her basket.
The male cashier waved at me as his line cleared. "I can help you," he said.
I shook my head. "I'm good."
His confused look was interrupted by the lipstick girls bearing cans of soda.
I should have told Rodney. He'd have breezed over and handed this guy the boxes without a second thought.
When the lady with the ads left, I stepped up close to the register and set my purchases down at the end of the conveyor belt. The cashier picked one up and looked at it. "Are these the ones that are a dollar off?"
I blinked at her. "I don't know."
She picked up the phone next to her register. "Let me have someone check."
I spoke too quickly. "I don't care."
Now she looked at one of the predictors. She looked at me. Crap. I hadn't meant to draw attention.
"It's for my mom," I said.
The cashier squinted at my pile of products. "She might care."
I squirmed. "She'll care more if I'm late to class."
As they passed by, cracking open their sodas, both girls looked at the predictor in the cashier's hand. Just ring it up, I thought. Just put it in a bag. When she finally did, I realized the bag was translucent.
Outside the store, I wrapped the bag around and around the boxes and then shoved them in the top of my backpack. I couldn't take them home where my mother might find them, and I couldn't put them in my locker where Rodney kept his book for trig. Maybe after I talked to him about it, but certainly not before.
My gym locker would work. As I walked to school, the fog was lifting, only shading the passing cars as if through a veil. But instead of feeling relieved, I just felt exposed. Even if no one knew what I was doing today, I still didn't want to be seen.
In the locker room, I stashed the predictors and the pregnancy tests underneath my long gym pants. It was still too warm to be wearing those anyway. Unless they did some spontaneous locker search, no one would find the tests there.
I unwrapped one of the predictors, pulled out the stick and the instructions, and carried them up my sleeve into the bathroom. I passed a couple girls coming in to change for first period gym, but if they noticed anything, they didn't speak.
I unwrapped the predictor with shaking hands, peed on the stick, and stayed in the stall, checking the time on my cell phone and waiting the two minutes for the results.
Only one line appeared. I wasn't ovulating yet.
Relief rushed through me, followed by a wave of guilt. I wanted to be ovulating, didn't I? The longer I had to wait, the longer Mom had to suffer.
But I'd also have longer to talk to Rodney about it—longer to figure out exactly the right thing to say.
I held the stick with two fingers. I couldn't flush it—it was too long, and probably wouldn't even go down. Instead, I wrapped it in the instructions and stuck it in the little metal box inside the stall where you're supposed to put used pads. A janitor probably wouldn't look too hard at the contents of that. Plus, if they did find the stick, there wouldn't be any way to tie it back to me.
It's not like anyone was going to run a DNA test on the locker room trash.
Rodney had chess club again at lunch, so I spent the day thinking about what I was going to say to him. I drummed my fingernails on the classroom desks, rehearsing. You know my mom has been trying to get pregnant forever. You know how hard that's been on my family. Well, I was thinking . . .
In history class, I took furious notes. By the end of the period, I'd written down about every word of the lecture, but I didn't remember a bit of it. Instead, these words kept running through my mind: Hey, we're friends, right? So let's have sex and give my mother a baby.
Shoot me now. Rodney was a sensible guy. There had to be a way to explain this that didn't sound like he needed to check me into a psyche ward.
I was no better off at the end of the day, when I found him waiting at my locker.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he said back. He didn't even look up—just finished
The male cashier waved at me as his line cleared. "I can help you," he said.
I shook my head. "I'm good."
His confused look was interrupted by the lipstick girls bearing cans of soda.
I should have told Rodney. He'd have breezed over and handed this guy the boxes without a second thought.
When the lady with the ads left, I stepped up close to the register and set my purchases down at the end of the conveyor belt. The cashier picked one up and looked at it. "Are these the ones that are a dollar off?"
I blinked at her. "I don't know."
She picked up the phone next to her register. "Let me have someone check."
I spoke too quickly. "I don't care."
Now she looked at one of the predictors. She looked at me. Crap. I hadn't meant to draw attention.
"It's for my mom," I said.
The cashier squinted at my pile of products. "She might care."
I squirmed. "She'll care more if I'm late to class."
As they passed by, cracking open their sodas, both girls looked at the predictor in the cashier's hand. Just ring it up, I thought. Just put it in a bag. When she finally did, I realized the bag was translucent.
Outside the store, I wrapped the bag around and around the boxes and then shoved them in the top of my backpack. I couldn't take them home where my mother might find them, and I couldn't put them in my locker where Rodney kept his book for trig. Maybe after I talked to him about it, but certainly not before.
My gym locker would work. As I walked to school, the fog was lifting, only shading the passing cars as if through a veil. But instead of feeling relieved, I just felt exposed. Even if no one knew what I was doing today, I still didn't want to be seen.
In the locker room, I stashed the predictors and the pregnancy tests underneath my long gym pants. It was still too warm to be wearing those anyway. Unless they did some spontaneous locker search, no one would find the tests there.
I unwrapped one of the predictors, pulled out the stick and the instructions, and carried them up my sleeve into the bathroom. I passed a couple girls coming in to change for first period gym, but if they noticed anything, they didn't speak.
I unwrapped the predictor with shaking hands, peed on the stick, and stayed in the stall, checking the time on my cell phone and waiting the two minutes for the results.
Only one line appeared. I wasn't ovulating yet.
Relief rushed through me, followed by a wave of guilt. I wanted to be ovulating, didn't I? The longer I had to wait, the longer Mom had to suffer.
But I'd also have longer to talk to Rodney about it—longer to figure out exactly the right thing to say.
I held the stick with two fingers. I couldn't flush it—it was too long, and probably wouldn't even go down. Instead, I wrapped it in the instructions and stuck it in the little metal box inside the stall where you're supposed to put used pads. A janitor probably wouldn't look too hard at the contents of that. Plus, if they did find the stick, there wouldn't be any way to tie it back to me.
It's not like anyone was going to run a DNA test on the locker room trash.
Rodney had chess club again at lunch, so I spent the day thinking about what I was going to say to him. I drummed my fingernails on the classroom desks, rehearsing. You know my mom has been trying to get pregnant forever. You know how hard that's been on my family. Well, I was thinking . . .
In history class, I took furious notes. By the end of the period, I'd written down about every word of the lecture, but I didn't remember a bit of it. Instead, these words kept running through my mind: Hey, we're friends, right? So let's have sex and give my mother a baby.
Shoot me now. Rodney was a sensible guy. There had to be a way to explain this that didn't sound like he needed to check me into a psyche ward.
I was no better off at the end of the day, when I found him waiting at my locker.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he said back. He didn't even look up—just finished
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