Butterflies in May Page 5
“We think Ali has that virus that’s going around,” Julie says. “Why don’t you give her a ride home, Monica? If you feel up to it, that is,” she says, looking at me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.” All I want to do is get out of there.
We’re quiet on the drive to my house. Monica pulls her car into my driveway, puts it in park, then glances over and says, “You still look green. Wow, I didn’t know anyone could actually turn that color.”
“Gee, thanks, Mon. You’re really helping.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Give me a minute, okay?” I can’t go in and face my parents just yet.
“Sure,” she says. “I’m in no hurry.”
We sit for a while, listening to a new song on the radio. “Kyle doesn’t seem that bad,” I say, and tell her about how he wiped vomit from my hair.
“Oh, pleeease. He was flirting with you.”
“Right. . . First he tells me I look terrible. Then he’s getting puke out of my hair. He was definitely coming on to me.”
“Have you told Matt yet?” she asks, showing no appreciation for my sarcasm.
I sigh. “No.” “Why not?” “I don’t know. . . I’m not sure I want to involve him.” “Don’t you think that’s sort of weird?” “No.” Monica gives me this look. “Ali,” she says in a serious voice. “Yeah?” “He has a right to know.”
Chapter 5
Coffee is the drug of choice in Lakeview. On Saturday mornings, the line at Java House stretches to the front door. Today, Monica works the bar so I don’t have to deal with the espresso beans. Lately, the smell of beans makes me want to wretch.
After the morning rush, Niles Sherman comes in with a girl Monica and I have never seen before. She has strawberry blonde hair, and her eyes are rimmed with heavy black eyeliner. All it takes is one look at Monica, and I know she’s thinking the same thing: What happened to Robin Evans?
“Hey, Lois,” he says to me, then looks at Monica and nods.
He orders a double espresso, then slips his hand into the girl’s back pocket and whispers in her ear. She laughs and orders a white chocolate mocha with double whip.
You’d never know that Monica and Niles hooked up this summer. You’d never guess he used to throw pebbles at her window, or that they’d make out in his car afterward. Monica’s already over Niles. She’s moved on to guy number 16, Dylan Lang. He graduated last year and works construction, so he’s perpetually tanned and buff. He came in one day last month for coffee and asked her out. They go out from time to time. Tonight, he’s taking her to dinner and a movie. Unlike Niles, Dylan is a date-night kind of guy, but I have my doubts about him. He went out with Rena Albright all last year, but told Monica they’d just broken up. When he comes in for coffee, he’s always checking out the girls, and he never calls Monica when he says he will. I think he’s a dog. Naturally, Monica’s crazy about him.
Just before Niles and Eyeliner Girl leave, Monica asks him the one thing that’s on both of our minds.
“Where’s Robin?”
“Uh. . . I dunno,” he says. “Haven’t seen her lately.”
I stop by Matt’s house on the way home from work. His parents are both working today. His mom’s a nurse’s assistant at Memorial Hospital, and his dad’s a carpenter. Both work some weekends, leaving Matt at home to babysit his brother and three sisters. The whole way over, I tell myself that if I can get Matt alone for a while, I’ll tell him. Monica’s right. He does have a right to know. Besides, I’ve always been up front with Matt about everything.
When I get there, Matt’s in his room burning a CD. “I just finished,” he says. “You want to hear it?”
“Sure.”
He locks his door, turns the stereo on low, then pulls me down on the bed and kisses me. And though I’m nervous about telling him, I get that rush I always do whenever we’re together.
“Matt. . .” I start.
“Shhh,” he says, placing a finger over my lips. “It’s okay. Daniel’s outside with his friends. . . Megan’s asleep. . . Sarah and Amy are at the neighbors. . .”
His arms tighten, he presses against me, and the kiss gets hard and deep. I love the way he smells—slightly musky and spicy. He runs his fingers through my hair and kisses me again. At first, we’re just listening to the music, and kind of making out. I want to tell him to stop because I have something to tell him. But before I know it, he slips his hand underneath my shirt and he’s rolling on top of me. All I can hear is my heartbeat.
“You feel so good,” he says, kissing me everywhere. “I love to feel you next to me.”
“Matt. . . No. . . Not with Megan down the hall,” I say, pulling my shirt down.
“Okay. . . okay.” He groans, then smiles. “You’re right. . . I’ll be good. . . Promise.”
I curl up next to him and trace his profile with my finger.
You’d think I would tell him right there and then, but I don’t. All I want is to be here with Matt and to forget, just for a little longer. We lay there, holding each other, for a while, and then Matt falls asleep. I love to watch him sleep. He’s really beautiful, which is a strange thing to say about a guy, but he is. I think about waking him, so we can talk, but I don’t. I wish I could freeze time and keep the world on the other side of the door. Maybe Monica’s right. Maybe I am in denial. But it doesn’t matter. I figure there’ll be plenty of time to tell him later.
I don’t want Matt’s parents to come home early and find me in his room, so I get up. I check on Megan, who’s still sleeping, and Daniel, who’s still playing outside with his friends. Then Sarah and Amy come back from the neighbors, so I watch a video with them in the family room.
Matt’s mom still isn’t home at 3:30. “She must have forgotten I’m working tonight,” Matt says, checking his watch. He’s already dressed for work in his Vincent’s Market polo shirt and black pants.
“I can stay until she gets back,” I say. I’m helping the girls put on make-up that Amy had gotten for her birthday last week.
“Great. . . thanks,” Matt says. He leans down and kisses me. He tastes minty, like toothpaste. “I’ll stop by your house after work. Okay?”
“Sure,” I say, thinking I’ll tell him tonight. By the time Matt comes over, my parents will probably be in bed.
When I finish doing their make-up, the girls really, really, really want to do mine. They come at me, giggling and laughing, holding red lipstick and blue eye shadow, and Amy almost pokes me in the eye with the applicator for the eye shadow. Then Megan comes out of her room with her blanket, plops in my lap, and starts sucking her thumb. By the time Mrs. Ryan comes home, I look like some hoochy girl.
“Hi, Ali,” she says, looking surprised to see me there. Obviously, Matt didn’t mention I was coming over today. She’s carrying a bag of groceries.
“Hi, Mrs. Ryan.”
When she sees my face, she laughs. “Let me guess,” she says. “Sarah and Amy?”
I nod.
“Where’s Matt?”
“He had to be at work by 4:00, so I offered to stay until you got back.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought he had to be there at 4:30.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t have any plans.”
“Well, thanks. I appreciate it.”
Mrs. Ryan was really nice when we first met, but since the summer, she’s been different—cooler. I mentioned it to Matt, and he admitted that his mom thought we were getting too serious. The worst part is Matt told his mom we were sleeping together— Mrs. Ryan had asked. She wanted to make sure we were being responsible. Mrs. Ryan has never said anything to me about it, but it’s embarrassing that she knows.
“Well, I better go. . .”
“Matt tells me you’re applying to Northwestern,” Mrs. Ryan says.
“Uh, yeah.” I don’t say anything about our new plan. I’m not sure whether Matt told her.
“That’s wonderful, Ali. I’ve heard they have an excell
ent journalism program,” she says while putting away cans of soup. “I ran into Matt’s guidance counselor last week, and he tells me that Matt will probably qualify for the scholarship at Pratt. His father and I are both thrilled. You know, Matt will be the first Ryan to go to college.”
“Oh. . . I didn’t know that,” I say. It had never occurred to me.
Mrs. Ryan keeps chattering. “I know it’ll be hard on you and Matt next year, going to schools so far away from each other, but it’ll be good for you both to meet other people.” She doesn’t look at me—she keeps her eyes on the grocery bag she’s folding. I can tell when I’m being managed, but I don’t know what to say. All I can think is, thank God, they’ll never know. His parents would freak out if they knew, and they’d probably hate me, too. No, they’d definitely hate me.
The rest of the day, I think about what Monica said—how Matt has a right to know. But when Matt comes by after work, my parents are still up watching a movie in the family room. He tells me he’ll be working a double shift tomorrow. I’ll just wait. It doesn’t matter. It’s not as if one more day is going to make a difference.
We sit on the sofa in the den and listen to music and talk. He’s in such a good mood. He gives me a pomegranate from Vincent’s. The other day, when he was telling me he had to draw pomegranates in class, I said I’d never eaten one. He always remembers things like that. Later, when we’re in the kitchen, he shows me how to cut it. He also tells me about a fishing trip he’s going on soon with his dad and brother. They’re planning to camp near some lake in Wisconsin his dad heard about and fish for musky. It’s the same weekend I have my appointment at Planned Parenthood, but I can’t tell him that.
Then my dad comes in and tries the pomegranate, too. They start talking about musky and the best type of bait to use, but I’m not really listening. All I think is that I’ve got to tell Matt soon, and what a relief it’ll be when he finally knows.
Chapter 6
On Monday morning, I wake up feeling worse than usual. I throw up twice while getting ready for school, and, believe it or not, that helps. I almost feel normal afterward, but when Monica gives me a ride to school, my nausea starts all over again. Monica’s dad bought her a little red sports car for her sixteenth birthday. She calls it the “Bribemobile” because he gave it to her the same day he introduced her to his new girlfriend, who is only seven years older than Monica. When you ride in it, you feel every bump in the road, and today it’s making me sick.
As soon as I walk into school, I know I’m going to vomit. There’s no time to race to the bathroom. I bolt toward a waste can near the lockers, where I puke this morning’s breakfast. Fortunately, no one is around.
“That’s revolting,” says Monica. “What did you eat this morning?” She’s rummaging around in her backpack for what I hope will be a tissue.
“Cereal. . . with raspberries,” I say, wiping my mouth with the tissue Monica finally produces.
“Avoid that next time.”
“What are you? The food police?” I’m trying to be funny, but it’s a real effort this morning, considering how I feel. “It looked good at the time.”
Monica laughs, but then gets serious. “So, are you going to tell Matt?”
“After school,” I say. “He’s giving me a ride home.”
By second period study hall, I’m not feeling any better, and I’m debating whether I should go home now. Matt’s sitting at the desk across the aisle from me, but he doesn’t notice anything. I try to convince myself I’m just fine—mind over matter and all that. But it doesn’t work. Finally, I stand up, thinking I’ll tell Mrs. Fortner I need to go home. But it’s too late—it comes over me all at once like a wave. I feel dizzy and hot, and suddenly I throw up right there on the floor. Not a lot, but enough to make quite a scene. Mrs. Fortner gives me a long look. Everyone stares. I wish the floor would open and swallow me up. It doesn’t, so I say something idiotic and dash out of the room.
When the bell rings, signaling the end of second period, I’m sitting on a bench outside study hall. Matt’s the first one out the door. He’s carrying a notebook I left behind.
“Hey, are you okay?” He looks really concerned.
“Yeah.”
He sits down next to me and rubs my back. “I wanted to come after you, but Fortner wouldn’t let me.”
“She came looking for me in the bathroom,” I say.
“What do you have?” he asks. “The flu or something?”
“I’m pregnant,” I say. And just like that, it’s out.
He turns white. Students pass by, talking and laughing. I hear a locker slam somewhere down the hall. Some of the kids stare as they walk by, maybe guessing that some personal drama is playing out.
“Are you serious?” His voice is a whisper.
“Yes.” I start to cry.
He shakes his head. “I thought you got your period.”
“I thought so, too. . . but it wasn’t a regular period.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t get it. How did this happen?”
How?! How could he forget the one time we hadn’t used any protection? Sure, I’d put it out of my mind, but I never really forgot about it. I give him a look, and I can see in his eyes that he knows exactly what I’m thinking about—the time we hadn’t used anything. It wasn’t like us to do something so stupid. We had totally convinced ourselves it was okay. It wouldn’t happen to us, but we were wrong.
Matt stands up, as if he’s going to leave, then turns, swears, and kicks the bench hard. Neither of us says anything for a while. He doesn’t look at me. When the bell rings again, all he says is, “I’ve got to go.” Then he walks away.
I stay for a few more minutes, thinking he’ll turn back any second and tell me everything will be okay, that we’ll work it out together. I’d thought it would be such a relief to finally tell him, but it isn’t—not at all.
As it turns out, I get my stomach under control after study hall, so I decide to stay for the rest of my classes. After school, I’m in the parking lot with Monica when Matt drives up.
“Hey. . . I’ll give you a ride home,” he says. “We need to talk.” People stream by, heading to their cars and calling out to their friends. Some guy in a truck lays on the horn.
Monica won’t even look at Matt. When I told her how he reacted, she was totally disgusted. Matt doesn’t say a word when I get in, but he reaches for my hand and laces his fingers around mine. Taking some back roads lined with trees, we drive to the place we always go to when we want to be alone—a country road that ends near a field. Today, a few horses are off in the distance.
Finally, he says, “Look, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I know it took him by surprise, and besides, it’s not like I handled it so well myself either. It took me forever to tell him.
“It’s just that. . . I didn’t think this could possibly happen to us.”
“I know. . . Me, too.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “How long have you known?”
“About a week. . . officially.”
“A week! Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“I could never seem to find the right time to tell you. . . and I was still hoping it wasn’t true.”
He nods miserably and pulls me close. “You should have told me sooner.” He holds me so tightly I can feel his heart pounding. We sit like that for a while. I start to cry, and I just can’t stop. Finally, he lets go, rummages around in the glove compartment, and hands me a napkin.
“So?” he says, looking at me. I see all the questions there in his eyes.
“So. . . I’ve already made an appointment to have an. . .” I can’t even say the word, and fortunately, I don’t have to.
Matt gets it right away. He nods, looking relieved. “It’s the only way,” he says. “It’ll be all right.”
“Matt,” I say, starting to cry again.
“It’s okay. We’ll get through this together, okay? I love you.”
The rest of the week seems endless. All I can think about is my appointment at Planned Parenthood. And it’s all Matt and I talk about now. He wants to go with me, but he and his dad have been planning this fishing trip for months. We think up all kinds of excuses for him not to go, but all of them fall flat.
On Wednesday, I finally say, “Just go on your trip. It’s okay. . . Monica said she’d go with me.” Both of us already asked for the day off. Matt’s upset that he won’t be there, and I’m not exactly happy about it, but what other choice do we have?
The rest of the week, I count down the days. . . two more, one more. . . Friday night, I go to bed early, and all I can think is that by this time tomorrow, it will all be over.
Chapter 7
It’s Saturday, November seventh, the day I’ve been waiting for. Without even thinking, I pull on a t-shirt, sweater, and jeans. Then I take one look at myself in the full-length mirror and notice I’m wearing all black. I’m the perfect mourner on the way to a funeral. I think about wearing something a little brighter, but that seems obscene. When Monica picks me up, she stares but doesn’t say a word. It’s one of those cool, cloudy days. We take the train into Chicago, and this time it takes a little longer than last time to find a cab.
It’s freezing outside.
My head hurts.
I think I’m going to puke.
We’re silent all the way there. Neither of us feels like talking. When the cab pulls up to 1200 North LaSalle, my stomach shifts into overdrive and starts churning. Monica pays the cab driver, and as soon as I climb out of the cab, a guy not much older than me, in a navy polo shirt and a sweater that makes him look preppy, hands me a flyer. I glance at the flyer from Prep Boy. There are only three words on the flyer: “Stop the Killing!” Underneath is a picture of a fetus that is six weeks old. Then this older, grandmotherly woman wearing a gold cross on a chain starts right in as if we’re in the middle of a conversation. “Honey,” she says, touching my arm, as if we know each other. “It’s not a choice; it’s a child. Don’t do it. You’ll regret it the rest of the your life.” I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Then she says, “Wait. Let me get you some information.”