Page 36 of Sinister

The woman at the drugstore said I could talk to someone, that there are people who can help. Maybe that’s what I need—someone who isn’t my parents, who isn’t Amelia, someone who can help me come up with a solution without judging me.

Maybe I will eventually come out on the other side.

But right now, I’m in for another spate of sleepless nights till school starts.

When the alarm finally goes off on the first day of the next term, I drag myself out of bed like a zombie.

The girl in the mirror wears an ashen face, her eyes lined with dark circles.

I put on the biggest Jimmy Choo sunglasses from my wardrobe and pray to whatever eldritch horror is pulling the strings of my life that I can survive the day without any more terrifying discoveries.

Please don’t let me miss out on Art History, I think wryly, coolly, but I’m dying inside; everything feels like the end of the world, and it’s not just because I am a moody teenager, but because I’m preg⁠—

No, no, no, not thinking about that, not yet. I know I can’t be in denial forever, but I have no idea how to go about doing what needs to be done.

Scratch that, I have no idea what needs to be done!

Instead, I just get inside the car that drives me to school, like I do every day.

When I reach my destination, the schoolyard is already bustling with students. They look sprightly and carefree, perhaps glad to be back among their friends.

The air is filled with the chatter of excited teenagers, and groups form and reform here and there. Stories of summer adventures are shared in brash, bragging tones.

In the starkest of contrasts, I make my way through the crowd with my head down, trying to avoid eye contact.

I usually feel like everyone is staring at me, but today, that feeling is amplified. I keep thinking that all of them—including the teachers, the custodians, the lunch lady—know my secret and are judging me for it.

It’s probably all in my head, but I can never be sure anymore.

In the hallway, I see Sin talking to his friends, and my heart almost throbs in pain.

How to tell him? Do I tell him? What will he say? Will he be angry? At who? Who’s at fault here anyways?

Will he blame me?

Each of these questions sends pangs of anxiety through my limbs.

Still, I attempt to play it cool. Instead of spying on Sin like a loser, I turn around and walk into the registration office.

Time to bag the art history class. It had been one of my top choices for this semester, the only thing I had been looking forward to all summer.

As usual, the office is abuzz with activity; students shuffle in and out, while advisors tap away at their keyboards.

I approach the counter, clutching my schedule and request forms.

“Hi. I’m here to register for my classes.”

“Name?” says the woman behind the counter in a curt voice.

“Petra Valentine.”

She types my name into the computer. After a few moments, she looks back at me with an office worker’s vacant stare, like she’s looking at a spot on the wall behind me.

“Class requests?”

I hand her my forms, my excitement barely contained.

“I’m really excited about Art History with Ms. Matthews. It’s my first choice.”