Page 234 of Sinister

“You’ve been gone a while,” I remark dryly.

“Just a couple of weeks, but we have great news! The contract went perfectly. We signed it, and we’re moving on to the next stage. Your father was even asking what kind of gift you’d like from the bonus we received. I thought maybe we could check out that new Saint Laurent collection. What do you think?”

I stare at her. “Um, I’m good,” I mumble.

They move deeper into the house, leaving their luggage in the hallway. I need to get past them before they get a good look at me. Normally, when they’re home, I wear baggy clothes to hide my ever-growing bump. But today, I’m in a tight top and pajama pants.

I cross my arms over my stomach and fidget with my phone, pretending to be busy. As I head for the stairs—almost there, almost free—my mother’s high-pitched voice rings out again.

“Petra!” she exclaims, but this time there’s no joy in her tone.

“Yes?” I ask, half-turning.

“You’ve gained weight! She has, hasn’t she, dear?” she says, turning to my father.

“Yes,” he replies. “You were skinnier before.”

I gulp. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

“Gee, thanks for telling me I’m fat,” I mutter.

“You’re not fat, dear, but you’re so petite. Too much weight doesn’t look good on you,” she says sweetly.

“Well, it happened,” I shrug.

“But when did it happen? Did you change your diet? Should we hire a new chef? What have you been eating? This is so sudden. I don’t remember you being so large.”

I glare at her. Because, of course, that’s what every teenage girl wants to hear—how large she is.

“Can you please not comment on my weight?” I ask flatly.

“We’re not commenting, we’re just . . . worried. This isn’t like you. You’ve always been so small and⁠—”

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

Maybe it’s not the best way to break the news, but her fake concern over my weight pisses me off.

If she’s going to act mad, I want her really mad. And this will do the trick.

She blinks, stunned. My father’s jaw slackens.

Her lips tremble as she tries to find the right words. “But to be pregnant, you have to have sex,” she trails off. “And you’re too young to have sex.”

“That’s exactly what got me into this situation.”

“But . . . but . . . you’re only eighteen. That’s so young!” she sputters.

“It might be, but I’m technically an adult,” I say, keeping my tone steady.

My mom gasps loudly as if she’s just now understanding the implications. My father swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“No. This is impossible. This is a prank, isn’t it? You’re playing a prank on us.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” I ask, deadpan.

“You do have a weird sense of humor,” she says, forcing a fake laugh. “Ha . . . ha . . .”

“I’m not joking.”