I watch Jen and some other girls from my team climb into the stands. Later they’ll go to some fast-food joint with the guys. Not long ago I was part of that crowd. It’s strange to be on the outside looking in, and I can’t deny I feel a twinge of envy. But then Ross passes through my line of vision, and my heart hardens.
“Ready to go?” Kelly says as she fishes her keys out of her gym bag.
I force a smile. “All set.”
I know we chat on the drive home, but when she drops me in front of my house, I can’t remember a single thing we talked about. My brain must have been on autopilot.
The only thing on my mind is Jen and Ross. They were flirting in the gym, and I’d bet anything they step it up a notch when the teams go for something to eat. I don’t even want to think about what could happen after that. Thank goodness Jen has her own car. At least Ross won’t be driving her home. Hopefully that means she’s safe—for today anyway. But if what Mrs. Hargrove said about guys like Ross is true, it’s just a matter of time until he takes advantage of her like he did me.
I have to warn her.
I worry for Jen most of the evening and into the night. The thought that she could be Ross’s next conquest makes me feel sick. I don’t want her to go through what I went through—what I’m still going through. It’s over, but I can’t seem to get past it. Will I ever? I try to convince myself that I’m jumping to conclusions. Ross might not even try anything. Yeah, right.
When morning finally arrives, I feel like a bag of dirt. I look like one too. But at least I’ve made a decision. I can’t stop Jen from going out with Ross. But I can tell her what he did to me.
My confession is going to have to wait until the afternoon, though, because this morning I am meeting Dr. Abernathy.
I hop on the bus heading downtown. I push my concern for Jen to the back of my mind and start worrying about what the doctor is going to say.
Dr. Abernathy has been my doctor my whole life, but I’ve never liked him. Every visit feels like a test. One that I never quite pass. When I was eight, I got bronchitis and missed a whole week of school. I thought he would be sympathetic, but all he did was talk about the importance of washing my hands and keeping my coat zipped. It was more of the same when I fell off my bike and broke my arm. As he was putting the cast on, he lectured me about bicycle safety and the rules of the road. Every single time I see him, I come away feeling like it’s my fault for getting sick or injured. I don’t imagine today will be any different.
As I ride the elevator to the fifth floor, I study my blurred reflection in the stainless-steel walls. Even out of focus I look awful. I comb my hair with my fingers, pinch my cheeks and stand up straighter.
The doors open onto a long hall with a blue-patterned carpet. Dr. Abernathy’s office is directly across the way, so I go through the door and let the receptionist know I’m here. I consider hanging up my coat but decide against it. I might want to make a quick exit. There are two other people in the dimly lit waiting room, one at each end of a row of armless chairs lining the wall. I grab a magazine and take a seat halfway between them.
I’ve barely started flipping the pages when the receptionist calls my name. “Emma Kennedy? The doctor will see you now.”
I’m surprised. Though I’m right on time for my appointment, there are patients ahead of me.
“But—” I gesture to them.
The receptionist waves away my objection. “Mrs. Murray is waiting for her husband, and Mr. Dockery is early. You’re next.”
I take the magazine with me. Good thing, too, because it’s another ten minutes before Dr. Abernathy shows up.
When he finally arrives, he’s carrying a file folder with my name on it. He shuts the door, sits at the desk and opens the folder.
I hold my breath.
Eventually he looks up. I think maybe he’ll smile to break the ice. But no. My mother would say his expression shows concern. I say it smacks of disapproval. He’s definitely frowning.
“How are you feeling?” he says.
I shrug. “Okay.”
“No more heavy bleeding or cramping?”
“No.”
“Any fever? Fainting? Nausea?”
“No.”
“How about mood swings?”
“Sometimes I get a little emotional, but it doesn’t last.”
“That’s normal,” he mutters into the folder.
He studies its contents in silence for another minute or so, then turns his full attention on me. Under his unwavering gaze, I feel self-conscious.
“How old are you, Emma?”
“Sixteen,” I say. “I’ll be seventeen in a couple of months.”
“And you have a boyfriend.”
“No.”
He raises an eyebrow. “But you’re sexually active.”
Bam! I walked into that one. Now he thinks I’m a slut. “Not really,” I protest meekly. “It…it was just that one time.” Heat rushes into my cheeks. I look down at my hands. I want to make Dr. Abernathy understand that it wasn’t my fault. That I was forced to have sex. But I’m too embarrassed to say a word.
“And you became pregnant,” he says.
I feel my jaw tighten. Why does he keep stating the obvious? We both know what happened.
He opens the drawer of his desk and pulls out a handful of pamphlets. “Here.” He passes them to me. “This is information on birth control. I want you to read it. If you have any questions, come back and see me.”
Fat chance of that!
He turns to his computer and types something. A few seconds later the printer on the shelf beside the desk spits out two sheets of paper. He hands one to me. “This is a prescription for vitamins,” he explains. “You’re a bit rundown, and your body needs to build itself back up. These vitamins will help. And this”—he holds out the second paper—“is for birth control pills. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”
I don’t even want to touch the paper. I don’t need birth control pills! I’m not having sex! I silently scream.
Then he stands, so I do too. Thank goodness we’re done. The clock on the wall says our talk has taken ten minutes, but it feels like hours.
“Thank you, Dr. Abernathy,” I mumble and start for the door.
He stops me. “One more thing, Emma.”
I turn around.
“I don’t know the specifics of your situation, and I can see that you would like to keep it that way. But I think you should talk with someone—a friend, a teacher, a counselor maybe. Of course, the best person to speak with is your mother. She cares what happens to you as much as you do. And no one knows you better.”
Horror at the mere thought of sharing this horrible experience with my mother must show on my face, because he adds, “Trust me. It will help.”