Trent’s baby.
After how horrible I’ve been to him I don’t see how I can tell him. I’ve said so many mean things to him the last few weeks. Things I’ll never be able to take back. I’m sure he already hates me, and why would he want a baby? We’re sixteen, nowhere near ready to be parents. We’re both kids ourselves.
I sit up and toss the stick in the trashcan. I wash my hands and splash my face with water.
I have to tell my mom.
She hates me.
But she’s my mom.
She’ll be there for me…right?
She’ll make this better.
Surely she’ll know what to do.
She has to.
I crack open the bathroom door and venture into the living room. Ivy is asleep, but my mom shouldn’t be drunk yet. She doesn’t start drinking until late…although, in past weeks she’s been starting earlier.
I’m not surprised to find her sitting on the couch drinking a beer as she speaks to her latest fuck buddy. I don’t even remember his name. John? James? Jim? I think it’s Jim.
“Mom,” my voice cracks.
She looks up at me, anger causing her to snarl. “What do you want, brat?”
I don’t like it when she calls me that. It makes me feel like nothing I do is ever good enough, and I try so hard to get her to love me. I know she’s going to be angry when I tell her I’m pregnant. But she had me when she was young, so I think she’ll understand. Maybe it’ll make us grow closer.
“I need to talk to you,” I whisper, “alone,” I added as my eyes flicked towards the man in the recliner.
“Whatever you need to say to me you can say in front of Jim,” she sits back, taking a large gulp of beer. “Spit it out. I don’t have all day.”
My eyes squeeze shut. Now I’m wishing I had waited to tell her, to let it sink in more, so I could process it.
I didn’t though, and if I don’t tell her something, she’ll get angry and hit me.
It was foolish of me to think she’d take me into her arms and make it better. She didn’t care about Ivy or me. We were nothing to her, nothing but a burden.
I decide to tell her the truth. After all, that’s why I came out here in the first place.
“I’m pregnant,” I say, choosing not to sugarcoat the words.
Her mouth falls open. “I always knew you’d turn out to be nothing but a slut,” she glares as she looks me up and down.
Her words hurt, but I’ve learned to keep my face void of emotion.
“I’ll take you the clinic and we’ll have that thing taken care of,” she points at my stomach.
“What?” I stumble back, protectively clutching my stomach and the baby residing there.
“For an abortion,” she says unnecessarily.
“No,” I gasp. “I don’t want that. I want to keep it.” I’m shocked that she would even suggest such a thing.
“Honey,” she leans back on the couch, “I’m just trying to save you from my mistake.”
I flinch. She’s talking about me. She’s basically saying she wished someone had been there to tell her to get an abortion.