Butterflies in May Page 11

  “So how are things going?” Ms. Connor asks. I’m in her office, which is so tiny there’s room only for a desk and two chairs. Her office is at the end of a corridor near the chemistry labs. I’ve walked past it countless times, but never noticed it before.

  “Pretty good.”

  “Where should we start today?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Well, how about your boyfriend—Matt, right? What’s he like?”

  Just the mention of his name makes me smile. “Matt’s not like most guys. . .” I want to explain this isn’t some high school crush. It’s The Real Thing. I mean, I could be in a room with 100 guys, and I’d be drawn to Matt. “He’s different.”

  “How is he different?” Ms. Connor asks.

  All of a sudden, my mind goes blank. “He’s funny. . . he makes me laugh. . . and he’s been supportive about all this.” Not at first, but I don’t tell Ms. Connor that. That’s in the past.

  “How does he feel about the pregnancy?”

  “He was shocked at first. He wanted me to have an abortion, but I couldn’t.” I look down and study my shoes. “He thinks we should give the baby up for adoption.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  It’s been on my mind a lot lately. I know I need to make a decision. “I guess adoption is the only way, but. . . I don’t know.”

  “Why are you reluctant?” Ms. Connor asks.

  “I don’t know if I can carry a baby for nine months and then give it away.”

  “Do you want to keep the baby?”

  “Part of me wants to, yes,” I say, and for some reason I start to cry.

  Ms. Connor hands me a box of tissues. “Ali, before you were pregnant, did you ever think about what your life after high school would be like?”

  “Sure.”

  “What was it going to be like?” she asks.

  “I was planning to go to college full time, get a degree in journalism, and then work for a newspaper or maybe a TV station.”

  “Have you thought about what would happen if you kept the baby?”

  I shrug and study the jar of lemon drops on her desk.

  “This baby may push your goals and dreams aside,” she says. “Are you prepared for that to happen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ms. Connor pulls out some books and brochures from a cabinet near her desk. I notice a few pictures on the shelf behind her desk. They’re all of a little girl with dark, curly hair. She looks about three years old. “There’s a lot you need to think about,” she says. “I’ll be honest with you. It’ll be hard to go to college full time and care for a baby. Babies need constant attention. And if you had planned to live in a dorm on campus, that’ll be impossible.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you considered the costs involved?”

  “A little.” I pop a lemon drop into my mouth and bite down hard. The fact is, I haven’t thought about the costs at all. All things considered, they don’t seem that relevant to me right now.

  “There are so many things you’ll need—diapers, formula, clothes, medicine, medical care. You also need to consider the cost of rent if you plan to live away from home, and factor in day care expenses and tuition. Of course, you may get help from your parents, your boyfriend, maybe even his parents. But you need to find out now what they’re willing and able to provide, and whether it’s in the form of money or hands-on help with the baby. You have a lot to think through.”

  Ms. Connor hands me a stack of books and brochures. “What I want you to do is make two lists. On the first one, list the pros and cons of keeping your baby. On the second, I want you to list the pros and cons of adoption. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s meet again next Monday and go over your lists.” Ms. Connor opens her appointment book. “Shall we meet during lunch again?”

  “Sure.” I shove the books in my backpack. “Is that your daughter in the pictures?” I ask.

  Ms. Connor pulls one of the frames down from a shelf. She smiles. “Yes. Her name is Zoe.”

  “She’s cute,” I say.

  Ms. Connor smiles. “Thanks. . . She’s a handful.” I wonder about Ms. Connor. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring, and there are no pictures of a Mr. Connor in sight.

  When I open the door to the hallway, Kelly, the senior I saw at Planned Parenthood the first time I was there, is leaning against the wall.

  “Hi,” I say, wondering if Kelly is there for the same reason.

  “Hi,” she says, and looks away.

  Just then Ms. Connor steps out of her office.

  “Kelly, hi. Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ms. Connor says. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear the door to her office close. Kelly could be there for any reason—any reason at all. Still, I didn’t miss the fact that she’s wearing a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, size extra large.

  “Do you think she’s pregnant?” Monica asks.

  “I don’t know for sure,” I say. I called Monica right after getting home from school. “Kelly could have been there for any reason.” I wish I hadn’t said anything. I hate the idea of everyone talking about me behind my back at school, and I know they already are. It’s pretty hard to conceal my stomach in the locker room, where there’s no privacy. Some of the girls are already starting to guess. I see them staring at my waist and whispering. I have to get out of P.E. somehow.

  “Did she look pregnant?” Monica asks.

  “I don’t know. . . It’s hard to tell.” I don’t mention the oversized sweatshirt.

  “Anyway, what’s going on with you?” I ask. I still feel bad because all we talk about is me. Me, me, me. Even I’m bored talking only about me.

  “Well. . .”

  I can tell by the tone of her voice that something is definitely up. “What?”

  “I went out with someone new over Thanksgiving.”

  “And you didn’t tell me? Who?”

  “Kyle.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Stepbrother,” Monica says, putting the emphasis on “step.”

  “Whoa.”

  “You’re the one who was always so high on him, you know,” Monica says, defensively.

  “I know. He’s a great guy. . .”

  “But?”

  “I’m just surprised. I mean, he’s your brother, Mon—”

  “Stepbrother.”

  “So. . . where’d you go?”

  “A movie.”

  “And. . .?”

  “And afterwards, we were sitting in his car, letting the engine warm up, and he gave me this look. I said ‘what?’ and he said, ‘you,’ and then he leaned over and kissed me.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “I thought you couldn’t stand him.”

  Monica laughs. “We’re getting along much better now.”

  “Your mom must be freaking.”

  “No kidding. She and Steve would be hysterical, so we’re not telling them. They just think we’re getting along.”

  “Wow, Monica. . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I’m seeing someone whom I think is. . . very special.”

  “Who also happens to be your stepbrother.”

  “You make it more complicated than it is.”

  “Mon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It is complicated.”

  The next morning, Mom drives me to Dr. Bishop’s office for my monthly checkup. I hate these visits. Everyone stares, silently clucking their tongues and shaking their heads. It’s hard to blend in when the majority of the women in the waiting room are in their thirties, drive Volvo station wagons, and wear wedding rings. At the clinic, at least there were girls my age.

  When the nurse calls me, I follow her into an examining room. Mom stays in the waiting area. The nurse checks my weight and blood pressure, then asks me to pee in a cup
so she can make sure my sugar and protein levels are okay. The nurse leaves me in the examining room, and a few minutes later, Dr. Bishop walks in carrying my chart.

  “How are you doing?” she asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Well, it certainly looks that way. Your weight is good, blood pressure too. . .” she says, looking over my chart. “Have you felt the baby move yet?”

  I shake my head. “Should I be worried?”

  Dr. Bishop is quick to smile. “You should feel something any day now. Why don’t you lie down so we can see how you’re doing.”

  Dr. Bishop measures my stomach and then uses a special instrument to listen for the baby’s heartbeat. “There it is,” she says. Lub, dub, lub, dub, lub, dub. As soon as I hear it, the tears start coming. And as weird as it may seem, that’s when the reality of it all hits me. I’m having a baby. I’m really having a baby. It’s amazing—it really is.

  Later that night, I’m lying on my bed, leaning against a pillow. I have a yellow legal pad and my favorite blue pen in front of me. Like a good little girl, I’m making my lists for Ms. Connor. The list of cons for keeping the baby goes on and on and on. No surprise there. I’m only seventeen. I have no job. No money. No home of my own. I don’t know anything about babies. I want to go to college and live in a dorm. Matt doesn’t want this baby. I have only one entry under pros—I want my baby.

  Why wouldn’t I? It’s in my body for nine months. It’s a part of me. But when I look at the list, I realize the most logical choice is to give the baby to the Gardners.

  I toss my notepad on the floor and flop back on the pillow. I feel a twinge—just the slightest feeling—like wings flapping inside.

  I sit very still, hoping to feel it again, but nothing happens. Then, just when I think I must have imagined it, it happens again.

  I lay a hand on my stomach and rub it. “Hey, how are you doing in there?” I can’t help but smile. “I’m your mom.” At least, I think I want to be.

  The first thing Ms. Connor asks me on Monday is whether I finished my lists. I tell her I’m still working on them, which is totally untrue. Since I don’t have the lists, Ms. Connor suggests we talk about my options and my personal goals. Before I leave, she gives me more information on prenatal care and adoption. She also gives me this book about girls who decided to raise their babies on their own.

  “Don’t forget to work on those lists, Ali,” she calls after me. Whatever.

  We’ve decided to meet twice a week now, usually at lunchtime. During one of our meetings, Ms. Connor says I should tell my teachers I’m pregnant. At first, I don’t want to. It’s not any of their business, and being pregnant has not affected my brain. I can still write 500-word essays, take tests, and edit The Voice, thank you very much. But Ms. Connor insists, so I do it, partly because I like her and partly because I want to get her off my back. It goes easier than I expected, and everyone’s fine about it, except for my business teacher, Mr. Fitz, who’s a jerk.

  I was feeling really bad one morning, so, as usual, I’d brought saltines to class, but Mr. Fitz told me that eating was not allowed in his classroom and there would be no exceptions, not even for me. So I ran out of his class to throw up. The next day, Ms. Connor pulled him aside, and now he overlooks my crackers, but shoots me disapproving looks every other opportunity he gets.

  After school, Monica comes over to my house to hang out for a while. I’m eating cookie dough ice cream directly from a carton and checking out my profile in my bedroom mirror while Monica reads from the prenatal book.

  “Let’s see,” she says. “Month four. . . fatigue, constipation, headaches, increased appetite.”

  “Shut up. . . Isn’t there anything to look forward to this month?”

  She looks up for a second, then turns back to the book and mumbles to herself. After a few minutes, she says, “Here it is. . . end to nausea and vomiting, decreased urinary frequency, and continued breast enlargement.”

  “Well, that’s more like it,” I say, scraping the last of the ice cream from the carton. “You know. . . Andy was looking at me funny today. . . Do you think he’s guessed? Because I really don’t thinks it’s that obvious, do you?”

  Monica looks up. “Duh,” she says, which kind of hurts my feelings, even though I don’t say so.

  But Monica knows me too well, and her voice softens. “Look, Ali, I’m sorry, but get real. Either you’re pregnant or you swallowed a very small pumpkin.”

  Chapter 14

  The second Saturday of December is the day my father searches for the perfect Christmas tree. And my mother, who hates to bake, insists we make cookies because of something I said when I was five years old that I don’t remember. The story goes like this: My mother and I are baking Christmas cookies together. I’m only five and insist on doing everything myself. There’s flour everywhere, the kitchen is a wreck, and my mother is feeling really, really grouchy, when I look up and tell her this is the best day of my life. Thus began a family tradition.

  This Saturday is no different. I wake up, pull on some clothes, and find my mom in the kitchen with all the baking stuff lined up on the counter ready to go. My dad’s already left to get the tree. I’m making some toast, and my mom’s at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper and drinking coffee as she always does. “Niles Sherman,” she says. “Isn’t he a friend of Matt?”

  “Yeah,” I say, taking a bite of toast.

  “He was in a car accident last night,” she says, still reading. “Three passengers were with him. Two were killed.”

  “What?” I’m thinking there must be some mistake, but I sit in the chair across from her and she hands me the paper so I can read it myself.

  TWO TEENS DIE FROM LAKEVIEW CRASH

  A sixteen-year-old girl from North View High School became the second teen to die after a crash Friday night, when a speeding car carrying her and three others careened out of control. . . Tory Bloom died late Friday night at St. Mary’s Hospital. Her friend, Jenna Kingsley, died on impact. The driver, Niles Sherman, and another passenger, Nick Pedraza, suffered minor injuries. . . The car was traveling west on Lakeview Avenue at a high speed when the car spun out of control.

  Mom puts a hand on my shoulder as I finish reading the article. “It’s such a shame,” she says. “Those kids are so young. . . and Niles. . .”

  She shakes her head. “How will he live with this the rest of his life?” I sit there stunned, trying to process what I just read. “Ali. . . are you all right? Did you know all these kids?” “Yeah. . . Niles and Nick, yes, and Tory, well sort of. . . I didn’t know Jenna.”

  I picture Tory and Niles the last time they were at the coffee shop. I can see Tory in the parking lot, singing and dancing, the sun shining off her hair. It’s hard to imagine she’s dead. Though I met Tory only twice, I feel like I knew her. On the front page of the newspaper, there’s a picture of her, looking right at me, looking so alive. It’s hard to imagine she’s gone. Just like that. Dead.

  I call Matt right away. He’s getting ready to leave for work. He didn’t know. “I’ll call you later,” he says. Then Monica calls, and we talk for an hour. I didn’t know them well, except for Niles, but I can’t get it out of my mind all day.

  My mom asks if we should just forget baking, but for some reason, I want to keep busy. So we roll out cookie dough, cut out shapes, and put them in the oven just as we always do. I tell Mom about the day Niles came into the Java House with Tory—how they drank their coffee in the parking lot, and how Tory started singing and did this dance. I tell her how Niles tattooed Tory’s name on the inside of his wrist. And then we talk about how short life is and how everything can change so fast.

  Then my dad comes home with the tree. “This is the best one yet,” he says, dragging it through the back door, the house filling with the scent of pine. My mom tells him what happened, and he drops everything to read the story. Even though he never met Niles or Tory or any of the others, I can tell the news really affects him. Lat
er, while I’m frosting cookies, he kisses the top of my head and stands there watching me, as if I’m going to disappear any second.

  Later, he goes out to the garage to look for Christmas lights. Mom and I start to clean up the kitchen when I remember about the locket.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “What?” Mom asks.

  “I found this locket in your jewelry box with a picture of a baby and a lock of black hair, and I was wondering. . .”

  “Whether it was you?” Mom’s face goes white. She picks up a dish towel and wipes her hands slowly. Then she sits down on a stool next to the kitchen counter. “Ali. . . there’s something I need to tell you. I should have told you a long time ago.” She looks out the kitchen window.

  It’s starting to snow.

  “I had a baby when I was nineteen.”

  “You. . . had a baby? You?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. . .” She shakes her head. “It happened so long ago. . . it was water under the bridge, and I‘d spent so many years shutting it out. When you told me you were pregnant, it was all so painful for me, like I was reliving my own first time.”

  “What happened?”

  “I gave him up. . . It was hard. . . but it was for the best.”

  Everything’s so clear now. “I get it. You think I should give up the baby because that’s what you did.”

  “I was too young to take care of a baby. . .”

  “So you took the easy way out.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that, young lady,” Mom snaps. “If you want to be treated like an adult, start acting like one.”

  “I am trying to act like an adult, but you won’t let me. You want to make all my decisions, and you don’t care how I feel! How could you do it? How could you give your baby away?”

  Mom slaps me across the face, something she’s never done before. I can’t believe it. I touch my cheek—it’s burning—and all I can think is that I have to get out of there. I fling open the kitchen door and leave. I have no idea where I’m going, but I’m going there as fast as I can. I walk six blocks, and my sides are starting to ache, but I don’t care. I just keep on going.