Blaze (17 page)

“I’m fine,” I lie, “I just slipped a little.” I point to my pink converse and try to smile. “Wet shoes.”

This
cannot
be
good,
is all my mind can say. Over and over.
This
cannot
be
good.
All the way to the van.
This
cannot
be
good.
The soggy group of us pile in.
This
cannot
be
good
in
any
damn
way.

All I want to do is to run back into the mall and buy a pregnancy test from the pharmacy, but I can’t very well risk the boys finding out. I can always claim I need a new toothbrush or something, but then I think of the girl who knows me and my minivan by sight. I don’t need somebody spotting me with a pregnancy test. And I certainly don’t need to be the girl with the pink flame job and the pink hair
and
the pink plus sign on a pregnancy stick.

I try to remember when Flo last came to visit but draw a complete blank. I’ve never really paid much attention to that before. I didn’t realize it was Su-per Virgin Girl’s secret strength. No Flo fear.
Think, Blaze, think!
It was definitely before hanging out with Mark.

Leaning forward to start the minivan, I privately grab at my breast and wince at how sore it feels.
That
means
my
period
is
coming, right?
I flip back through my mind. I remember it came during school, right after third period. We were reviewing the first half of a science unit, so, that would’ve made it the middle of the month. And that means it was a week before Mark and I hooked up.

One week plus over four weeks is…
five
and
a
half?
Five and a half weeks?

I pull the van over to the side of the road and stare out the windshield until Josh’s voice penetrates my steady thought stream of
This
is
bad! This is really, really bad!

“Blaze?”

I grab my phone and start texting Terri.

“I’m fine,” I lie again “Just almost hit that squirrel. Didn’t you see it?”

“Who are you texting?”

“Just Terri.” I finally tell him something true.

My text reads:

911 need you to meet me at my house with PG test STAT!!!!

I hit
SEND
and ease the van back onto the road.

“I just asked her to swing by later to watch a movie.” I’m back to lying to my little brother. But it isn’t like I have options. I never even admitted the truth about having sex with his coach, so I’d best keep the lies flowing.

At least something is flowing out of me.

“Oh. My. God!” Terri exclaims as soon as I open my front door.

“Did you bring it?” I ask.

“I can’t believe you might be P.G.”

I shush her, and she whispers, “I got this from my sister’s stash.” Terri’s second oldest sister sleeps around and supposedly buys pregnancy tests in bulk. I always figured Terri was exaggerating about her, but here she is at my door waving a plastic grocery bag wrapped around a wand-shaped item. I take it and ignore her wide-eyed stare as I head for the bathroom.

By the time I come out, the still-developing test is back in the bag clutched in my hand. Terri has moved to the couch, but her shocked look remains the same. I wave for her to follow me up to my room, where she parks her bug-eyed self on my bed.

“I know, I know.” I toss the bag containing the test that will determine the rest of my life on the bed beside her. “You don’t need to say anything.”

“I can’t say anything,” Terri finally manages to speak.

I look at her. “I can’t believe how screwed I am.”

“How late are you?”

“Over a week?”

The two of us watch the bag until she finally says, “I think it might be done by now.”

“I can’t look.” My mind chants a new and louder stream of
This
could
be
bad. This could be so bad.

“Well, I’m not gonna touch something you peed on.”

We stare at the bag for another few minutes.

“I can’t handle this.” Terri finally grabs at it.

“I got it, I got it.” I reach in and pull out the small white plastic wand.

Please
don’t let this be bad.
“Okay, so it shows two pink lines. What does that mean?”

I close my eyes and wait for Terri to give me the news.

“Oh, um…” she stammers, and I open one eye to glare at her. “I’m not sure?” Terri waves her arms, her hands flopping uselessly up and down. “There were three tests left in the opened pack,” she wails. “I just grabbed one of them and came over.”

I resist screaming at the top of my lungs. But just barely.

“We should call Amanda,” Terri says. “She’ll know what this means.”

Amanda doesn’t answer her cell phone, and I decide she’s officially a lousy friend.

“What’ll we do?” I’m scarcely holding it together and my little mouse room is getting smaller by the minute. “Is the second line a minus sign, or does the second line just being pink indicate that my life is officially over?” I examine the little window as closely as possible, but the two pink lines remain meaningless, and finally my hand starts shaking.

“It’ll be okay,” Terri soothes. “We’ll just look it up online.”

Jumping onto my laptop, Terri quickly finds the site of the company printed on the side of the test. It doesn’t take long for us to get the information we need.

Turns out: two pink lines represent one indicator that the test is working, plus one minus sign that equals two overjoyed teenagers.

Terri and I start jumping up and down and laughing and hugging each other. I cannot believe I’ve just escaped complete disaster. I’m so elated I feel like I can fly.

Terri pulls back, grinning. “I didn’t want tell you in case you really were preggers. But my sister once told me it’s pretty common for your cycle to get messed up after you do it for the first time.”

I grin back at her. “I could slap you for not telling me that sooner. But I’m just too damned happy to care right now.”

“Something like this really puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?” Terri picks up the mirrored sunglasses resting on my dresser and asks casually, “Can I have these?”

I nod, just as my phone starts blasting Amanda’s perky ringtone.

“And look who’s calling five minutes too late to be helpful.”

“Typical Amanda,” says Terri.

“I’m not complaining,” I say. “I’m just grateful for everything right now.”

“Hello, negative-pregnancy-test-results-R-us!” I jovially answer Amanda’s call.

“Oh-my-god-I’m-so-sorry!” Amanda’s voice rushes from my phone.

“Um, I wasn’t really trying to get pregnant or anyth—”

“No, not that!” she practically shouts. “Haven’t you been on FriendsPlace tonight?”

“You know I don’t have time for that stuff,” I say, but Amanda’s tone is making me nervous. I mouth to Terri, “Sign onto FriendsPlace.”

“I’m-so-sorry-I’m-so-sorry-I’m-so-sorry,” Amanda keeps babbling, until Terri finally deciphers what she’s babbling about.

“Uh, oh,” is Terri’s assessment.

“What the heck is everyone freaking out about?” I look over Terri’s shoulder and scan the threads of ongoing conversations to find the one that has exploded with comments. The thread belongs to Mark.

THWACK!
I physically feel the impact of what I see.

There I am. In all my nippled glory in the photo Amanda sent. The amateur-porn-like blurry edges, the inviting expression, the see-through pink lace. The beauty mark underneath my right nipple might as well be giving a wink. The photo is labeled, “Blaze in Heat!” Staring at it, I can practically smell the putrid perfumed air from Lucy’s Lucky Lingerie all over again.

“That bastard!” I shout. Which gets Amanda going again with the I’m-so-sorries. “Just shut up, Amanda,” I say and hang up on her.

“Oh my god,” Terri says. “These comments are horrible.”

She tries to block my view, but I can see that the thread is completely wallpapered with the letters S and L and U and T, in that order. Over and over. And usually with exclamation points, like: SLUT! SLUT! SLUT! SLUT!

I imagine the gravelly voice of the Thing from the Fantastic Four grumbling,
“What a revoltin’ development this is!”

I couldn’t agree with the Thing more.

“Hey,” says Terri, “it’s not all bad. Here’s a comment from someone who says ‘I don’t care, she looks so hot it doesn’t matter what sort of—’ oh, sorry.”

She gives a sheepish grin, and I resist the urge to cuff her in the back of the head with my palm. Barely.

“Out of my way.” I knock her aside with my hip and start typing.

“What’re you doing?” Terri asks. “You’re not leaving a comment, are you?”

“God, no,” I tell her. “I’m just letting Mark know I’m going to murder him in cold blood if he doesn’t take this photo down immediately.”

“You should tell him you’re calling your lawyer,” Terri encourages. “I’ve heard about guys getting labeled as sex offenders for this kind of shit.”

The thought of actually finding a lawyer makes me feel a little queasy, but I’m pretty sure Mark will take the photo down once he realizes the crazed reaction it’s causing. I can’t believe all the comments. It’s as if there isn’t anything else to look at on the Internet.

“This is going to blow over at school, right?” I say, trying not to panic.

“Right!” says Terri. “I don’t even recognize half of the people leaving comments.”

“Great. So people who never even met me think I’m a slut.”

Terri starts to shake her head with a protesting
No!
but has to redirect to a nod, conceding that the FriendsPlace consensus seems to be:
I’m a slut.

“Well,” I say. “At least I’m still not pregnant.”

“That’s right.” Terri brightens, but I don’t join in her improvisational no-baby-in-da-belly dance. I don’t feel much like celebrating. After a bit of fake cheering, I let her know I’m heading to bed.

“Thanks for these,” Terri says, putting on my sunglasses and giving a few model poses before she leaves. I snap my laptop shut, realizing they were my final surviving pair from the summer.

It looks like I’ll have to face everyone at school without mirrored shades to hide behind. Eye contact will not make this easier. I plant my face in my pillow. I’m definitely staying home tomorrow. A day away should give rumors and gossip a chance to die. Once Mark takes the photo down, I hope my nipples’ online debut quickly becomes a faded memory. It’ll suck if folks at school treat me differently over a stupid photo that I never even sent.

I’m not a slut.
I’m sure people who know me will figure out the truth right away. Problem is, even with the attention I’ve been getting from my pink hair and flaming minivan and my comic circulating through the school, not many people really know me.

I may need to practice going invisible all over again.

• • •

Soccergod
: Take down that stupid comic and I’ll take down your picture.

Blazefire22
: You didn’t take it down yet?? What the hell is the matter with you?? People are calling me a slut online.

Soccergod
: beats getting called a manwhore

Blazefire22
: That’s practically a compliment. Besides. I was
just
a virgin and you are a
total
manwhore.

Soccergod
: slut

Blazefire22
: Seriously, Mark. Take the photo down or I’m calling a lawyer. I’m underage you know.

Soccergod
: yeah, well so am I

Blazefire22
: That doesn’t even make sense. I wrote a parody of our pathetic relationship. You posted a naked picture of me online.

Soccergod
: Not totally naked.

After sharing such sharp, stimulating banter with Quentin, this nonsense exchange with Mark makes me feel like my brain is being shoved into a jar.

Blazefire22
: Writing to you is making me stupider. Take the fucking picture down, Mark. Or you’re going to be sorry.

Soccergod
: I already am sorry. Sorry I was ever nice to you. Ever tried to show you a good time.

Blazefire22
: Take the picture down NOW you simpleminded asshat. I’m signing off.

He
is
so
not
getting
his
DVD
back.

• • •

“Hey, Blaze! You in there?”

I open my eyes. I must’ve fallen asleep at some point, since morning sunlight is slicing through my room. My head feels thick as I heave into a sitting position and yell at Josh to go away. “Just take the bus to school.”

“No way!” he whines. “You promised no bus this week.”

I scan my heavy brain for a reason why I’d made such a promise. There isn’t one.

“Did not!” I shout back.

He’s quiet a few minutes, so I know I caught him bluffing.

“Pleeeeeaaaaase!” Begging is always Josh’s final option.

I consider a moment. It really wouldn’t be a big deal to drive him to school. I can still come straight back to bed and resume the depression I’ve slotted for today.

Or maybe I should force Josh to stay home with me. We could have a superhero movie marathon. Of course, thinking of that makes me think of Dad and then the fact that I still haven’t finished inventorying his comics like he asked, let alone mailed them to him. If I’m treating myself to a day off, I may as well revisit the basement, aka the scene of the almost-kiss that would lead to the untimely death of Su-per Virgin Girl.

“Wanna stay home and help me go through Dad’s comics?”

Mom left before five a.m., so as Josh’s surrogate guardian I feel it is within my power to demand he keep me company on this miserable day.

Josh asks, “Can we go to the Country Kitchen for breakfast?”

“Lunch,” I counter.

“Deal! I’m going back to bed.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say and roll over.

I can’t get back to sleep, so I just lie there in the fetal position thinking about the awful things people were saying about me online. All I wanted to do was send a message that girls shouldn’t get taken in by sharks who pose as cute boys. It was my own fault that I lost my virginity to Mark. I’ll probably always regret it. But I don’t deserve to have the whole Internet think I’m a slut.
This
hurts
so
much
. I just want to disappear.

Finally, I can’t stand my thoughts another second and get up. I go downstairs and eat a few handfuls of crackers before heading into the basement with a light bulb borrowed from the living room lamp. Once I get the light working, I start going through Dad’s comics. Eventually Josh comes down and sits on a box of stuffed animals that probably houses generations of mice along with our soft childhood friends. He doesn’t move to join me as I flip through a batch of
Dr. Strange
issues from the 1970s. I did read through them once, but to be honest, I don’t really get Dr. Strange or understand why Dad ever liked him.

It may be that he reminds me too much of a magician, and I’ve always hated magicians. When I was younger, I’d drive myself crazy trying to figure out how they do their magic tricks, and then I just sort of gave up and decided to ignore the whole magic thing. Yes, I know, Dr. Strange is a sorcerer, not a magician, but still. Not even the fact that he’s so tight with Spidey can elevate him in my mind. And maybe that’s part of the problem—being able to levitate stuff doesn’t make you a superhero. It makes you an entertainer at kids’ birthday parties, wearing a silly cape and a ridiculous mustache.

I hand Josh the list. “I’ll call them out and you write them down.”