Eleven Weeks (13 page)

Shae walks over to my side and places herself on the edge of the couch, as far away as she can get from me without actually sitting somewhere else. And, since the curtains Mum is hemming are on the other two lounges in the room, Shae really doesn’t have a whole heap of choice.

“What are you watching?” She gives me a pointed look. One that says
Please say something else.

I throw her the remote in reply. I can’t focus anyway.

She flicks through the stations and settles on a news channel; not the commercial kind, mind you, but the government broadcast ones. You know, extra dry, where the weather comes to you from a politician’s house instead of the zoo.

I turn to study my sister. Her hair is falling perfectly around her face, the right amount of wave for a casual Monday-night dinner, which she is, of course, ready an hour early for. She has on a tiny amount of makeup, and even though her clothes look casual, I know for a fact they’re designer.

She’s so put together; so perfect. She
looks
like a grown-up.

I think back to the times when she’d talk on her phone in her bedroom, when I’d spy on her having boys over.

Even as a teenager, she’d been on top of things.

“Hmph,” Shae sighs.

“What’s up?” I grab a pillow and hug it to my stomach.

“Just this crisis in Syria …” She shakes her head, as if the weight of the world is upon her. “So tragic.”

I start to compose a list in my head.

Things That Are Worse Than Being Pregnant.

Being involved in a war crisis in Syria.

“Mmm.” I nod.

“Do you know how many people have died because of this?” She turns and focuses those crystal-blue eyes on me, and I swear they can see into my soul. “How many children?”

Children, children, children …

Okay, so the word might not really have echoed in my head, but it sure as hell felt like it did. Was I going to murder a child, too? Would that put me on Syria level in my sister’s eyes?

“Are there many … kids … in Syria?” I ask, trying to search for a clue as to how she’d react to my news.

“Stacey.” Shae rolls her eyes. “Of course there are. Have you ever watched the news?”

I shrug and pick at the corner of the cream-coloured pillow. It’s starting to thread at the seam.

“Course,” I mutter, focused on my task at hand.

“Sometimes I wonder …” She turns her attention back to the television just as an ad break comes on. “So have you thought any more about what you’re going to do next year?”

I bust out that list in my mind again.

2. Having to discuss future career plans with my sister.

I lift my gaze and study Shae once more. She’s turned her face to me, so I can see the pointed look she’s throwing me, and it takes everything inside me not to open up the cushion I’m holding and try and hide inside it with the stuffing. Why is she on the attack tonight?

“Not really.”
Just get a job at the supermarket, or maybe as a cleaner. Oh, or have a baby. You know, nothing special.

“Is it hard?” Her brow creases, and for a second I think she’s being sympathetic to my cause. Because yes; sometimes, being the only dumb-arse with four high-achieving siblings
is
hard. Because not being dux of the school, or being president of anything bar the social committee isn’t considered that worthwhile in my family.

“Honestly … I’m kind of freaked out.” I bite my lip. “What am I going to do?”

“You can go to TAFE.” Shae smiles, and gives me a light punch on the shoulder. “Or if that’s too hard, you could work a checkout. And, hey! You could be a hairdresser. No one trims my fringe like you do.”

The words warm my heart. I have zero interest in being a hairdresser—people’s scalps gross me out—but it’s nice to hear my sister tell me she thinks I can do something.

“Speaking of, would you mind giving me a trim after dinner? I have my one-year work anniversary dinner tomorrow!” Shae all but squeals, and of course I smile and nod. Her motivation is exposed, but what else can I do?

“Girls, will you help me with a few things in the kitchen?” Mum calls from the next room.

“Stace can do it. I’ve got a big week coming up with work,” Shae yells back. I raise my eyebrows at her.

“I’ll pay you for the trim.” She widens her eyes, like I’m being a baby.

Maybe I am.

Maybe it’s just ’cause I have one growing inside me.

I
STIR
the vegetables around my plate, making little shapes, little faces of peas and carrots and potato. I don’t hear a word my family says. I see their mouths opening, take note of the smiles, the laughter, the puffed-up chests and the fork-to-mouth action.

But all I hear are two things.

My sister’s confidence in my checkout chick career.

And the voice inside of me asking what the hell I’m doing with this baby.

“Can I please be excused?”

I don’t wait for an answer, just push my chair back and walk calmly to the stairs. My stomach is churning, as if a bowling ball is rocking around on a bed of liquid in there.

What the hell am I going to do? The sad thing is—the thing I
hate
to admit—even if I get an abortion, my life is screwed. I’m not going to get into uni, and even if I do, can I really break the mould? Can I be anything
but
Stacey the checkout chick, Stacey the socialite,
Stacey the only disappointment in the Allison household?

I throw myself down on my bed, staring at my white ceiling, the posters on my walls of all the movie stars I liked when I was thirteen. When I was still a kid.

At least then I didn’t feel so alone. Sure, I was always rushing to grow up, but people still … well, they didn’t treat me like I was on this predestined path to Dumb-ArseVille.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the heat building underneath my lids.
Eff off, tears. Go away.

What if this baby is the one thing I could do right? The one thing I could own, that would love me unconditionally?

I shake my head. I’m being an idiot.

If only there was someone I could talk to about all of this …

I’ve always been popular. I’ve never had any shortage of people willing to share in my deepest, darkest secrets.

Now, I feel desperately alone.

Some secrets you just can’t share.

Me:
I’m sorry.

I hit send and wait for the reply. Of course, it doesn’t come straight away, and I chide myself for checking that my phone isn’t on silent. Three times.

I’ve almost drifted off to sleep when the phone dings right next to my ear, sending me flying upright.

Michael:
What for?

I sigh. What does he mean what for? He’s the one who left
me
the note.

But maybe this is a good thing. Maybe he’s ready to forgive, to forget. I smile as I type out my response.

Me:
For being a bitch to you in Surfer’s. And for eating the last chocolate.

Michael:
??

Me:
Next time we hang out, you’ll see.

This time, the wait is longer. I lick my lips, my eyes glued to the screen.

Michael:
Next time, hey? Well, I can be cool with that. So tell me, how’s tricks back in Lakes?

Me:
No doubt not as exciting as they are on tour with Coal! Any girls throw their underwear at you yet?

Michael:
No more than usual. And when they do, they’re usually aiming for Dave.

I grin as I relax back into my pillows again, enjoying having this ridiculously normal and kind of boring conversation. He’s someone I can talk to. He’s someone who doesn’t think I’m just some slutty bimbo.

He’s someone who is touring the country with the world’s hottest rock band, and couldn’t be there for his pregnant girlfriend. Especially since the kid isn’t even his.

Me:
Hey Michael?

Michael:
Yeah?

Me:
Can I ask you something random?

Michael:
Is it if I think you’re cute? Coz …

I open and close the message icon on my phone at least fifty times in the space of a minute.

Michael:
You know you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Heat rushes to my cheeks and I smile. What the hell is wrong with me? Guys have told me they think I’m sexy. I’ve had roses delivered to my damn class for Valentine’s Day three years running and this—one message from a guy, saying I’m cute, something you’d call a teddy bear—has me blushing?

I shake my head. I need to snap out of it.

Me:
So … you know how I don’t know what I’m going to do next year?

Michael:
Are you going to be an actor, Miss Number One?

I pause. Honestly, I hate the idea. Drama sounds so intense, too much pressure on your career to get the part, to make it big. If only I could practice drama and acting every day, without actually having to go through the rehearsals stage …

Stacey:
I think it’s too much pressure.

Michael:
What about teaching it?

The message comes through so quick that my shoulders jerk in surprise. He had an answer already?

He’s thought about me. About my future.

I blink. Teaching is something I’ve honestly never thought of before. I try the word on for size in my brain.
Teaching
. I could do that. I mean, I’d have to do a bridging course, and study like a mo-fo to get the grades, but I could. I could so totally do that.

All of a sudden, my line of questioning changes.

Me:
I actually like that idea. A lot.

Michael:
Great! Whatcha gonna do next year problem = solved.

Me:
Yeah, well I’ll have to do a bridging course, and apply for a midyear intake. If I even get in.

Suddenly, I’m filled with excitement for this idea. I’d love to teach drama, even if it only seems like a pipe dream at this point.

A pipe dream I may never achieve, thanks to …

Me:
Anyway … so, there’s a puppy. And it doesn’t have anyone else to care for it, and while I can choose if I look after it or not, I know taking care of this thing will really impact my career and studies.

But I probably wont get in to a course anyway …

And it would be kinda nice to have something that depended on me, that I could look after … you know? So I should probably choose the puppy, right?

I hold my breath, count to twenty, and when Michael hasn’t replied I throw the phone down on the bed. I can’t believe I’m asking him this, but it’s the closest I can come without—well, without seeing the sad look in his eyes I know would be there if he found out.

Michael:
What, is it at a shelter or something?

I groan, and thump my head against the pillow.

Me:
Yep. But I’m the only one who can take it.

I pause for a moment.

Me:
Or they’ll kill it.

As soon as I type the words, a wave of guilt floods over me. Now I have to add hypothetical puppy murderer to my list of sins.

How will killing a baby feel?

Michael:
I think you could do uni and a puppy. I really don’t think you need to choose.