But I Love Him by Amanda Grace Page A

don’t even care that a guard sees me pull out of the gravel lot, rocks flying behind my little car. I know he wrote down my plate. I know I will get detention for this. It seems silly, detention. Childish. Do they really think I would care?
    I drive to Aberdeen, the next town over where no one will recognize me, and find a drug store. I’m ashamed of what I’m doing. I know I’m eighteen. It could be worse. But this is so wrong.
    I buy three tests, just to be safe. I don’t want to have to come back if one doesn’t work right. I don’t want to stand at the register, praying the clerk uses a bag you can’t see through. I hate every second of it.
    My stomach is twisting and turning so hard it’s painful.
    This can’t happen. It will ruin everything. It will ruin me, break Connor, and spite my mother. She’ll hate me for sure now.
    I take the tests to McDonald’s and park in the lot, staring at those stupid golden arches that seem too bright and perky, that seem to be mocking me.
    I’m frozen. If I go inside and take this test and it says positive, it will mean so many things. Things I can’t handle. It will mean my life is really over. It will mean I can never be the person I used to be. I can never return to who I once was.
    And I will have to tell him and I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I can put that on his shoulders when they already sink with the weight of the world he carries. I don’t think I can look him in the eyes and watch the disappointment and despair I’m sure will be there. A baby doesn’t deserve a reaction like that. A reaction like I’m feeling right now—the utter dread and fear. A baby is supposed to be a happy thing, not a death knell.
    An hour passes before I finally stuff all three boxes into my purse. If I don’t do this now, I never will. I have to know. Not knowing is killing me.
    I walk across the tile floor as if it’s the plank, and these tests are my scarlet letter for all to see.
    The bathroom is empty. I take the big handicap stall and hang my purse on the door. I set a box on the top of the paper dispenser, my hand a little shaky, and then I slide my jeans down and sit down on the toilet.
    And then I see it … and then I know.
    I’m not pregnant.
    The relief I feel is so swift and intense I collapse and bury my face in my arms, and rest on my knees and sob.
    All alone, in the McDonald’s bathroom.
    April 30
    Eight Months
    For two days, I skipped school. Two days I avoided everything. I stayed in bed almost all day, the curtains drawn, the covers pulled up to my chin.
    But I know I have to go back to class before I miss too much. Before they call my mom.
    I bring a stool into the tiny bathroom in his apartment and sit on it under the harsh light, and stare at the angry blue bruise under my eye.
    Gingerly, I touch the darkest spot and wince. It’s still tender even though it’s been a few days. It’s turning a grotesque shade of yellow around the edges.
    I dig through a bag of makeup, trying to find the best concealer. I choose the weird green goop and pat it under my eye, then follow it up with foundation and powder. I just need to cover it up so no one will see it. I’ll keep my head down and get through class. The bruise will fade and no one will ever know it was there.
    I look up after I dab another layer of powder under my eye.
    It’s not an improvement. I look like I’ve spackled pancake batter on my face.
    I take a washcloth and wipe it off, but the pressure makes my whole face throb.
    I look down at the linoleum for a moment and take a few deep breaths to will away the emotions welling up in my chest. This is stupid. I need to just cover it up and get to school.
    I can do this.
    I grip the sink and stare straight back at my reflection.
    And I don’t recognize myself.
    Before I can stop it, my lip starts quivering. A tiny bit at first, then it’s shaking and I have to bite it. My vision shimmers, and then I see the big tears brim and roll down