Page 34 of Sinister

Of course, it’s because I can’t shake off the feeling that I’ve just pushed Amelia further away. It’s also because I have been a hot mess the last few weeks, because after that night with . . . with Sin, I have received exactly zero messages from him.

Despite my best efforts, my mind drifts back to that night. The way Sin had looked at me and touched me, how our comfortable chat had turned into something more, something that still felt . . . illicit in a way.

I remember the way everything had felt good and bad at the same time. Was that what sex was supposed to feel like? Or is my experience, like me, an outlier?

Just then, a loud beep from my phone, signaling a health notification. The moment I see that little message, a rush of adrenaline makes me sit up. I realize I’ve been so caught up in everything that I haven’t noticed a crucial development.

I’ve skipped my periods.

Panic floods away any attempt at rational thought. I do a mental calculation. It’s been over two months.

How did I not notice this sooner? My hands start to tremble as I grab my phone and search for the nearest drugstore.

Then I pause and say, “WHAT THE FUCK?” out loud because life has felt so surreal as of late that I wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow I wake up and the whole thing—the fight with Amelia, the odd dreams, my lethargy—has been a dream.

Yet, one look at the cycle tracker on my phone, and I know that I’m in trouble. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. One step at a time, Petra. First, I need to know for sure. Everything else can wait.

But as I head out the door, my belly does flips, and my knees shake so hard I struggle to descend the steps in front of it. Why does it feel like my life is about to change forever?

Half an hour later, I walk into the drugstore. I had to find a place farther away from home; nobody we knew could see me here.

Already, the feeling of being wrong, of doing wrong, is starting to corrode my spirits.

Intellectually, I know that mistakes happen and that such mistakes are in no way a judgment on a girl’s moral character.

Yet the larger part of me is already on the lookout for persecution. My senses are on high alert and my footsteps erratic.

Once inside the store, I glance around nervously, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. The aisle with the pregnancy tests seems miles away, but I force myself to move forward, even though my feet drag on like lead.

I scan the shelves and finally reach for a box. Vaguely, I remember that you’re supposed to take a bunch of tests from different brands to ensure that you don’t get false positives or false negatives.

I grab a couple more of those discreetly packaged boxes and reach the counter.

The cashier, a pretty older woman with soft green eyes, smiles warmly as I place the box in front of her.

“Hi there,” she says while scanning my item without really looking at it. “How are you doing today?”

I’m a teenage girl buying at-home pregnancy tests at a drugstore, so take a guess, lady! I think hysterically while trying to muster a smile.

But it comes out as a mangled grimace as I say, “I’m . . . okay.”

At this point, she finally registers what I’m buying at the store. When she looks up, her eyes are filled with empathy. “It’s going to be all right, sweetheart. Here, take this.”

She slips a small brochure into the bag along with the tests.

“I know you’re young, so if you need someone to talk to, someone grown up, or even someone other than your parents, there are people who can help.”

I glance at the brochure. It’s for the Planned Parenthood center in Radcliffe.

I feel so numb with terror at this point that I can only whisper, “Thanks,” in a barely audible voice.

She squeezes my hand and gives me another reassuring smile that completely fails to comfort me. “You take care of yourself, okay?”

I nod and rush out of the store. The walk home is a blur.

By the time I reach my house, my hands feel chilled to the bone, even though it’s warm enough outside.

After stepping in, I head straight to the bathroom, where I take the tests out of the box.