Chapter Text
Friday afternoons are supposed to feel lighter. School lets out, people loosen. I noticed the problem because my body did not do that. I sat in the last classroom of the day with my notebook open, pretending to take notes, and counted dates in my head instead. I did it once, then again, slower, then a third time with my jaw clenched because I already knew the answer and did not want it to be correct. I am not bad at tracking patterns. I am especially not bad at tracking my own. I had noticed earlier in the week, dismissed it, told myself stress messes with timing, told myself deviation is normal, told myself not to spiral. Friday afternoon took those excuses and stripped them down to nothing. It hadn’t come. There was just absence, and absence has weight when it lasts too long.
I walked home instead of catching a ride, even though Haymitch offered. I told him I had something to finish, which was not a lie exactly, just not the whole truth.
The streets were quiet in the way they always are when people leave town early or retreat indoors. Houses looked the same as they always did. Nothing had changed except me, and I hated that fact more than anything else. I unlocked the door to the house and stepped inside like it was haunted. Tam Amber was in his shed and a sticky note on the fridge declared that Clerk Carmine got a surprise gig. I had the house to myself, at least for a little while.
I went straight to the bathroom and shut the door. I sat on the edge of the tub with my elbows on my knees and stared at the floor. I did not cry yet. Crying felt premature, like admitting something out loud before it was proven.
I googled the symptoms. The stages. The cycles. Anything that could just prove it as a mess up on my body’s behalf—not mine. I knew better. I knew it lined up. I knew nothing was foolproof.
I stood up, flushed the toilet for no reason, washed my hands, and went to my room. I lay on my bed fully dressed and stared at the ceiling. I thought about the way adults talk about responsibility. I thought of the old crows in town, gossiping over a girl who “should’ve kept her legs shut.” I saw the same girls shrinking into themselves at school, masked in baggy clothing. In our town, nothing had moved on much past the 1950s. Same stigma, same mistakes. In this quiet town, a quaint place exclaimed the tourists that passed by in the summer it’s looks just like the old days. Sure felt like it too.
I told myself not to jump ahead. I told myself to wait. Friday bled into evening without my permission.
I did not sleep much that night. Every time I drifted off, my mind yanked me back with another reality. Another fate shared by anyone like me. Saturday morning arrived in a blur of brief, fretful sleep.
I waited until Clerk Carmine left for his errands. He told me he would be gone for a few hours. He looked at me a little longer than usual before he left, like he was checking for something. I kept my face neutral. I’ve never been much good at that, but I think I did fool him.
The drugstore was three blocks away. The next town over was too far to walk and would take too long to catch a bus. My life, if it would be true, revolved around secrets now. I walked there with my hood up even though the weather did not call for it. The clerk looked like newcomer, attracted by the quiet life, all too unaware of what this small town was really like. Sure, it’s much the same anywhere you go, but the promise of difference was always there, just out of reach. Didn’t—shouldn’t—stop people from trying though.
The clerk barely looked at me when I paid. That should have made it easier. It did not.
I walked home faster, my heart beating too hard for the distance. Back in the bathroom, I locked the door again. This time, I sat on the floor. I read the instructions with blurry eyes and followed them with shaking hands. When I was done, I set the test on the counter and stared at the wall instead of at it. I counted to sixty. Then ninety. Then I told myself to stop delaying and turned my head.
Two lines.
Something inside me dropped so suddenly that my body reacted before my brain did. I slid back against the tub and folded forward, my hands gripping the fabric of my shirt like it could anchor me. I made a sound that I did not recognize as my own.
I cried hard and fast, the kind of crying that is forced into silence, the cries tearing my throat but never escaping. My chest hurt. My face felt hot and tight. I pressed my forehead into my knees and let it happen because fighting it felt impossible.
I cried for all the versions of myself that had just been narrowed—or at the least scarred—by this. I had the option to remove this, take it away from my body, but any option would still not hide the fact that it had happened.
I cried because I knew exactly how people would frame this. I cried because I could already hear the language they would use. I cried because I was angry at myself in a precise, controlled way that hurt worse than shame. I know I can be rash. I know I take risks. This was not that. This was not a moment of impulse. That distinction mattered to me even while I was falling apart. I cried because the distinction would not matter to anyone else.
At some point, the crying slowed. My throat burned. My eyes ached. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt and sat there breathing, waiting for the next thing.
I rinsed my face, threw the test into the trash, buried under other things like that would change reality, and sat on the closed toilet lid. I stared at the door. I thought about timelines. I thought about options without naming them. I thought about medical appointments, school policies, paperwork, the way Clerk Carmine’s jaw tightens when he is furious but holding it back, Tam Amber being serious, disappointed. I imagined their faces when they found out.
I spent the rest of Saturday in my room. I say I had a headache. There were no questions asked, just food in front of my door. That was worse than questions. Sunday passed in fragments. I watched the light move across the wall. I checked my phone and did not respond to Haymitch’s messages beyond short answers.
He noticed. He always notices. He asked if he should come by. I say no. I hated myself for that even as I did it. I was not ready to see his face. I was not ready to hear his voice say my name like nothing had changed.
By Sunday night, the shock had settled into something heavier. Not panic exactly. But a cold acceptance. I lay in bed and stared at the dark, my hand resting flat against my stomach like I could feel something definitive there. I could not.
I thought about the way people love to say girls my age do not understand consequences. I understand them intimately. I just do not accept that fear should be the only governing force in my life.
Monday morning came whether I was ready or not. I got dressed. I went to school. I answered questions. I took notes. I functioned. Inside, I was turmoiled. The thoughts were more rational now. I had in some way accepted my fate, but the truths behind it pushed harder than ever.
I knew who needed to know first. I knew who deserved to hear it from me. Haymitch had been part of my life for years, he knew me in ways even my family didn’t. He deserved honesty even if honesty scared me. He deserved the chance to react before the world did. The thought of telling him made my stomach twist, but it also steadied me. It wouldn’t be my burden alone anymore.
Still, I pushed him away at school. I begged my absence over the weekend to illness. It was technically the truth. He wasn’t satisfied but let me be.
By the time the final bell rang, I had chosen my decision. I walked through the halls with that decision sitting heavy but firm in my chest. I would tell Haymitch. Not this afternoon, maybe not even today at all, but soon. I owed him that. I owed myself that.
I went home and did my homework. I ate dinner. I made small talk but avoided anyone’s eyes. When I went to bed, I lay awake and stared at the ceiling again, but this time my thoughts had edges. This was real. I was still me. Those two facts existed at the same time. I did not know what came next. I only knew I would not pretend nothing had happened, and I would not let this erase my voice. Tomorrow, or the next day, I would tell Haymitch.