Ever had that feeling that something awful is about to happen, and yet you still walk straight into it like it’s no big deal?
Well, that’s exactly how I felt walking into school.
Like I was heading straight to the slaughterhouse… except instead of a knife, what was threatening me was a guy with a cocky smirk and abs that should be illegal.
I walked down the hallway like I was in an action movie: slow, dramatic, with suspense music playing in my head. Dun-dun-dun.
“Anny!” My best friend, Zoe, appeared like a hurricane, complete with a pink scrunchie and a cloud of overpowering perfume. “Did you survive? Tell me you didn’t cry last night!”
I looked at her. I wanted to say, “Yeah, I cried. I ate half a box of cookies and talked to my pillow for two hours like it was my therapist.”
But instead, I just said:
“No, I’m fine.”
Lie number two hundred. The Oscar goes to me, thanks for coming.
“So? Are you gonna talk to the guy responsible for the little problem growing in your uterus?” Zoe whispered with the drama of a soap opera star. “It’s been three days since you took the test!”
“Zoe, please…”
“Three days! Seventy-two hours! Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes!” she counted off exaggeratedly, flailing her hands as if that would help me panic less.
I took a deep breath.
“Maybe… today. At lunch.”
“Anny! Do you know what time it is?”
“Time to run?” I asked with a nervous smile.
“Time to tell Cody he’s gonna be a dad!” she said, loud enough that even the janitor lady stopped sweeping to stare at us.
“Zoe!” I clamped a hand over her mouth. “Do you want me to have a heart attack now or later?”
“Sorry, sorry. I just get excited,” she said, laughing and lowering her voice. “But seriously, you’ve gotta talk to him. And preferably before your belly starts needing its own zip code!”
We hurried to class before my reputation could shift from “model student” to “high school soap opera star.”
I sat at my desk. Cody strolled in three minutes late, as usual. Messy hair, a “don’t care” attitude, and the scent of expensive deodorant mixed with emotional baggage.
He sat two rows ahead of me. Didn’t even glance my way. Not even a telepathic “hey.”
Perfect. More alone than a blue marker during finals.
The classes dragged on. I didn’t hear a single word. If someone asked me today what the Pythagorean Theorem is, I’d probably say, “Some guy who didn’t get pregnant, so I don’t care.”
***
The cafeteria smelled like toasted bread and teenage drama. I walked in with Zoe by my side, repeating to myself like a mantra: You can do this, Anny. Just say it and run.
And there he was. With his loud group of friends, the “coolest” kids in school. They were laughing at everything, one of them banging an empty bottle on the table. Cody was laughing too. Commercial-worthy smile, leather jacket, and that messy hair that looked carefully styled to seem “casual.”
I froze. How am I supposed to tell him something like this?
“Hey, remember that time we didn’t use a condom because you said it was just once?” Or maybe something sweeter like, “Surprise, we’re having a mini-you with a ‘don’t care’ face”?
No. I can’t just walk up and call him over. We don’t even talk unless he needs help with math.
We say “hey” when we pass each other. That’s it. No texts. No emojis.
And now I have to tell him that, thanks to Zoe’s stupid dare, we ended up having a wild night in his bed. A night that happened more times than I can admit without blushing.
And that, sometimes, when we cross paths in the hallways and no one’s around… we end up with no clothes on. God. What a mess we are.
A mess that only he and I understand… or do we?
“Go, Anny,” Zoe whispered, nudging me with her elbow. “You’ve gotta do it!”
“I’m going,” I lied.
I took a step. Then another. I was about to approach his table. He saw me. He looked straight into my eyes. Oh my God, eye contact! RED ALERT!
Panic. Sweat. Shaking. And legs that just wanted to bolt!
I ran.
Literally. I turned around and bolted for the door, leaving Zoe yelling behind me:
“ANNY!! STOP!! STOP, YOU COWARD!!”
I ran like the devil of pregnancy was chasing me. Because, yeah, running is better than dying.
I hid in the second-floor bathroom, breathing like I’d just run a marathon.
Zoe’s the only one who knows about this mess. The only one who’s known all my secrets since we were five. And yeah… in a way, this is partly her fault. Because she’s the one who said, “Do it, Anny, don’t be a chicken. Just one kiss. A dare’s a dare.”
One kiss. Sure.
That “kiss” ended with us in a bed, clothes scattered on the floor, and my dignity catching the first cab back home.
And now… now I’m pregnant by a guy who barely says hi to me. And I couldn’t even talk to him.
Time to run… yeah. But at this rate, I’m gonna end up running with a baby bump.