no longer looking at a stick. All of a sudden I’m on the cold, tiled floor, one hand in a pile of suspicious wet substance, the other holding the tiny white stick high above my head to prevent contamination.
“I’m fucking pregnant,” I whisper.
Everything goes black.
IF SEVEN shots of tequila had gotten me into this mess, I didn’t see any good reason why it couldn’t get me out of it. I needed to forget.
“Tequila, thanks.” I hand over a note to the bartender, and he nods, turns away, then slams a glass down in front of me.
I pick it up and walk to the side, then take a sip. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat, thick and acidic, clawing its way down through my insides. Ugh. That tastes horrid.
I look back over at the bar where people line up, pressing for the bartender’s attention. I spot the bottle of Patron on the shelf, the no smoking signs, the responsible service of alcohol signs, the—
The sticker. Right next to the bottle of tequila, funnily enough.
Drink
ing when pregnant can harm your baby.
Frick. Really, God? You’re going to guilt trip me now?
I have no idea what to do with this stupid not-even-real-yet human, but I don’t know that I can murder it. I raise my glass to take another sip, but the stupid sign catches one of the lights and flashes, mocking me, taunting me.
I press my body up against the wall. After a quick look to either side, I spill the drink on my shirt, then dip my fingers in the glass and pat a little behind my ears for good measure. Yes, I am crazy, but I don’t want to drink—because I’m pregnant—but I do want Kate to think I’ve been drinking—because I don’t want her to know.
I wonder if I can get drunk by osmosis? I silently pray for a yes.
Shaking my head, I search for Kate in the crowd. She’s right where I left her, her eyes fixed on the stage. God, she’s a good girlfriend.
I push my way through the crowd, but it’s hot in here. My arms stick to my sides, and my vision blurs in and out. My head pounds, and I clutch my stomach. I turned down tequila for you, womb spawn! Quit it with the dizzy-making.
“Are you okay?” Kate puts her hand on my arm. I didn’t realise I’d been swaying, but as soon as she steadies me, everything stops moving. Lesson learned.
“I … fine,” I stutter out. She raises her eyebrows, and I ignore her. She’s never been one for drinking, and I’m sure she’s judging me, but I don’t mind. Right now, I’d rather her judge me on booze over babies.
Minutes later, Dave & The Glories come on stage, and Kate lets out an almighty cheer that makes something in my heart snap. Seeing her, so proud of Dave—someone who loves her—someone she’s going to travel across the country for …
I look up on stage for Michael, and there he is: striking his notes on the bass guitar like it’s so freaking easy, so second nature to him to make an instrument sound that good. His eyes roam over the audience, floating over all the girls who cheer the name of his band.
Eleven Weeks Page 5
