Within Arm's Reach by Ann Napolitano

that were made before you, and don’t repeat them.
    My uncle Pat, who alternately tried to run away from, please, and horrify my grandfather right up until his death, teaches me that I need to come to terms with my mother. I do not want her to own my life in any way . I am still working on that.
    My uncle Johnny is a prime example of how you need to hold on to the essence of who you are. He was mischievous and wild as a boy. He spent a portion of nearly every afternoon seated at the dining-room table with his hands folded in front of him and his feet flat on the floor thinking about what he’d done this time under Gram’s watchful eye. But he didn’t like school and found it hard to concentrate, so when the Vietnam war started, without telling anyone, Johnny joined the army. In the pictures taken of him the day he left, he is a skinny eighteen-year-old boy with a wickedly charming grin. By the time he came back home, the fire was completely stamped out of him. He is among the most serious, unhappy adults I have ever met.
    But Meggy has the lesson I need to learn from now. She married Uncle Travis when she was twenty because she got pregnant. I don’t think they were ever in love. They are united in resentment, and eternally disgusted with each other for not standing up and demanding better.
    It is Meggy I am thinking about when I finally tell Joel. We are in bed with the lights out. We have just had sex because we always do when he sleeps over. Otherwise, what is the point of him staying the night?
    I cup my hands over my abdomen. When I press down on the center I feel a solid area the size of my palm. I say exactly what I have said to different men so many times in the past. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
    I listen to Joel’s breath catch, and then grow shallow. In my experience, men hate to be broken up with. They’re usually not upset about breaking up, but about being on the receiving end of the decision. He says, “What do you mean? I thought we were having fun.”
    “The sex is good,” I admit.
    “It’s better than good.”
    I smile in the darkness. I am sure that for all her scary qualities, Margaret, with her no-nonsense demeanor and helmet of red hair, is not a great lover. Then I remember what I am doing, and why this breakup is different.
    I take a breath and say it. “I’m pregnant.”
    This is the first time I’ve said the words out loud. The news has lived only in my head for weeks. It sounds massive in the air, and irrevocable. I immediately want to take it back. That’s all I can think: I want to take it back.
    I don’t like the sound of the words. They are momentous and stupid and clichéd. “I’m pregnant” is a line right out of every soap opera and sappy movie. And that’s not me, I don’t want to be the girl who has just said that and now waits for the boy’s reaction. I want to explain myself and my situation better. But what else can I say? The language is inadequate. I am trapped by the words, and by this moment. I am that girl, and I am me. And my life has just changed.
    Joel says, in a very cautious voice, “Are you sure?”
    I nod in the darkness. I can’t speak.
    “Are you one hundred percent certain? I mean, did you take one of those over-the-counter tests, or did you go to the doctor? Because those home tests aren’t reliable.”
    “I went to the doctor. I’m almost three months.”
    Joel is lying on his back beside me. He has not moved. Still, his voice seems to come from farther away than the next pillow. “Are you sure it’s mine?”
    “There’s no need to be unkind,” I say. “I don’t want you to be involved. I really don’t. I just thought you should hear the news from me.”
    “You’re going to keep it?”
    I shift my weight. I raise myself up onto my elbows, so he is already behind me. This is the only answer I have been sure of, from the moment I watched the line on the first pregnancy test turn pink. It seemed, surprisingly,