Butterflies in May Page 3

  Monica and I make an unlikely pair, but somehow we’ve never grown apart. Monica is fun, strong, and loyal. She’s not the kind of girl who would go out with your ex-crush or talk about you behind your back. We met in fourth grade when she moved into a house on Bryden Lane, six blocks away from me. We sat next to each other that year in Miss Pierpont’s class, and even then, most of the girls hated her. Monica is flat-out gorgeous. She has full lips, long dark hair, and the kind of body that guys notice immediately. Her looks never bothered me, but other girls are either jealous or intimidated by them. As for the guys, they really go for Monica, and over the years, she’s acquired a reputation built more on gossip and speculation than on truth. This is partly due to the fact that Monica goes out with a lot of boys. She has this master list of all the boys in her life with whom she’s been more than just friends. Niles was number 15. A lot of the kids at school think Monica sleeps around, but in fact she’s still a virgin.

  My classes this semester aren’t that exciting. Government class is a bore. Ditto for business. P.E. is a necessary evil, unless we play volleyball. Journalism is the only class that’s even remotely interesting. This year, Monica and I have one class together—first period AP English. Niles Sherman is in that class, too, which proves that you can never know anyone completely. I never would have taken Niles for the school type. I’ve never seen him with a backpack—he usually carries a notebook and has to borrow a pen. But in AP English, he aced the first pop quiz when everyone else bombed it. Our teacher is an older, bird-like woman with wild, frizzy orange hair. Her name is Mrs. Frye, but everyone calls her Carrot Top. (Not to her face, of course.) Monica thinks she dyes her hair, but it’s hard to imagine anyone actually paying money for that color.

  Carrot Top is a freak about Shakespeare. She talks about bardolatry and makes air quotes whenever she says that word. “Bardolatry,” she says, “is simply a fancy word for ‘the worship of Shakespeare.’” (More air quotes.) Niles raises his hand one day and tells Carrot Top she can stop making air quotes. “We get it,” he says.

  Carrot Top begins every class with a sort of pep talk/sermon. “We owe Shakespeare everything,” she says passionately. “He taught us to understand the human experience.” She often refers to a thick, well-worn book written by an expert, and it’s all about Shakespeare and his plays. She reads excerpts from it and waves it around like it’s a sacred text. I wonder if Carrot Top is a “bardolatrist,” if there is such a word.

  Carrot Top, who loves words as much as Shakespeare did, challenges everyone to bring in a new word once a week so we can build our vocabularies. You get extra credit if you find a word she doesn’t already know. So far this year, no one has bothered. She also has us write in our journals every day, so we can “find our souls” (a direct quote, I swear). She promises not to read our journals. I usually stick to safe topics, but Monica writes about Carrot Top. Her hair is a recurring subject.

  By the middle of October, my period is due again. I have wicked PMS, my breasts feel sore, and for the first time ever, I’m actually looking forward to having my period. I hope it comes in a flood. One morning, I’m certain I’m having cramps. I go to the bathroom right after my first class, only to find out that my period hasn’t started. I can’t believe it. I wait a day. . . another. . . and another.

  On Friday, I’m officially five days late and starting to panic. I sit through classes the rest of the day, mechanically taking notes, but all I can think is, what if. . .

  We’ve always been careful, except for that one time. We’d been messing around, and Matt didn’t have a condom. We hadn’t planned to actually do anything, but one thing led to another, and we got carried away. It felt so good to do it without a condom. And right before Matt came, he pulled out. I worried at first, but Matt convinced me there was no way I could get pregnant. It was easy to rationalize. In sex ed, they say you can only conceive one week out of a month. So what are the chances? I think about that the rest of the day, and watch the clock in each of my classes as if my life depends on it. When the final bell rings, I’m out of there. Matt gives me a lift home on his way to work, and I hope my parents aren’t home yet. There’s no way I’m taking a pregnancy test while they’re around.

  When Matt pulls into the driveway, the garage door is down, which means my parents are still at work. I’d been quiet all the way home, but Matt didn’t notice. I think about telling him I’m late again, but then I decide to wait until after I’ve taken the test. I lean over to kiss him goodbye, and he promises to call later.

  I find the pregnancy kit I bought last month and lock myself in the upstairs bathroom. It’s so quiet I can hear my heart hammering in my chest. I follow the instructions, but worry I’ll make some mistake. Then I clock the time on my wristwatch and do something I haven’t done in a long time. I say a prayer, though it’s quick and to the point and comes out in a whisper. “Please, God, not me. Not now.”

  According to the instructions, if the test window shows a blue line within three minutes, I’m pregnant. But the guessing game is over in two minutes. The line is so blue, there’s no doubt. Crap! I stand there completely still. I’m so scared I can’t breathe. It’s hard to believe this is actually happening to me: Allison Marie Parker, the girl with the 3.8 grade point average, who always does the right thing, and who always takes the safest route.

  I stare at the test stick and will the blue line to disappear. No luck. It remains stubbornly there. I head straight to my bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed. I guess I should start crying. If this was happening to Monica, she definitely would. Monica would throw herself on the bed and wail until oblivion. I study my reflection in the mirror on my dresser. My reflection stares back. Do something, it says. Cry. Scream. Wail. But I can’t. Okay, then call Monica.

  I pick up the phone and punch out her number. Monica answers on the third ring, and I ask her to come over. “Hurry,” I say. “It’s an emergency.” All things considered, I’m remarkably calm.

  When Monica gets here, I show her the test stick with the stubborn blue line that refuses to disappear.

  “I’m pregnant,” I say, but it’s hard to believe it’s true.

  “You can’t be. You just had your period.”

  “No, I’m late again.”

  She looks at me for a minute. “Maybe the test’s wrong.”

  Monica grabs the pregnancy kit box from my dresser top and reads the instructions. “It says here you could get a false result if you’re taking certain drugs or have a rare medical condition.”

  “I wish I had a rare medical condition.”

  It’s not funny, but we’re both so nervous, we sort of laugh. Then we both get quiet, and I start biting my thumbnail, something I haven’t done since I was thirteen.

  “Weren’t you on some drug last month when you had strep throat?”

  Monica asks.

  “Yeah, but I finished that weeks ago.”

  “Well. . . maybe it’s still in your system. It says some drugs interfere with the test and could cause a false result.”

  “It also says on the box that this test is 99 percent accurate.”

  “Look, let’s not worry about this right now,” Monica says. “Maybe it’s wrong. Go to a doctor and get a real pregnancy test done. I’ll go with you if you want. Your parents don’t have to know a thing.” Monica sits on the bed next to me. “Does Matt know?”

  “No.” I shake my head. He’s still at work, and besides, I don’t think I could handle telling him now. I finally start crying, and Monica gives me a hug. All my life, I thought destiny was like a lump of clay—something you mold however you want, and something that always works in your favor. All this time, I was so sure I wasn’t pregnant. But maybe I’ve been kidding myself. These last few weeks, I’ve been feeling a little sick in the mornings, but I didn’t think anything of it. And my period last month—it was practically nonexistent.

  “Okay,” I finally say. “I’ll go to the clinic for a test.” I have this terrible fe
eling, but I hope Monica’s right. Maybe the test is wrong. Maybe it’s old or defective or I goofed it up.

  The nightmare continues into the weekend. Everything is wrong. I wake up Saturday with a headache. The sky is gray, and it looks like it’s freezing outside. I try calling Planned Parenthood first thing, but I get lost in voice mail hell. Then I’m on hold, waiting to speak to a counselor about an abortion, when I hear a knock on my bedroom door. I hang up fast.

  “Are you up?” asks my mother, barging right in. “It’s after 10:00, and I thought you were working today.”

  “I am, but I don’t have to be there until 11:30,” I say, pretending to yawn and stretch. I try not to look at her directly.

  I shower and then try calling Planned Parenthood again, but I get put on hold once more, and after a few minutes, I hang up. I didn’t realize they were that busy. I don’t have time to call later today because of work, and the clinic’s probably closed Sunday, so I’ll have to wait until Monday to make the appointment.

  When I go downstairs for breakfast, my mother’s at the kitchen table, and I can tell she has something to say. The air feels heavy and charged.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Good morning, Ali,” Mom says very stiffly. “Good morning” is not the sort of thing she usually says. I pour myself a bowl of corn flakes while Mom refills her coffee mug. Mom is a weekend artist of sorts—she usually spends Saturday mornings in her studio painting. But today, she sits there reading the paper, glancing up now and then to look at me.

  I want to ask Mom what’s up, but stop myself. Something tells me I don’t want to know what the matter is. God, what if she heard me calling Planned Parenthood?

  I’m almost finished with my cereal when Mom says, “Ali, I think you’re spending too much time with Matt. You’re too young to tie yourself down with one boy.”

  All of a sudden, the corn flakes stick in my throat. I swallow hard.

  “How can you say that? Matt works nearly every night. We hardly see each other any more.”

  “Ali. . . you know what I mean.”

  “Are you telling me not to see him?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. Of course not. I just think you should expand your world. Go out more with your friends, like you used to. . . Meet new people,” she says, as if this is something she just thought up—as if she hasn’t been rehearsing it in her head all morning.

  I take my bowl to the sink and dump the rest of my cereal down the disposal. Here I am, pregnant, and my mother’s concerned I’m not meeting new people. It’s laughable—it really is. I’m not sure what to say, so I do what always works best. I change the subject. Maybe she’ll take the hint.

  “May I borrow your car?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says.

  I turn to leave.

  “Ali. . . just think about what I said. Okay?”

  “Sure.” Whatever. . . My mother’s concern that I’m spending too much time with Matt is the least of my problems now.

  The rest of the weekend moves by in slow motion. I’m not sure what to do. Have the baby? I’m going to college next year— there’s no room in my life for a baby. Besides, my parents would flip out. I’m pretty sure they still think I’m a virgin. Mom had “the talk” with me when I was ten, and then again when I started dating because of the whole AIDS issue. When Matt and I started spending a lot of time together, she brought it up again.

  “Mom, I’m not. . . we’re not. . .”

  “Oh,” she said, visibly relieved.

  “Well, if you ever want to talk. . .”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

  A few days after that conversation, Mom left a brochure for me in my room, Straight Talk about Sex. At first, I was mad. Didn’t I tell her we weren’t doing anything? But when I read it, it was very informative.

  The take-home point was that abstinence is the best method of birth control. I know, logically, that makes sense, but I think you have to be realistic. In real life, when you love someone, it’s not so easy to keep saying “no.” We would have been fine, too, except for that one time. One time—I still can’t believe it. I wish I had a time machine. Because if I did, I’d go back to that day and do things differently.

  For about thirty seconds, I consider telling my parents that I’m pregnant. Then my brain assures me there’s no point. It would only upset them, and besides, I’ve already made up my mind. It’d be too hard to have a baby. Matt and I are only seventeen years old. It’s not as if we could keep it. We still have our own lives. And the thing about adoption is that there’s no way I can carry a baby for nine months and then give it up and never see it again.

  Abortion is the only way. But to be honest, whenever I think about it, I get this awful feeling deep inside. Sure, I’m a pro-choice girl. I’ve debated abortion in speech classes, and even wrote a paper about it. But now that I’m actually faced with the decision, it’s a whole different matter. It doesn’t feel right.

  My heart points out that this is a baby—a human life—but my brain quickly takes charge. Abortion’s easy to rationalize. It’s not a baby—it’s just a microscopic dot, a tiny dab of protoplasm that can easily go away. I can’t wait for the weekend to end. All I want is to make an appointment at the clinic and get it over with.

  I hardly talk with Matt all weekend because he’s so busy. He took on extra shifts at Vincent’s to make extra money. I know I should probably tell him, but I keep thinking that maybe Monica is right. Maybe the test was wrong. Maybe I goofed it up or it was defective. Anything is possible. Then Matt calls between shifts on Saturday and tells me his grandfather in Wisconsin just had a mild heart attack and is in the hospital. I can tell he’s upset, so I figure I’ll wait to tell him. It’s definitely not the right time.

  I call Planned Parenthood on Monday, after first period. The receptionist can squeeze me in that afternoon, if I want. But that won’t work because their office is in Chicago, and there’s no way I can get there in time. They have an opening on Friday, which is perfect, because there’s no school that day. It’s Teachers’ Institute Day. I make an appointment for Friday morning at 10:30. Monica offers to go with me, so we tell our parents we’re going into the city to shop, which we do once or twice a year anyway.

  On Friday, Monica picks me up, and we take the train from Lakeview into the city. We find a cab right away and take it to 1200 North LaSalle. The receptionist is an older woman who looks about a hundred. She has long gray hair and is wearing a purple sweater with beads. Her nametag says “Dorothy,” but I think of her as Ancient Wise Woman. She asks me to sign in, then hands me a clipboard with some forms to fill out. I wonder if Ancient Wise Woman was sexually active as a teenager. Then I decide that she must have been, otherwise she wouldn’t work here.

  Monica sits beside me in the reception area while I fill out the forms. On the way to the city, I was fine, but now that I’m actually here, I feel nervous. My hands are damp, and I’m so jittery I can barely hold onto the pen. I glance up, and Ancient Wise Woman looks directly at me and smiles. That helps a little.

  I sign a consent form for the pregnancy test and complete a short questionnaire about the first day of my last period, the current form of birth control I’m using, and whether I’m experiencing any nausea, breast tenderness, or other pregnancy symptoms.

  When I return the forms to Ancient Wise Woman, I see a girl from school on the other side of the room, a senior named Kelly something. I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her around. Just then, Kelly looks up and our eyes meet, but neither of us says anything.

  A few minutes later, a counselor appears and calls my name. She introduces herself as Debby Davis, then leads me to her office at the end of a hall. She’s young and pretty, with short brown hair and a nice smile. The office is bright and sunny. There’s a poster on the wall showing the female reproductive system, and a large, red geranium on a table near the window. Debby waves me to the chair beside her desk.

  She asks where I go to school and a few
other general questions. Then she looks over the forms and says, “I understand you’re here for a pregnancy test.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Before we get a specimen, I want to talk with you a bit and give you some information to look over,” Debby says. “Have you taken a home pregnancy test?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the results were positive?”

  “Are those tests usually accurate?” I say. (Please, please, please say no.)

  “Usually. . . yes, but we’ll check to make sure in a few minutes.”

  Debby leans forward in her chair. She looks concerned. “How do you feel about the possibility of being pregnant?” she asks.

  “I’m only seventeen. . .” I can feel the tears coming on and my throat closes. I shake my head.

  “So this was unintended.”

  I nod. “If I’m pregnant. . . I want an abortion,” I finally manage to say. My face is on fire.

  Debby doesn’t say anything right away. “My job is to make sure you’re aware of all the options and have the information you need to make the best decision,” she says, handing me a brochure—What if You’re Pregnant? “You may want to read this while you’re waiting for the test results. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he think?”

  “I haven’t told him.”

  “Were you planning to wait until after you find out the results of your test?” the counselor asks.

  “Yes,” I say, thinking I’ll tell Matt eventually, but it’s hard to believe this is actually happening, and I’m still hoping it’s all some crazy mistake.

  Debby nods. “Okay,” she says. “Now we’ll need a specimen from you for the test. I’ll take you back to the lab.” She stands up. “We’ll talk again after we have the results.”