Butterflies in May Read online

  Mom sits down, looking defeated, and stares out the window. Dad turns to me and takes my hand in his. “The important thing is you. Are you okay?”

  I can’t talk.

  “Your mom only wants what’s best for you, Ali. We both do. We’re just. . . stunned.” He lets out a long sigh. “Give us some time to let this sink in. Okay?” He rubs his temples.

  “Okay.”

  Finally, Mom says, “I’m going to take you to my gynecologist on Monday. I want you to see someone I trust. Then we can discuss your options.”

  “Okay.” The last thing I need is another pregnancy test, but I’m not about to argue with her. It’s easier to be agreeable. “But there’s something you should know. I won’t have an abortion. It’s just not right—not for me. The baby’s part of me. . . Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “More than you possibly can know,” Mom says, looking me squarely in the eyes. “You’re talking about my grandchild.” Then she walks out of the room, leaving me alone with my father. He takes one look at me, then pulls me close and gives me a hug.

  I hide out in my room the rest of the day. The kitchen has become Mission Control. Dad’s voice is low and calm; Mom’s is shrill and erratic, bouncing off the walls, full of panic. I’m a good little girl and clean my room, but I keep going into the hallway to listen. I can’t make out what they’re saying.

  At 4:30, Monica calls. “What gives?”

  I give her the blow-by-blow details. Before we hang up, she tells me about some new guy she met, a college boy who works in the shoe department at Wolf’s Department Store. He becomes number 17. She met him this afternoon at the mall, which is classic Monica. Less than 24 hours after finding out that Dylan blew her off for someone else, she’s already got some new guy after her.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Cute. . .”

  “But?”

  “But kind of dull. I mean, he has his whole life mapped out, and he’s only nineteen years old.”

  Later that night, there’s a knock on my door. “Come in.” I’m sitting on my bed with my homework spread out, pretending to work.

  Mom walks in and sits on the edge of the bed next to me. Her eyes are red and her face is blotchy. She’s holding a tissue that’s now a crushed, wet ball.

  “Ali, I want to apologize for this morning. I didn’t handle the news very well. It’s just that. . . I was so surprised. When I was your age, we didn’t talk much about sex with our parents. But things are so different now. You and your friends are much more informed than we ever were. I never thought this could happen to you.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “I’m going to call the school in the morning and tell them you won’t be there. Then I’ll get you in to see my doctor,” she says, standing up.

  She stops at the doorway, her hand on the knob. “Ali?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe I should have. . .” But then she stops, shakes her head, and says, “Never mind.”

  “All I said was that you should think about your options,” Mom says. We’re sitting in the parking lot at the doctor’s office. I just had a pelvic exam, my third pregnancy test, and it turns out that, yes, I really am pregnant. I feel like I’m stuck in some bad TV sitcom. If my situation weren’t so tragic, I’d laugh.

  “I do not want an abortion. There’s no way I could ever— ever—do that. And I don’t understand you. You’ve always been so totally against abortion.” I can’t believe we’re still arguing about this.

  Mom pulls out of the parking lot. She looks straight ahead, but tightens her grip on the steering wheel. “Your father and I discussed this at length yesterday.” She sighs. “We are not going to make you do anything you don’t want. But, Allison, once you have this baby, there’s no going back. I want you to promise me you will seriously consider adoption.”

  “Okay,” I say, “but I don’t know if I can do that either.”

  We stop at a red light. Mom turns to me. “I talked with another doctor in the practice while you were having the exam. His name is Dr. Johnson, and he knows of a young couple that can’t have children and are interested in adopting a baby. It would be a private adoption. He’s a professor at a university, and she’s a librarian.”

  “I don’t know.” The car behind us toots twice. “The light’s green.”

  “Oh.”

  We’re on Northwest Highway now, heading for home. “How does Dr. Johnson know this couple?”

  “They went to college together. Just think about it, Ali. They’re in their early thirties, and they could give this baby everything you can’t right now—a home, a stable life, a two-parent family.” Mom pulls into the garage and turns off the ignition. “Before you decide one way or the other, you could meet them. Dr. Johnson says he can arrange it.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Of course.” She reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. She looks like maybe she’s starting to understand how I feel.

  Matt calls me that night. He and his family just got back from Wisconsin. He’s telling me he’ll be back in school tomorrow and wants to talk, but I stop him.

  “Matt, I told my parents. I went to my mom’s gynecologist today.”

  “You told your parents?”

  “Yes. You should probably tell your parents as soon as possible.”

  Neither of us says anything for a while. I can tell he’s upset. Then, he says, “What did they do?”

  “It was awful at first, but it’s better now. Mom wants me to give the baby up for adoption. Matt, I—” I want to tell him I’m not sure I can give the baby up, but he cuts me off.

  “I can’t believe you,” he says. “I can’t believe you didn’t wait until I came back.” Then, click. He’s gone.

  Chapter 10

  On Tuesday, Niles brings a word to share in English class. “Excellent,” says Carrot Top, smiling with approval. “What’s your word?”

  “Concupiscence,” Niles says, sitting straight in his chair for a change, star student of the hour.

  Carrot Top tilts her head to one side and says the word aloud. She looks baffled, something we haven’t seen so far this year. “CON-CU-PISCENCE,” she says very slowly, syllable by syllable. “Let’s write it on the chalkboard. How do you spell that exactly?” she asks.

  Niles feeds her each letter, and she transcribes it on the blackboard. “Very good, Mr. Sherman,” says Carrot Top, nodding her head with approval. “I don’t know this word. Will you please share its meaning with us?”

  Niles and a group of boys snicker. Monica and I share a look. We both know something is up.

  “It means sexual desire, Mrs. Frye,” he says, all wide-eyed innocence. “And lust.”

  Everyone laughs. Someone in the back row starts hooting and stamping his feet. And this guy, Rob Herzog, yells out, “Did you say sexual desire?!”

  Carrot Top turns an interesting shade of red, then erases every trace of “concupiscence” from the board, her hand shaking the whole time. Outbursts make her nervous. Something tells me Niles won’t be getting extra credit for this word.

  Second period study hall: No Matt.

  Lunchtime: Missing again.

  “What’s with you two?” Monica asks over a grilled cheese sandwich in the cafeteria.

  “He’s freaking out.”

  “He better un-freak, so you guys can figure out what to do.”

  “He just needs time, I guess.” I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t think he’d avoid me like the plague.

  “Eat,” Monica commands. When I’m upset, it’s a real effort to eat, so Monica has taken it upon herself to see that I act in the baby’s interest. I dip a cracker in my tomato soup and take a bite just to please her.

  “And don’t forget to eat that salad. You need your greens.” She’s so bossy these days. She’s been reading the book Aunt Laura gave me, mostly for moral support, and now considers herself an expert on prenatal care. “You know what I think about
Matt?” she asks, opening a bag of chips. “Too freaking bad! I mean, geez, it’s happening to you, too.”

  “I know.”

  “How’s it going with your parents?”

  “My mom’s still pushing for adoption. It’s all she talks about.”

  Monica nods. She and I talk about adoption all the time. In fact, I’ve talked more with her than Matt about it. She can’t see getting tied down with a baby. “It’s just something I wouldn’t want to deal with at this point in my life,” she said once. “But,” she said, “you love Matt. I think, somehow, that makes the decision harder.” And it does. It really does.

  When Monica drops me off after school, Matt’s car is parked on the street in front of my house. He’s standing on the front doorstep with his hands shoved in his pockets. It’s cold and drizzling. He moves from one foot to the other, trying to stay warm.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.” I open the front door and let him in. My parents are still at work, so we have the house to ourselves. “Don’t you have to work tonight?” I ask.

  “I called in sick.”

  He follows me into the family room. At least he’s here, I tell myself, but I hope we don’t have another bad scene. I sit on the sofa, and he sits on an ottoman across from me.

  “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk.”

  “It’s okay.” It isn’t, but I don’t want to get into it.

  “So what do you think?” he says.

  “You mean about an abortion?”

  He nods.

  “I’m not having one, Matt. There’s just no way I can do it.”

  “You know, Ali, a lot of people have them. Ryan Slater’s girlfriend. . .”

  “Meg had an abortion?”

  He nods.

  “Look, Matt. . . I can’t. It is a big deal to me.”

  “Ali. . .” He shakes his head.

  All of a sudden, I feel like I’m starting my period. “I’ll be right back,” I say and leave the room.

  When I come back, Matt is still on the ottoman, but now he’s resting his head in his hands. “I’m bleeding,” I say. I wonder if I’m having a miscarriage. The blood flow is a little heavier than it was the month before I knew I was pregnant.

  “You’re what?” He looks confused.

  “I’m bleeding.”

  “Are you starting your period?” He sounds relieved and smiles slightly. All I can think is that he doesn’t get it at all.

  “No, it’s not like that. . . but I’ve got to call the doctor.” I find the number for Dr. Bishop, the doctor Mom took me to on Monday. Her office is only fifteen minutes from our house. A nurse answers, and when I explain what’s happening, she tells me to come in right away.

  Matt doesn’t say anything on the way over. As soon as we walk in, a nurse waves us in. When she sees us, she gets this look on her face, and I know what she’s thinking. I hate that look. “You can come in, too, if you want,” the nurse tells Matt.

  We follow the nurse down the hall into an examining room. She’s carrying a tray filled with small vials and bandages.

  “What’s the spotting like?” she asks, wiping the inside of my arm with a wet cotton ball.

  “It’s pretty light—not like a period.”

  Matt is looking at a poster that shows the various stages of a fetus growing in a mother’s uterus. I watch his face. It’s impossible to read him.

  “Are you having any cramps?”

  “No.”

  “This will let us know what’s going on,” says the nurse as she jabs a needle into my arm, filling the vial with blood.

  “What kind of a test is it?”

  “It’s called a Beta-HCG. We’ll have the results back tomorrow.” The nurse places a clean cotton ball on the spot where she’s taken blood and covers it with a bandage. “There’s a possibility you could miscarry,” she says in a tone that suggests it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  Maybe she’s right. A miscarriage would solve everything. Then everything would be back to normal, which would be a huge relief. But somehow the idea of a miscarriage makes me want to cry.

  “You should take it easy the rest of the day,” the nurse advises. She looks at Matt, then me. “No intercourse, no dancing, no vigorous exercise.”

  Then she turns to me. “When we get the results back tomorrow morning, we’ll call you,” she says.

  Matt doesn’t say a word while he drives me home. When he pulls up in front of my house, he cuts the engine and sits there, staring straight ahead. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that. . . it didn’t seem real to me until today.” He reaches for my hand. “It was just this problem that needed fixing, but there. . . in the doctor’s office, I realized that ‘it’ wasn’t an ‘it.’ It’s a baby.” He’s quiet for a while, and then he says, “Whatever you want to do, Ali, is okay with me.” Then we hug, and I feel so relieved.

  That night, I tell my parents everything. Dad kisses the top of my head, hugs me, and tells me not to worry. Mom doesn’t say anything, but she seems slightly relieved, as if maybe this is the answer to her prayers.

  The next morning, Mom lets me skip school, and she takes the day off, too. I spend the morning on the sofa surfing the channels. Click. Click. Click. If my life were a TV show, I’d be the after-school special or maybe a guest on Oprah. My mom works a crossword puzzle at the kitchen table. But every time the phone rings, she jumps up to answer it. Finally, at 11:00, Dr. Bishop’s office calls. Mom hands me the phone.

  “Everything checked out,” the nurse says cheerily. “Looks like you and the baby are doing okay.”

  Matt calls later that day from work. “Hey, it’s me,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  “How were the, uh, test results?” he asks after a pause.

  “Fine,” I say. “The baby’s okay.” We don’t say anything for a few moments.

  Then he says, “I told my parents.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Uh, not good. My mom was crying when I left. Dad didn’t say much of anything, but he slammed his fist in the wall and then poured himself a scotch.”

  “Was that it?”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It was a bad scene.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  We’re silent for a long time.

  “Look,” he finally says. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I want to say something, but don’t know what to say any more.

  “Wow,” is all Monica says at lunch the next day.

  “His mom called my mom yesterday,” I say.

  “What did she say?”

  “That Matt and I should take a break from each other. They don’t want this to ruin our lives. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “What’s Matt say about all this?”

  “Nothing. Just that his mom is hysterical right now. . .” I can’t finish. My life is a disaster, and Mrs. Ryan isn’t helping things at all.

  “Have you and Matt decided what to do?”

  “No.” Mom is still pushing me to meet the couple Dr. Johnson told her about, but I can’t imagine Matt and I handing off our baby to some couple my mother hears about in a doctor’s office. I can’t imagine this little person growing up and never knowing me—or Matt.

  By the end of the month, I’ve sent in all my college applications—no more forms to fill out, no more writing essays about why I’m so great. I apply to Columbia, NYU, Northwestern, and two backup schools in Illinois. My guidance counselor tells me I should find out by April where I’ll be spending the next four years of my life. The thing is, I’d never thought much about what to do after graduation, except for college. But now I have to figure out what to do about the baby, Matt, and college. I feel like I have fifteen minutes to map out my entire life.

  Chapter 11

  What can you say about being seventeen and pregnant except that sometimes it doesn’t seem so bad and some days it
’s overwhelming. On a bad day, I can’t stop thinking about it. All I want is for someone to wake me up and tell me it’s an awful dream that’s moving in incredibly slow motion. On those days, I have to set it aside so I won’t drown in it. Monica thinks I’m in denial on those days, but I’m not—not really.

  But some days, I have to do that or I would never get out of bed or finish my homework or take a test. I have to remind myself to swallow and breathe and not to think about it too hard or I won’t get through the day.

  But some days it’s easy to forget about it, and it’s hard to believe it’s actually happening. Maybe because no one knows yet except for a few people: my parents, Matt, his parents, Monica, and Aunt Laura. I’m still not showing, so it’s not anything people are talking about. Once in a while, I can actually carry on life as a normal high school senior. Take today, for instance. There’s a football game tonight with our arch rival, North View High, which is in the suburb north of Lakeview, so there was a mandatory rally in the gymnasium during sixth period.

  Monica and I both hate going to assemblies. We always say we’re going to skip out, but for all our pretend rebellion, we never do. So we sit there and eat candy bars that we smuggle in while Monica makes fun of the cheerleaders who never stop bouncing. “We have spirit, yes we do! We have spirit, how ’bout you?!” they shout in unison, ponytails flying.

  But today, during the rally, I actually caught myself laughing out loud. First, the coaches lined up the football players, blindfolded them, and then told them they were bringing out some hot babes for them to kiss. But instead, out came their mothers. One guy, I swear, looked like he slipped his mother the tongue. Then Brian Swanson, the senior class president, brought out a blender, mixed a Happy Meal in it, and dared someone to drink it. Monica and I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to do it, but then some freshman with glasses and acne volunteered, and the crowd went nuts.

  After the rally, Monica gives me a lift home and stays for a while to hang out. We’re in my room listening to music while Monica experiments with eyeliner and I eat nearly an entire bag of cheese puffs—family size. It’s scary how much I’m eating.