I spend what’s left of the lunch hour locked in a bathroom stall, trying to calm down. If that little bomb Gwen Robson dropped is true, everyone in school thinks I’m pregnant! How can I ever show my face again? But then I have a thought. When it becomes obvious I’m not pregnant, whoever is spreading that rumor is the one who’ll look stupid. I just have to hang on until that happens. Which could be months, I remind myself, getting wound up all over again.
That’s when the bell rings, sending me into total panic. I can’t go to class. Even if no one speaks to me, I’ll know what they’re thinking.
But I can’t avoid people forever. Besides, I still have my pride. I shut my eyes and dig all the way to my toes for courage. Then I lift my chin, throw back my shoulders and head for my locker.
Jen is getting her stuff when I arrive. She’ll know who’s spreading the rumors. I tap her on the shoulder. She spins around, banging her hand on the locker door and dropping the book she’s holding.
“Ow!” she cries as she bends to pick it up. “What the hell, Emma?”
“Why are people talking about me?”
She raises an eyebrow. “As if you don’t know.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,” I snap. I grab her arm. “I know you know, Jen. Tell me.” When she still doesn’t answer, I add, “I thought you were my friend.”
“And I thought you were mine,” she snarls and pulls her arm free. “Looks like we were both wrong.” She turns back to her locker. “I have to get to class.”
“Please, Jen,” I say. “Ever since Ross paid for my food that night after volleyball, you’ve been mad at me. I get it, but I never meant for him to get in the way of our friendship. I swear. It just sort of happened. If he’d picked you instead, you would have done the same as me.”
She whirls around again. “Have sex with him the very first time he looked at me? I don’t think so, Emma.”
She might as well have reached out and slapped me. Her words have the same effect. “It…it wasn’t like that,” I protest weakly.
But now that Jen has unleashed her anger, it keeps right on coming. “Oh, please. Stop pretending you’re innocent. The whole school knows how easy you are. The fact that you got pregnant and then lost the baby is pretty much proof, don’t you think?”
I stagger backward. I’m too stunned to deny the accusation. “How can people possibly know that?”
Jen seems surprised by my response. “So it’s true then.”
“Who’s saying this?” I demand.
She shakes her head. “I thought I knew you, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Who told you?” I ask for the third time, my voice shrill in my ears.
“If you must know—Deena Watson. She’s told everybody. Her older brother is an orderly at the hospital. He was there when the ambulance brought you in Saturday night. He heard a nurse say you’d had a miscarriage.”
Suddenly I feel totally exposed. I might as well be standing in the middle of the hallway naked. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for the floor to open up and swallow me, or for the ceiling to crash down on my head. When I open my eyes again, Jen is gone.
By the time I drag myself out of my stupor, the halls are empty and the classroom doors are closed. The bell must have rung, but I didn’t hear it. It doesn’t matter. I have no intention of going to class anyway.
I dial in my combination and tug open the locker door. As I reach for my coat, a couple of papers slide off the shelf and flutter to the floor. I pick them up. I’ve never seen them before, and I have no idea how they got into my locker. One is a porn photo. The other is a religious flyer, urging me to find God and save myself.
I look from one to the other in disbelief. Is this torture ever going to end? I crumple to the floor in a broken heap. I’m not even seventeen years old, and my life is ruined. I bury my head in my arms and let the hurt pour out.
“Get up, Emma. Come on. Come with me.”
I look up through my tears. Everything is a blur, but I know there’s someone bending over me. The gentle voice murmuring comforting words belongs to Mrs. Hargrove, the school counselor. But where did she come from? And when? I blink to clear my vision. I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting on the floor.
“Come on,” she says again, sliding an arm under my elbow and pulling me to my feet. She grabs my coat and drapes it over my shoulders. Then she closes up my locker and leads me down the hall to her office. She eases me into a chair and pushes a box of tissues across the desk. Then she opens a bottle of water and sets it down beside the tissues.
“Now,” she says, as she pats my hand and pulls up another chair, “you can have yourself a good cry in private. No one will bother you here. And when you’re done—if you feel up to it—we can talk.”
I should try to pull myself together. Apologize for causing a fuss. Tell Mrs. Hargrove I’m fine. Take my coat and leave. But I don’t do any of those things. I haven’t stopped crying since Mrs. Hargrove found me at my locker. The thing is, I don’t think I could stop even if I tried. And it’s too late to be embarrassed. So I grab a handful of tissues and continue to bawl.
I run out of tears before I run out of hurt. It goes right on twisting inside me like a corkscrew. My eyes are sore and puffy, and my eyelashes are stuck together. Whatever makeup I had on is long gone. My face is hot, and my nose is running. I give it a good long blow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hargrove,” I say as I drop the used tissues into the wastebasket. I sound as if I have the worst cold ever. “I feel much better now.” I stand up and take some more tissues. “I should go.” I don’t actually feel any better, and I have no idea where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.
Mrs. Hargrove waves me back into the chair and taps the bottle of water. “You sound like you’ve been eating sand. Have some water.”
I do as she says and take a sip. I am surprised at how it soothes my throat.
“Good.” She nods. “Now, why don’t you tell me what has you so upset. Maybe I can help.”
I thought I was out of tears, but one trickles down my cheek. Damn! I shouldn’t have had that water. I brush the tear away. “You’ve been so nice.” I sniff. “And I’m grateful. Really. But I’m fine.” I stand up again. “I should go.”
She offers me an encouraging smile. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine. You know, sometimes even just talking can help.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.” Mrs. Hargrove seems like she genuinely wants to help, and I so want to tell her the whole horrible story, but I don’t dare. She’s the school counselor. I know that if she even suspects a student has been abused, she has to report it. I can’t risk that.
Still…I could tell her it happened to a friend. I discard the idea before I’ve even finished thinking it. She’d see right through that. Nobody falls to pieces over someone else’s problem.
“It’s my boyfriend,” I blurt. Why did I say that? Now I’m going to have to explain.
Mrs. Hargrove nods to the chair but doesn’t say anything.
I should shut my mouth and leave, but I sit back down. My brain is spinning a million miles a minute. What should I say now?
“We broke up,” I lie. “He wanted to do it, but I didn’t.” That part’s not a lie, though there’s more to it.
“I see,” Mrs. Hargrove says. “That’s obviously upset you very much. If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”
Despite her assurances, part of me says, Don’t do it! Even though I wouldn’t be telling the whole truth, it would be too close for comfort, and I might slip up. But another part of me—the frightened, lost and desperate part, the part that’s weary of going it alone and wants to be rescued—is hopeful.
So I crack the lid on my box of secrets and let a few of them trickle out.