Page 2 of Pucking Secret

“I have a problem,” I reply. “Um… can you come over?”

“Sure.” Now she sounds worried. “What’s going on?”

“Just… come over. Please.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I hang up the call and drop my phone on my bed. Unable to help myself, I pace again. I just can’t keep myself from moving. I think part of me is scared that if I stand still for too long, reality will finally catch up to me and I’ll have no choice but to take that test. There’s no way I can do it by myself, though. I just can’t. When Grace gets here, I’ll be able to take it knowing she’s around to pick me up and put me back together if I end up shattering into a million pieces.

About thirty minutes later, the ring of the doorbell echoes through the house. Gasping, I run out of my room and down the stairs. I yank the front door open and Grace is standing on the porch, her bright blue eyes shimmering with concern. Her long dark hair is pulled back into a smooth ponytail. She’s wearing an old hoodie and jean shorts that I’m guessing she threw on in a hurry, because there’s a stain on the front of the hoodie; usually, Grace would never leave her house without being totally put together. She’s tugging on her hoodie’s string in an unconscious, fidgety gesture that shows how anxious she is.

“What’s going on?” she demands to know.

Without saying a word, I yank her into the house, slamming the door shut. “Come with me,” I hiss, and I drag her upstairs to my room.

“Stacey! You’re freaking me out!”

Good, because I’m freaking out too, and I don’t want to do it alone. When we reach the second floor hallway, I let her go and dash into the bathroom to grab the pregnancy test. When I come back out, I throw the box at her.

“I might be in trouble,” I whisper.

Grace’s eyes go wide. Her jaw drops as she looks back up at me.

“Holy shit,” she gasps. “Is that… are you… what…?”

“I don’t know,” I whimper. “I haven’t taken it yet. I’m too scared.”

“Stacey… you think you’re pregnant?”

Tears finally break free from my eyes and pour down my cheeks.

“I’m three weeks late!” I sob, stabbing a hand into my hair and tangling my fingers in the dark red strands. All my fear and anxiety come pouring out of me and I struggle to breathe. “What else could it be?”

So much for my stress-related theory. That goes straight out the window when I start actually being honest with myself.

Grace takes hold of my shoulders and gives them a squeeze.

“Hey, hey, take a breath,” she gently instructs. “It’s going to be okay. Complicated for sure, but it could be worse, yeah?”

I shake my head. “How? How could it be worse?”

I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but seriously? If I’m pregnant, my life is ruined. All my plans and goals are out the window. I’ll be a teenage mother scraping to get by, just like my mom was.

Will I grow as bitter and resentful as she is? Will I look at my child and think about all the things I had to give up in order to raise her?

Oh God, I don’t want to turn into my mother. I don’t want to be that angry and miserable.

“You could be going through this totally alone,” Grace begins in a slow, careful tone, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts, “but you’re not going to, right? You’ve got Owen. Have you told him about this yet?”

Typically, thinking of Owen would calm me down and fill me with warmth, but not in this moment. We’ve been together fortwo years and the optimistic part of me wants to believe that he’ll stand by my side if I am actually pregnant to support and help me. However, there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head that sounds way too much like Mom’s telling me he’ll cut and run. This doesn’t have to fuck up his future the way it’ll fuck up mine.

We are going to the University of Wisconsin—Madison. Me for pre-med, and then eventually med school to become an orthopedic surgeon, and Owen to play hockey and eventually be drafted to the NHL. We got our acceptance letters a few weeks ago. Our plans are set. The next step of our life together is laid out before us, clear as day… or at least, itwas.

Now, nothing is clear. Nothing is certain. Our plans might just be dreams we’ll never be able to realize, all because of one stupid white stick and its stupid pink lines.

“I wanted him here with me while I took the test,” I confess in a whisper. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts. I don’t know what’s going on with him.”

Grace takes in a deep breath and gives me a determined look.

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