The cold, sick dread won’t let go of me, squeezing tighter and tighter. I shove the test back into the bag, start the car, and drive home. By the time I pull in, I can’t feel my fingers. My whole body is buzzing, part terror, part denial, all of it coming to a head.
I keep the bag clutched to my chest as I walk back into the house, eyes darting left and right even though I know nobody’s awake at this hour. The last thing I need is my stepsisters seeing me with this and running their mouths to my dad and stepmom.
I lock my bedroom door behind me, resting against it, and slide down to the floor.
Two minutes later, I’m in my bathroom. The box is still clenched in my hand, corners digging into my palm. I stare at the label…First Response Digital, “99% accuracy”…like that’s supposed to make me feel better. Like maybe I’ll be one of the one percent the universe decides to take it easy on for once.
I peel open the cardboard, tearing off the little sticky tab. My fingers are numb and clumsy. I drop the instructions twice before I can unfold them. The paper’s soft and glossy, and I running my thumb over the words as if they’ll wipe away. “Hold the stick in the urine stream for five seconds. Lay flat. Wait three minutes for results.”
Simple enough.
I peel open the plastic wrapper. My whole body vibrates out of my skin. The test is cold and smooth, feeling foreign in my hand.
Shit. This is really happening.
When I finally manage to use the test, I’m so nervous I nearly drop the stick in the toilet. I cap it, just like the instructions say, then lay it flat on the edge of the sink. It looks so innocent, lying there. Like it’s not about to change my entire life.
I check my phone. 3:41 a.m. I pace in front of the mirror; arms wrapped around myself. I check again, as if a minute could possibly have passed. The seconds crawl. I try to count my breaths, but they come in weird, hiccuping bursts. I keep glancing at the counter like the test might sprout fangs and lunge at me.
I want to puke again, but there’s nothing left.
Two minutes in. My heart’s beating so hard I can see my shirt moving.
I tell myself not to look. But I look anyway. The screen blinks, like it’s thinking about what sentence it’s going to hand down to me.
Then the digital lines snap on, clear as anything: Yes+.
A real, actual plus sign. The “Yes” is pink, cheery, like it’s mocking me.
For a second I can’t even move. My body shuts down. Then I slap both hands over my mouth. My knees buckle. I slide down, back against the cabinet, head against the wall.
I don’t believe it. I can’t be...
I reach out and snatch up the test, almost angry, hoping if I glare at it hard enough, it’ll change its mind. I shake it. The result doesn’t flicker.
Still there. Yes+. Yes+. Yes+.
Oh my god.
I press the stick to my chest, shaking so bad I nearly drop it again. My teeth rattle. I wonder if it’s possible to pass out sitting down.
I make myself reread the instructions.
Wait three minutes.
Wait for a clear digital answer.
There’s no way to get this wrong. It’s foolproof. Right now, it's just me, the stick, and the certainty of it.
Pregnant.
I rock back and forth, forehead pressed to my knees, the word ringing in my head louder than if someone had screamed it in my ear.
Pregnant.
I’m pregnant. By a stranger whose face I never even saw. Stupid, naive, reckless me.
I stare at the test until my eyes blur. Then I set it down gently, like it’s a bomb, and curl tighter around myself on the floor.
