a troublesome teen and a pregnancy scare
“Good Vibrations” hums from the stereo behind you. You are face-down on your bed, your face buried in a pillow, your legs swinging up and down, silently kicking the air. Tiny baby kicks, like those of the baby who might be inside you.
Something chirps, your alarm clock maybe. You’ve locked yourself in your room for over an hour now. “Lacey!” Mom is calling from downstairs. There’s no need for a dinner bell with the shrill sound of her voice ringing in your ears. With your feet now planted on the floor, you pause to put a hand on your belly. The thought of something growing inside of you repulses you. Who would ever want to call you “home”? Then again, it (whoever “it” may be) didn’t really have a choice.
There’s a vicious gnawing at your stomach, a painful reminder that if you don’t make your way downstairs within the next two-and-a-half minutes, your mother will bombard your ears again with that awful noise of hers. “Breathe, Lacey, breathe.” But breathing doesn’t help. You feel sick to your stomach, at last allowing your head to crash to your cradling pillow below.
Mom hates when you don’t listen. You’ve gotten better at it though, so your refusal to come join your family, however rotten they may be, for dinner catches her off-guard. Her footsteps give you a monstrous headache, which doesn’t aid your mood in the slightest. “GO AWAY!” you manage to cry from your fetal position atop your massive bed. As you roll onto your side, you gently wipe a tear from your eye, but stop suddenly to notice a frantic pounding at your door. You cuddle up under your quilt and pull the blanket over your head. “LEAVE. ME. ALONE!” you shout.
Much to your own surprise, the knocking stops. You sigh in relief. Finally, Mom is out of your hair, and you can rest in peace… Your doorknob jangles abruptly, and you realize she isn’t quite finished with you yet. "Mom, I don't feel well, okay?" You pause, knowing your next line will do just the trick. "Can you get me some Tylenol?"
The doorknob stops jingling. Beyond it, your mother is pondering her next move. Alas, although reluctantly, she clip-clops downstairs, leaving you to wonder whether or not she'll be back.