You’re scared, I know, and it’s not that tenth grade trigonometry test that has you shaking in your shoes. You hardly slept at all last night, I know, and I can see those circles big and dark around the bottom of your eyelids.
It’s not trigonometry, is it? It’s another test you took, in the folds of the dark, while your mom slept soundly in the other room and while your brother played video games in the basement. It’s the test you took int he cold tile of the bathroom, next to your pink electric toothbrush and coach sized bag of make up.
You passed the test, too— but not in the way you wanted to, was it? This was a test you were hoping to fail, to throw away and forget about, to attribute to your compulsive paranoia of counting days. But the test was positive, a positive with two lines next to the word that sent you spilling your contents of dinner into the toilet.
And so today, in school, the test weighs heavier on your heart than any math or science or social problem. I didn’t even like him, I didn’t even want it, is all you can think about the party last weekend, about the boy with the bad breath to whom you said yes, because he’s a football player and everyone knows that’s the cream of the crop. And now he’s left you with this thing, this issue, this ball of cells slowly growing inside you that, if left unresolved will grow into a separate, living human.