Page 52 of Summer's Echo
She shook her head with a slight shrug, uncertainty written all over her. “My period hasn’t come,” she finally said.
“I–I thought you said you were cramping. That’s why I couldn’t come over the other day,” I said, confusion and concern thick in my voice. I studied her, searching for any understanding, but she refused to meet my eyes.
“I lied,” she blurted, her voice trembling. “I was hoping…praying for cramps. Praying that it would come, but it didn’t. It–It hasn’t. Echo, what am I going to do?” Her words came out in a rush, uneasy and unfiltered, her eyes finally locking onto mine. A storm of dismay swirled in them, threatening to drown us both.
Panting roughly, she was on the brink of a panic attack. I didn’t think; I just reacted. Closing the gap between us, I wrapped her tightly in my arms, pulling her into my chest.
“Baby,” I whispered, stroking the back of her head, “you’re not in this by yourself, okay?” I tilted her chin gently, needing her to understand. “You’re not alone, Summer,” I repeated over and over until she gave me a shaky nod.
I glanced at the tests spread out on the bed, staring back at me like ticking time bombs. The unopened boxes sat silently, their presence loud and rambunctious, like they were waiting to detonate. She wanted to do this together, that much was clear.
Swallowing hard, I looked at Summer. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt dress. Her shoulders were stiff, her eyes darting anywhere but at me. It was rare to see her like this—so unsure, so vulnerable. It made me want to wrap her in my arms again and shield her from whatever truth we were about to uncover.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “It’s probably nothing, but we have to find out.” My voice was steadier than I felt, the calm tone surprising even me.
Clasping her hand in mine, I led her to the Jack and Jill bathroom that my brother and I shared. The air in the room felt heavier than we’d ever experienced together. The mundane, boyish details of this space felt at odds with the gravity of the moment. Samir’s Iron Man toothbrush and a slightly damp towel hanging on the hook. My own razor sat in its holder, a tool I’d only started using a few months ago when the faintest stubble had shown up.
Summer wouldn’t let me leave. She peed on all three tests, right there in front of me, the tension between us as evident as the tile beneath our feet. After cleaning herself and washing her hands, we sat on the bathroom floor, leaning against the tub. I held her close, my knuckle brushing gently along her cheek in a rhythm meant to calm her—and maybe me. Those four minutes stretched into an eternity, each second laden with instability.
In that span of brutal silence, my mind played tricks on me. Instead of despair, I started building an imaginary life with my Sunshine—attending the same college, renting a small apartment, and raising our baby side by side. The load of it wasn’t light, but the idea of it didn’t terrify me. It felt almost…possible. Then, the timer on my watch jolted me out of my daze, as if telling me to wake the hell up and get real.
Summer’s face told a completely different story. She wasn’t constructing mythical futures in her head. She looked utterly wrecked—terrified, as if her world had already crumbled. Her knees were drawn tightly to her chest, her body rocking faintly like a leaf caught in a relentless wind. Peeling her off my chest, my body stammered a little before standing. Her gaze stayed fixed on some invisible point, refusing to follow me as I turned to the tests. I swallowed, but the mountain building in my throat wouldn’t move. It was a visceral punch to my gut, stealing the air from my lungs. Two pink lines. On all three tests.
Summer was pregnant.
“Summer…” I croaked, the scratchy tone of my voice frayed with remnants of the boy on the verge of becoming a man. I reached for her. She didn’t move. I bent, scooping her up like I could somehow carry both her and this crushing new reality. Her petite frame folded into me, trembling, her tears soaking my shirt. Together, we stared at the tests, hoping for a miracle that wasn’t coming. The lines remained as bright and clear as the new truth we were being forced to accept.
“Hey, look at me,” I whispered, cupping her face. “Summer, look at me.” She lifted her tear-streaked face reluctantly, her eyes glassy with despair. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”
She shook her head, tears falling harder now, her voice broken. “No, E. It’s not.”
Her sob hit me like a wrecking ball, and I couldn’t hold back my own tears. We stood there, locked in this debilitating bubble of grief and angst like a boulder crushing us both.
“Echo! What is going on?” My mother’s voice cut through the air like a blade, pulling us violently back to the moment. Her footsteps stopped abruptly in the doorway. Her sharp, questioning eyes darted from the tests on the counter to Summer, then to me. “Is she pregnant?” she asked, her voice rising into an almost shrill pitch.
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat making it almost impossible to speak. I held Summer tighter, as if shielding her from the monsoon that was yet to come. “Yes, Mum,” I said, my voice wavering, taking on that awkward pubescent crack.
Her reaction was immediate. “Echo. No!”
The anguish in her voice echoed through the small space, a siren marking the magnitude of the moment. Summer buried her face deeper into my neck, trying her best to hide in me. I tightened my hold on her, bracing us both for what came next.
Chapter Twenty-one
Summer
Summer 2005, Two Weeks Before SpelHouse
Icringedwhen the doorbell rang at exactly seven o’clock as scheduled. From my room, I peeked out of my window, my breathing stalled when I saw thefamiliar SUVparked in front of the house. The streetlights cast a dull glow over the pavement, stretching shadows beneath the figures standing at our doorstep. Even from here, I could seeEcho’s tall frame, his posture rigid beside his mother and father. The Abara family was here to discuss thefate of my and Echo’s future. As if one conversation could undo the mess we had made.
I waspregnant. Seven weeks. My first time having sex had resulted ina passion I still couldn’t fully comprehend…and a baby. Echo and I shared something rare that night—something tender, something that felt larger than both of us. We were careful at first, but by morning, as he prepared to leave, we were swept away by the moment. Caution fell by the wayside. We were impulsive. Reckless. And now, the consequences had arrived, knocking at the door like an unwanted guest. It had been nearly a week since we’d found out.Five days of pure hell. After Mrs. Abara’s urgency-riddled tone screeched through my parents’ phone, rapidly spilling Nigerian lingo they couldn’t translate, only two words required comprehension—Summerandpregnant.
My mothercried for three days straight. My fatherdrank through hell week, spending sleepless nightspacing the house, his movements restless, his silence loud. Neither of them couldlook at me. Not that I gave them much of a chance. I had barely left my room since walking out of Echo’s house that day. Under normal circumstances, I would have told my mothereverything—howEcho was worthy of my treasure, how he hadtreated me like something sacred, a prized possession. Howit wasn’t just sex, but an awakening, a moment that changed me. But my mother didn’t want to hear any of that. She didn’t care that Echo made me feelcherished, that his touch wasn’t selfish or rushed, that what we shared wasn’t some meaningless teenage mistake. She didn’t care that it had been themost beautiful, exhilaratingexperience of my life.
My sisters, though, they listened. Because they knew me. They knew I hadn’t reached this decisionlightly—that I hadn’t just fallen into Echo’s arms on a whim. That I hadchosen him. That Ilovedhim. They tried to assure me thateverything would be okay. My brother, on the other hand, had threatened tofly to St. Louis and kill Echo himself.
None of it mattered now. Because in two weeks, I was supposed toleave for Spelman. How was I supposed to do that with ababy in my belly? No one was more disappointed in me thanme. I knew better. God knows my mother had given methe talkmore times than I could count, ever since my first period in middle school. And yet, here I was. Trapped in a moment that was about to change my life forever.
Mama was ateenage mother, and she often blamed it on my granny’s inability—or maybe justlack of desire—to have real conversations with her children about sex. The only sex talk they ever got was a blunt: Don’t do it.
