Read Online Tell Me a Secret by Holly Cupala - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Holly Cupala
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thread, where people gave advice, suggested courses of action, and offered varying levels of medical-babble. The “community” section promised boards for every possible fertility contingency. I couldn’t help it—I was sucked in.
I clicked through some links to the list of bulletin boards—advice for dads, grief and loss, first-time pregnancy, teen pregnancy. Foods to avoid, like tuna. I wondered how my mom knew. Questions like, “My chest hurts. Is this normal?” populated the board in a limitless spiral of subjects under discussion. There didn’t seem to be one for my situation: how could I go back to before everything began?
The Teen Pregnancy section was mostly filled with fourteen-year-olds panicking about what to do when their parents found out. I already had enough panic in my life.
But there was something appealing about the First-Time Moms section. They were newlyweds, or trying for so long they’d almost given up, or surprised by babies completely disrupting their lives. What they had in common, though, wasn’t fear or resentment. More like joy. They had handles like “babyfairy” and “soon2Bmom” and “stacy+one.” They wrote about morning sickness and tests and ultrasounds and their spouses, putting in smiley faces and baby meters to show their growth. Babyfairy was the fantasy-philiac. Soon2Bmom was the executive. FemmeNikita stood out as the leader, or at least the most outspoken, who wrote stuff like, “This is themost fun I’ve had since sperm met egg.”
After an hour reading through their posts, they felt like friends. They made pregnancy seem like fun, even freedom. Out in the ether, I could make things the way I wanted them to be. The way I hoped they still could.
I didn’t sign up, but I had already thought of the perfect screen name:
XandasAngel.
Twelve
Delaney didn’t call me back. Suddenly she had a million errands to run and couldn’t look me in the eye, except to stop after our History class and say, “I heard about you and Kamran. We’ll have a chocolate night soon, okay? Gotta run now—French is kicking my ass this year. À bientôt !” Chloe’s communiqués were limited to cute quotes and warnings to add an ICE—in case of emergency—number to my cell phone. Not that I had any idea who that might be.
I didn’t have to worry anymore about everyone finding out, because now they knew. Between my parking-lot fight with Kamran, my so-called friends, and Essence’s big mouth, the information spread like a virus. Instead of “Did you see Cross Your Heart today?” it was, “Did you see that wickedfight?” and “I heard she got pregnant on purpose.”
Kamran could avoid me everywhere but English—we existed in separate, parallel universes. But his anger was palpable, impenetrable. I had to wonder if I’d seen the fear at all.
At lunch I headed to the library or computer lab, reading up on the halcyon pregnancies of FemmeNikita—aka Nik—and her peers. In that world, Kamran still loved me. Keeping the baby meant keeping hope.
Things at home might have seemed normal if I were Xanda—the dark looks, the disapproval.
I should have known the second I saw the sleek, black car in the driveway that something was very, very wrong.
Mom rose to her feet when I entered the house, and so did a strange woman, coiffed and stiff as our living-room cushions. Brenda the Good would stay and greet the visitor, maybe even offer her some ladyfingers. Before my fall from grace, I would have done that, too. Now, what was the point?
“Mandy, I’d like you to meet—”
“— Miz Wrent,” the woman cut in as she held out a hand shiny with moisturizer. My mom took a sip of tea. The two of them seemed to have formed an uneasy alliance.
Miz Wrent spoke. “Your mother has been telling me all about you, Mandy.”
“Rand,” I said. I felt my body start to slide into a state of panic—imminent hypoglycemia. In case of emergency, carry snacks. Even better: Pack a
I clicked through some links to the list of bulletin boards—advice for dads, grief and loss, first-time pregnancy, teen pregnancy. Foods to avoid, like tuna. I wondered how my mom knew. Questions like, “My chest hurts. Is this normal?” populated the board in a limitless spiral of subjects under discussion. There didn’t seem to be one for my situation: how could I go back to before everything began?
The Teen Pregnancy section was mostly filled with fourteen-year-olds panicking about what to do when their parents found out. I already had enough panic in my life.
But there was something appealing about the First-Time Moms section. They were newlyweds, or trying for so long they’d almost given up, or surprised by babies completely disrupting their lives. What they had in common, though, wasn’t fear or resentment. More like joy. They had handles like “babyfairy” and “soon2Bmom” and “stacy+one.” They wrote about morning sickness and tests and ultrasounds and their spouses, putting in smiley faces and baby meters to show their growth. Babyfairy was the fantasy-philiac. Soon2Bmom was the executive. FemmeNikita stood out as the leader, or at least the most outspoken, who wrote stuff like, “This is themost fun I’ve had since sperm met egg.”
After an hour reading through their posts, they felt like friends. They made pregnancy seem like fun, even freedom. Out in the ether, I could make things the way I wanted them to be. The way I hoped they still could.
I didn’t sign up, but I had already thought of the perfect screen name:
XandasAngel.
Twelve
Delaney didn’t call me back. Suddenly she had a million errands to run and couldn’t look me in the eye, except to stop after our History class and say, “I heard about you and Kamran. We’ll have a chocolate night soon, okay? Gotta run now—French is kicking my ass this year. À bientôt !” Chloe’s communiqués were limited to cute quotes and warnings to add an ICE—in case of emergency—number to my cell phone. Not that I had any idea who that might be.
I didn’t have to worry anymore about everyone finding out, because now they knew. Between my parking-lot fight with Kamran, my so-called friends, and Essence’s big mouth, the information spread like a virus. Instead of “Did you see Cross Your Heart today?” it was, “Did you see that wickedfight?” and “I heard she got pregnant on purpose.”
Kamran could avoid me everywhere but English—we existed in separate, parallel universes. But his anger was palpable, impenetrable. I had to wonder if I’d seen the fear at all.
At lunch I headed to the library or computer lab, reading up on the halcyon pregnancies of FemmeNikita—aka Nik—and her peers. In that world, Kamran still loved me. Keeping the baby meant keeping hope.
Things at home might have seemed normal if I were Xanda—the dark looks, the disapproval.
I should have known the second I saw the sleek, black car in the driveway that something was very, very wrong.
Mom rose to her feet when I entered the house, and so did a strange woman, coiffed and stiff as our living-room cushions. Brenda the Good would stay and greet the visitor, maybe even offer her some ladyfingers. Before my fall from grace, I would have done that, too. Now, what was the point?
“Mandy, I’d like you to meet—”
“— Miz Wrent,” the woman cut in as she held out a hand shiny with moisturizer. My mom took a sip of tea. The two of them seemed to have formed an uneasy alliance.
Miz Wrent spoke. “Your mother has been telling me all about you, Mandy.”
“Rand,” I said. I felt my body start to slide into a state of panic—imminent hypoglycemia. In case of emergency, carry snacks. Even better: Pack a
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