Unpregnant

by Jenni Hendriks

They were my best friends, but they weren’t the sort of friends you told something like this to. Ours was a friendship built on successes, not failures.

I could almost see it. There would be backyard barbecues, church on Sundays; everyone would say we were such a beautiful couple. And I would never stop hating him.

It dawned on me, maybe he actually did want this—not a baby, but an easy way out. He wouldn’t have to start over in a new place. A place where he wasn’t going to be star of the soccer team, a place where the parties were full of strangers, a place where he wasn’t king of the campus. He wouldn’t have to face being alone.

I’d grown up being told what I was planning to do was wrong, and it had seemed so clear-cut and obvious at the time. A test question with an easy answer. But as I grew older, I’d realized so many things they told me were true in church just didn’t match up with real life. And now that I was in this situation, nothing seemed as simple as they promised it would be.

“You run away every time shit happens because you’re terrified it might make you look bad. Because you need everyone to think you’re perfect. Get a B on a test? Claim you had a cold and ask to take it again. Boyfriend’s

a creep-tastic asshole? Fake an entire weekend lovefest with pictures so your friends don’t suspect. Best friend’s parents are going through a divorce and she’s a little messed up? Ditch her for some stuck-up Mensa clones!”

“And my dad doesn’t care. And he never will, no matter what I do. When I was six he was all bummed out because my mom wouldn’t let him go to Burning Man. So what did I do? I spent a week constructing a giant man out of cardboard. I dragged all our house lamps into the backyard and covered them with scarves and stuff to make a light show. And did I get a ‘Thanks, Bailey,’ or even a thumbs-up? No! Granted . . . there was some fire damage to the house, and he ended up with some second-degree burns, but how was I supposed to know that that much lighter fluid would be a problem? I was six! And the important thing was that his daughter was doing everything she could to try to make him happy. And he never noticed. And I’m so tired of it. I’m so tired of being a stupid, sad, scared six-year-old, for fuck’s sake.”

I kept walking. I could see my house now. It looked no different than it had two days ago—the same faded play equipment in the yard, the patchy dry grass, the American flag. I’d walk through that door and this would be over. But it was over already. Bailey wasn’t going to come flying around the corner, open the door, and yell at me to climb in. We weren’t going to drive off into the sunset on another madcap adventure. That would ruin everything. I didn’t want to ruin everything. I didn’t. It was time for me to go inside, say hi to my parents, and start living the life I’d driven two thousand miles to keep.