“She’s missed over three weeks in a row, and with her absences scattered throughout the first weeks of school even before all that, there’s no way she’ll pass any of her courses. She’s welcome to come back, naturally. Though she would have to repeat the eleventh grade. And statistically most dropouts don’t.”
You stare at the tassel hanging from the rearview mirror. The Coyote. This is his fault. If she hadn’t met him none of this would have happened. You can’t believe it ever aroused you, the idea of being with him.Aroused, a word next to one of the bubbles you didn’t fill in, that you now realized is the answer. Aroused suspicion. Aroused by the sound of a knock on the door. An easy one. A gimme. And still you stared at the letters like you had never even learned the alphabet.
“I know that must be upsetting. She’s your sister. You care about her. And she must be going through something. But Annabelle, you have to think about yourself right now too. You have to think about what you want.” Miss Hamilton pauses. You worry she is going to try to comfort you, take your hand, feel the clamminess of your skin, the worried stutter of your pulse. Could she feel anything else? That second heartbeat within you, hammering from somewhere deep inside.
“If there’s enough trouble at home that you think the authorities should get involved, or if you want to talk to a counselor at school, I can help you with that. But I’m also aware that that can set into motion a lot of other processes and reviews that… well, while they are well-meaning, might be more disruptive than helpful. Socialservices. Other legal authorities, depending on what is going on. Do you understand what I’m asking you?”
You want to tell her, so, so bad, but then you hear Sabrina’s voice in your head.Another one of her pity cases.And you think of the Coyote with the police chief the night of the Cranberry Festival. That tight circle of men. That’s who she means bythe authorities. That’s who would come and pore over your lives, your home, your body. That’s who would decide where you and Sabrina would go.
“We don’t need help,” you say.
Miss Hamilton sighs. “Okay, Annabelle. I’m going to run in and get us those hot chocolates, okay?”
You nod. While she’s gone you stare out the window, watching cars pass. Your eyes catch on something. A poster on a telephone pole. For a second you think you’ve imagined it.
PREGNANT?
The text is too small for you to read from that distance, so you slip out of the car and walk toward it.
PREGNANT?
We can help. Get compassionate counseling and learn about your options.
Free care for those in need.
There’s an addressand a telephone number at the bottom. You could memorize it, wait until you get home to call, but then there’s Sabrina, who could be listening on the other end of the line or from another room. Sabrina, whose questions you would have to bear while she won’t ever answer any of yours. No, this is your chance to handle this, the flyer appearing in your life like an omen. Maybe something sent from your mother. You’ve avoided that kind of thinking and yet, it seems too lucky, too fated, to be anything else.
You chant the number as you walk across the parking lot to the payphone in front of the store. You dial the number and a woman answers on the third ring while you keep an eye out for Miss Hamilton and hope that the line to checkout is long with the lunch rush.
“Women’s Crisis Center. My name is Brenda, how can I help you today?” Her voice is soft and calm, no hint of the scorn or scolding you might deserve.
“I need… I’m…”
“Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m here to help you. Now tell me, are you pregnant?” Remarkable, how easy it is for this stranger to simply ask you the thing you needed to be asked, to see your problem more clearly than anyone else. Even more clearly than Sabrina, whose thoughts you can see but who couldn’t manage to get the words out.
“Yes.”
“Okay. That’s all right. We can assist you with a test and anything else you need. I’m glad you found us. When would you like to come in?”
“Soon. Tomorrow?”
“Well tomorrow is Sunday, sweetheart.”
“When… when else?” You can make out Miss Hamilton’s green coat as she steps into the vestibule.
“Monday, would that be okay? Let’s see. Perhaps Monday morning?”
“Monday,” you say. You’ll have to skip school, but you think about Sabrina, and how all the rules you thought governed your world are actually false and hollow. Sabrina, who simply decided not to go at all anymore. What’s a single day? Especially when the rest of your life depends on it. You’ve heard whispers about this, other girls saying their cousins have done it, had a pregnancy undone, taken away. You don’t know the mechanics of it, but you don’t care. All you want is to be free.
“And now, sweetheart, do you need a ride? Where are you?”
You rattle off your address and Brenda hums. “We have a volunteer who lives out that way, someone who can assist you. She drives a white minivan. Her name is Tammy. She’ll pick you up at 9:00, okay?”
“Yes, okay, thank you so much, thank you.” Miss Hamilton has spotted you, her brow furrows. You hold up a finger.
“You’re so welcome, darling. You have a wonderful day, okay, and we’ll see you soon.”
Miss Hamilton approaches you bearing the two paper cups.
