"When are you due?"
I was not going to be that girl. I
was not that girl, marked by pregnancy, announcing my
mistake and stupidity to everyone. Most of my friends
didn’t know about it. Even my new boyfriend was
clueless, in more ways than one: all that direct
contact with my ever-rounding form and he never asked
a question. I was going to spend my last trimester in
hiding, living with my father and stepmother.
Everyone swallowed the story, my need for a little
time away.
It seemed to be working, the baggy
clothes campaign, the stony denial, but one incident
brought doubt. A friend, Lynne, and I were out
skipping school at the usual place, a shopping mall
near school. We stopped in a boutique where Lynne
bought a pair of earrings. As she was ringing up the
sale, the salesclerk gave me a friendly glance.
“When are you
due?” she asked.
I blushed. She blushed. We were
both briefly, awkwardly silent, before the clerk
quickly covered for me. “Oh, no! You’re too young!
I’m so sorry!”
Thank you, lady.
Later, at the food court, I asked
Lynne “Am I getting fat? Do I look pregnant to you?”
gently patting my belly, camouflaged by loose-fitting
clothing. Lynne dipped a French fry in ketchup, gave
me a quick once over. “You look fine,” she said, and
shoved the fry in her mouth. That was
that.