Maybe I’ll get my period soon. Hopefully, then, my body and mind can let go of what happened between us. But as I consider it, a new sinking feeling weighs like lead in the pit of my stomach.My emotions, a delayed period, and now vomiting? I couldn’t be pregnant, could I?I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works. He pulled out before he came.
I worry my lower lip with my teeth.Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top of this whole horrible situation?But it can’t be. I’m just a wreck because I’ve been having horrible sleep on top of having my heart broken. Still, to set my mind at ease, I stop at the convenience store on the way to my aunt’s and pick up a test. Clutching the at-home pregnancy test as I march the last few blocks to the grungy apartment in Uptown where I live, I try not to think about how embarrassing the scene I made at school was today. If I thought having Nicolo ignore me was bad, now I know there are much worse fates.
I’ll just have to suffer through my heartache in silence and, like Nicolo said, stay out of his way. Two more years of high school with him won’t be that bad.Right?
The apartment’s still quiet as I let myself in. Aunt Patritsiya won’t get home from work at the preschool down the road for another few hours. Dropping my backpack at the door, I make a beeline for the bathroom to go take my test.
I set it carefully on the edge of the tub as I await my results, my knees bouncing nervously as I press my palms together in silent prayer. Five minutes later, two vivid pink lines stare up at me. I’m pregnant. I brace against the bathroom counter as I turn to face my reflection. The horror in my crystal-blue eyes makes me almost look crazed. And from the ashen color of my skin and the way my head starts to spin, I wonder if I might just faint.
Sucking in a deep breath through my nose, I try not to focus on what this means. But I have to face the cold hard truth.
I’m going to have a baby.
Nicolo Marchetti’s baby.
1
ANYA
Four Years Later
“Wishme luck on my first day!” I say as I sling my school bag over my shoulder and head toward the door.
“Good luck,” Aunt Patritsiya says with her faint Russian accent, tilting her cheek so I can kiss it as she gives my hand an affectionate squeeze.
Average height and slightly on the plump side, my aunt is several inches shorter than me, and I have to lean down to accommodate the requested kiss she receives every day before I leave.
As I pass the kitchen table, I stop to press a kiss to my daughter’s black curls, which never fail to remind me of her father’s. Clara beams up at me with her innocent hazel eyes, her smile both mischievous and winning me over in a paradoxical combination. She knows she’s too cute to get in trouble, and she fully uses that to her advantage.
“You be good for your auntie today, okay?” I ask, giving Clara a meaningful look.
“Yes, no more coloring on the preschool walls,” Aunt Patritsiya agrees.
She prefers to go by auntie, though she’s technically Clara’s great-aunt. But she always claims it makes her feel so old. I can’t say I blame her. Seeing as I got pregnant before my seventeenth birthday, Aunt Patritsiya is relatively young to be a great-anything at age forty-three.
“Draw me something onpapertoday, Clara. That way, you can bring it home for me to see,” I suggest as I tickle my little girl’s belly.
Clara giggles and she wriggles in her seat. “Yes, Mommy,” she agrees. She turns her attention back to her cereal, which she spoons into her mouth sloppily.
Full of nervous excitement, I march out the front door of our modest little apartment and race down the three flights of stairs to the streets. It’s a half-hour bus ride from here to the campus of Rosehill College, the private university I’ve always dreamed of attending. Finally, after years of hard work and four semesters at a local community college, I’ve earned a full scholarship to the private university’s elite performing arts program. I still can’t believe they accepted me.
Loading up onto the city bus, I find a window seat toward the back and watch the streets of Chicago slowly pass by. It’s been a hard road to get here. Between choosing to keep and raise my child, transferring high schools before graduating and moving on to college, and continuing a rigorous level of training to become a ballerina, I feel as though my life has been a never-ending cycle of sleepless nights and long days. And I don’t know what I would do without my aunt to support and guide me through it all. I couldn’t have done it on my own.
At least now, Clara’s old enough that she goes with my aunt to preschool every day. The first few years of her life had been particularly challenging. But I wouldn’t give a second of it up if it meant living without my baby girl. She’s the center of my universe and the light of my life. Even when she’s causing mischief, Clara brightens my day.
It’s a beautiful August day outside, and the streets are bustling with activity when I exit the bus and step onto Rosehill’s tiny campus for my first day of school. It takes me no time to find the building that houses the majority of my dance classes, the studios where I’ll be undergoing intense training with some of the best professors in Chicago–if not the US.
The building is made up of beautiful gray stone that forms turrets beneath steeply slanting eaves, giving it an almost castle-like appearance. The archway leading to the main entrance dwarfs me, and my chest swells with pride to know this is where I am attending school.
My first class is choreography with a focus on ballet, and as I step into the studio, my jaw drops. The mats are already taken by numerous students stretching as they prepare for class to start. Though I’m here ten minutes early, I already feel late.
Stuffing my bag into one of the cubbies that line the wall, I remove my tennis shoes, replacing them with dance slippers. Then I pad lightly over to the mats to join my fellow students, who stretch as they converse about their summer and all they’ve been up to.
I choose a spot slightly away from the mix, intensely aware of how out of place I feel. I can see by the make of their clothes that I’m surrounded by students of a completely different economic echelon than I am. They wear nothing but the top brand outfits and dancing apparel, whereas my leggings are starting to look a bit threadbare from the years of use they’ve seen. My dance shoes are looking run-down as well in comparison to the other shoes in this room. But they’re comfortable enough to get the job done.
“Venice was my favorite,” one girl gushes as she leans into her stretch. “But they have a pasta that absolutely freaked me out. They use squid ink for sauce, so the whole dish is black. Luckily, my parents are fully on board with my trainer’s meal plan, so I couldn’t eat it anyway. No carbs for me.”
“How long were you there?” the tall, dark-haired girl next to her asks. Her pixie cut stands out like a dark halo all around her head, making her look like a fierce fairy.