I shake myself from the panicked state I’m in and stand. My hands are shaking. The room is really hot. I pull at the collar of my shirt and pace from the single window in the living room to the back of the apartment where the kitchen is. It’s summer, but why the fuck is it so hot in here? Shit.
“Baby, you’re sweating,” Lydia says. I close my fists and find that they’re really wet. I turn back to the living room and pull the window up and stick my head out while eyeing the fire escape. There’s no breeze. Why the fuck isn’t there a breeze? This isn’t helping. I ditch the window and race back to the kitchen where I open the freezer and stick my head inside. Finally. Fucking finally.
“I have a test,” she says. “I can take the test.”
I wave her off and give her a thumbs-up. I don’t hear any movement from the living room. Why isn’t she moving? Why the fuck isn’t she moving?
“Take the test, Lyd!” I shout forcefully into a bag of frozen peas. My life flashes before my eyes. Lydia moves from the couch and makes some kind of loop through the living room. We have a one-bedroom. I guess we could get a two-bedroom. Kids need their own room, right? Shit. How did this happen? Shit. Shit. Shit. Oh God. If she’s pregnant . . . Dad’s going to make me marry her. I mean, he can’t make me, but he can shun me until I do what’s right. Mom would hate me for leaving her. Even Mel would probably hate me if I left Lydia pregnant.
I should have fucking blown my load in my hand. I don’t even know when it possibly happened, but I should just stick to jerking my chicken from now on.
“For Christ sake, Lyd. Have you taken the fucking test yet?” I yell. I can’t feel my nose. Or my cheeks. I should really close the freezer.
It takes another minute for me to remove my head and close the freezer door. I walk around the kitchen into the bedroom and then the bathroom. Lydia is perched on the edge of the closed toilet, and she’s holding a little plastic stick. I’ve been having sex since I was sixteen and have successfully avoided this scene until now. I’m too young for this. I could be my dad’s age and I’d still be too goddamn young for this with Lydia.
“Well?”
“I can’t read it,” she mumbles and sniffles. I take the stick from her hands and can’t figure it out either. The box says there should be a plus sign for pregnant and a negative sign for not pregnant. The horizontal line is blurry, and I can’t tell if there’s a vertical line or not.
“Let’s go get another one,” I say and check my watch. Shit. Family dinner. “After dinner. If we don’t show up, Mom will worry.”
“Janet always worries,” Lydia says flatly. “When are our lives going to stop revolving around her worrying?”
I bite my cheek to avoid commenting. I’m not up for the argument about my mother right now.
“Dinner. We’re doing dinner. Then we’re getting another test. I need food and a fucking break from this shit right now. So food.” I take a deep breath and scrub my face. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” Her voice is meek and she nods. I change my shirt and run a wet washcloth over my face real quick while Lydia freshens up and slips into a pair of flats. We make the walk to my parents’ house without a sound. She reaches for my hand a few times, but I dodge the contact by shoving my hands in my pockets and swerving to avoid potholes the size of my foot. I think she picks up on it, because a block away from their townhouse, she gives up and folds her arms over her chest.
I CAN HEAR her—Mel—from the other room. She’s telling Hope all about what was supposed to be her entrance into society and how she ditched out of the whole thing. Hope laughs and smiles. I can hear it in her voice. Hope’s been having a hard time in school lately because of a few boys who have been picking on her. She doesn’t feel like she fits in.
I walk around Bailey and Lydia, who are in a conversation about shoes. I can’t even tell what kind of shoes they’re talking about—what kind of shoes could possibly cause a ten-minute conversation, I don’t even know. I slip into the hallway and peer into the front room. Mom is in Dad’s arm chair with a drink in her hand. Her eyes are fixated on the little redhead and the pretty blonde on the floor by her feet who are playing with Barbies.
“Was your mommy mad?” Hope asks in response to Mel’s admission that she refused to be a debutante.
“For a little while, but you know what?” Hope bounces but doesn’t answer Mel. “My mom knows I didn’t want to be like everybody else. I wanted to be like me, and I didn’t want to participate.”
“You don’t like pretty dresses?” Hope asks.
“Sometimes,” Mel says. “It’s other stuff, too. But it’s hard to understand.”
“I’m glad you could make it, Mel,” Mom says. She leans forward and brushes down a stray piece of Mel’s hair.
A warm hand curls around my shoulder as Lydia steps beside me. She squeezes my shoulder and levels me with a firm scowl.
“Yes, we’re so happy you could crash our family dinner,” Lydia says.