Fancy White Trash (2 page)

Everyone is crammed into the kitchen when I get there. Although Kait shares our dark hair, she always looks the odd one out, taking after our dad with her brown eyes and stockier body. She's the shortest, too, and since she's not the youngest, that infuriates her. Of course, her pregnancy hormones make it so she is always furious lately. Or crying. It's difficult to predict which way she'll go—throwing stuff or sobbing—so I mostly try to stay out of her way.

Kait sits at our big kitchen table with the cherries-in-a-bowl-patterned plastic tablecloth—easier than fabric for wiping up all of Hannah's spills—with her head in her hands. She's biting her lip so hard, I'm afraid it might bleed. Mom and the Guitar Player are also at the table, with Hannah playing on the floor at their feet. Shelby stands apart, in front of the stainless-steel sink, with the bright sun from the window backlighting her dramatically and bringing out the cinnamon highlights she recently added to her hair.

I fold my own long body into one of the kitchen chairs. It is older than I am and creaks under my weight. I make a mental note to remember to Super Glue the crossbars back in place. You'd think the Guitar Player, as the official and only man of the house for two months now, would be in charge of the manly chores like taking out the trash and Super Gluing things together. But apparently he's too busy getting my mom pregnant.

“It's too early to tell”—my mom pats her flat belly—“but I just know it's a boy.” That's what she said about me and Hannah, too. I bet she pops out another girl. We already know Kait's baby is a girl. Our family should buy stock in Always brand products.

“When?” I ask the only sensible question while Shelby brings up whether Connor or Dylan is a better name for a boy. It's not like I'm suspicious or anything, but Mom's figure is as slim as ever.

Kait lumbers to her feet, one hand under her tremendous belly, the other on the small of her back. “I'll be in my room,” she says so softly I almost don't hear. Her lip
is
bleeding. She wipes at it with a fist and, eyes down, leaves the room.

“He may be a Valentine baby!” Mom announces once Kait is out of the kitchen, showing her usual amount of sensitivity—zero. She actually dances with excitement, a little two-steppy bounce that calls attention to the way her breasts fill out her tube top.

Math isn't my best subject, but even I can count backwards from nine. Mom must've conceived in May—the same month she and the Guitar Player tied the knot—making her almost three months pregnant now.

The Guitar Player looks pleased. So does Mom. She has no shame, marrying a guy half her age (that would be Shelby's age) and proceeding to get knocked up right away. Although, I hate to admit, soap operas also favor pregnancies as a way of cementing new relationships. I should've expected this, but I didn't.

I ask the next logistics question. “Where will we put the new baby?” We are already packed to the rafters when it comes to room occupancy. I can't imagine where another crib and all the other baby stuff can possibly fit.

“He'll be in our room, of course,” Mom says, like that's the end of it. Like the baby won't grow up and need a toddler bed, then a regular bed, closet space, or time in the bathroom. “I'll need to clear out a few things first, but I'm sure it'll work out. We'll get some of those walkie-talkie things so we can hear when he wakes up no matter where we are in the house. What're they called?”

“Baby monitors,” Shelby supplies. She should know, since it was Mom who said we didn't have money for such high-tech gadgets when Hannah was born. Guess things'll be different with this baby.
His
baby. I glare in the general direction of the Guitar Player. Why doesn't he bring up something practical, like getting a combo dresser/changing table, instead of standing there with that stupid grin on his face?

Mom tilts her head and smiles. “Oh, I'm so excited. Let's go to Target right now! Abs, have you seen my keys?”

Like I'm the keeper of lost things. Except, I do know where they are. Instead of telling her, I say, “Do you really think you should be driving in your condition? Isn't it a little dangerous, considering . . .” I trail off, because everyone knows what I mean.

She starts to protest, but the Guitar Player agrees with me for once.

“Maybe you should take it easy for a while,” he says.

“Steve, please, I drove with all my other pregnancies.” Steve is the Guitar Player's real name.

“Not with my baby,” he says, and Mom gives him a sharp look. A look I know well. The honeymoon is over. Even though they didn't go anywhere after their quickie marriage last May, they did enjoy a little over two months of disgusting togetherness.

The Guitar Player cradles her hand in his. He doesn't know it's over. “Come on, honey, I'll be your chauffeur. Won't that be fancy?”

Fancy White Trash, that's us all right.

“What about the mall tomorrow? You gonna drive then, too?” I look over the Guitar Player's shoulder. I never address him directly.

“Sure, Mona and I will need to pick up some other things for the baby. Right, honey?”

I want to point out that we have three tons of baby crap stored in the garage, but then I realize Kait's baby will need that stuff. We don't have two of everything.

I smile brightly and say, “Good point!”

Mom chews her lip and I say how Cody's coming, too. We all look at Shelby, who has been quiet—too quiet—through this whole conversation.

Once all eyes are on her, she flips back her waist-length hair and rubs her own stomach. “I was waiting until I was sure, but . . .” She looks at us expectantly.

She has got to be kidding. Mom shoots me a look, and I realize I've groaned out loud.

Shelby bursts into tears. “You always think the worst of me, Abby.”

“Who's the dad?” I ask the question on everyone's mind.

Shelby's eyes dart toward the Guitar Player and away. Mom gasps.

“No, no!” Shelby puts a protective hand over her stomach.

But I saw the Guitar Player pale, and I know it wasn't that long ago that he and Shelby were doing it. Oh God, can it be true? Would it take Shelby four months to notice she's pregnant?

Mom turns to the Guitar Player. “Steve?” Her face looks like it will collapse any minute.

“Let's have a pig roast!” the Guitar Player yells too loudly, fiddling nervously with one of the fake diamond studs in his ear. “What a lot to celebrate!” He spent his formative years in Miami, where, apparently, it's just not a celebration without a dead pig. He digs into his jeans for the keys. “Tonight! Everyone call somebody to come over. I'll be back with supplies in no time.”

I don't know where he finds whole dead pigs in this town. I do know Cody is going to die when I tell him. Three babies on the way, all with the same dad. Obviously, no one in my family has contemplated the wisdom of Rule #1, Find Someone New, because they're all on the recycling program.

That's right, the Guitar Player “dated” Kait for about two weeks before he dumped her for Shelby. Since his idea of dating has less to do with romantic dinners and getaways to the river and more to do with getting the women in my family naked, it's not too surprising someone turned up pregnant. But three? Could my family be more embarrassing?

Chapter
2

"No, no, no! ” Shelby has to scream to get everyone refocused on her. “I'm not pregnant! I signed up to be an egg donor. You can make beaucoup bucks harvesting eggs.”

Beaucoup
is a fancy white trash word for “a lot.” I think it's French or something. The Guitar Player looks beaucoup relieved. Mom dabs at her eyes. Shelby laughs while I stand by, struck dumb by the idea of someone actually wanting Shelby's genetic material. Sure, she's beautiful but . . .

That leads us directly to Rule #3 in the One True Love Plan: Looks Aren't Everything. Take the classic soap,
Moments of Our Lives
, as an example. Between their First Loves coming back from the dead the same day they are marrying the Loves of Their Lives and never being sure who the father of their child is,
Moments
characters have one love crisis after another.

It's clear to me that the problem is they are all too good-looking. Sure, it's why the show's been on the air for over twenty years, but it's like having dessert for every meal of the day. At first, you think red-velvet cake for dinner is a great idea, but after a few years, all you want is a nice crispy salad or a side of french fries. I'm not saying you have to eat dog food here— even
I
am not going to date Lucas Fielding—but to fall in love, you need someone who is not all sugary sweetness.

Shelby is pure sugar. I'm surprised her fake tears don't melt grooves in her cheeks. “I won't know for sure if they'll take my eggs until all the donor-screening tests come back, but every-one's been harping on me to get a better-paying job. I thought you'd be happy.”

The Guitar Player inches closer and closer to the side door, the one that leads to the driveway and his escape vehicle. “Like I said, lots to celebrate. I'll be back in a few.”

Mom looks fine now, but I haven't forgotten that for a second, the Guitar Player thought what I thought. Which means maybe it wasn't as long ago as everyone thinks since he and Shelby called it quits. It wouldn't surprise me. The Guitar Player is a scrumptious-looking man. Dirty-blond hair with sun-streaked highlights and intense almost-black eyes, always in faded jeans that cup his amazingly tight butt. He knows how to work the wannabe-rock-star image, but like I said, Looks Aren't Everything.

“I'm going next door,” I announce, unfolding from my chair and stretching. I tug at my jeans and pull down my pink T-shirt so my belly button doesn't show. “Congrats, Mom. And Shelby.”

Shelby keeps her place at the big table, tracing one of the faded cherries on the tablecloth with a long Red Dazzle nail. Her eyes have dried up. I guess the good thing about fake tears is you can turn them on and off at will. Hannah bangs away happily at the table legs with a spoon she must've found under there.

“Are you really happy for me, Abby?” Mom links her arm through mine and walks with me to the front door. We pass the collage of school pictures taped to the wall. Shelby first, then Kait, then me. Year after year, marching down the hallway.

“This new baby is like starting over,” Mom says. “It's so important to Steve, but to tell you the truth, I had a minor panic attack when the doctor told me today. It's been a long time since you were in diapers.”

“Hannah's kept us all in practice. Don't worry, Mom, you'll be fine.” It's the baby I'm worried about. As a parent, Mom has her shortcomings. Like forgetting me at the grocery store when I was three. I sat in the cart in the frozen-food section for almost an hour before someone wheeled me to the manager. Luckily, she also left her purse, so they were able to contact her right away.

“You'll help out, won't you?” Mom asks. “I won't be able to do this without the support of my girls.”

Ha! Like she was really supporting her girls when she started sleeping with the Guitar Player. Like she was thinking of her daughters when she married him at the courthouse and didn't invite any of us to the ceremony. This is so
Veterans' Hospital
, I expect to hear theme music pipe in from above at any moment.

“I could be really helpful running errands for you in my own car.” I am supposed to share Kait's car when I turn sixteen. Which means I will have to get a job so I can help pay the insurance for a car that she will never let me drive. Maybe this baby can be my ticket to vehicular freedom.

“You're so funny.” Mom laughs, and she looks young to me. Too young to be anyone's mom. It's easy to see why her boss at the advertising agency keeps her around even though she's hopeless with computers.

I don't reply, open the door, and walk the fifty-eight paces to Cody's. He is waiting for me on the enclosed front porch. At last, a sane person!

“Tell me everything.” He pats the seat next to him on the rocker. His hazel eyes are bright with interest. “Everything.”

I do, and he nods his head like this is all totally believable and normal. That's why we're best friends. He knows my crazy family and likes me anyway.

“It all sounds so
Savage
,” he says. He likes to make jokes like this ever since he found out in second grade that
savage
has another meaning besides being my last name. “I mean, isn't your mom kind of old to be having another baby?”

“She's only thirty-seven,” I reply, although come to think of it, that is pretty ancient. “But she
thinks
she's still nineteen. Like we need another teen mother at our house.”

“Maybe it won't be so bad,” Cody, far less cynical than I am when it comes to my family, says. “New marriage, new baby, new life. This could be your mom's opportunity to do things right.”

Oh, how I wish it were true. “For her to make things right, she'd have to admit to doing something
wrong
. We both know that's not Mona's style. I'm afraid this baby is doomed, like the rest of us Savage girls.”

“You didn't turn out so bad.” Cody sets the porch swing to rocking with a push of his foot. “And you can watch over the baby, kind of like you already do for Hannah. You'll be, like, the Fairy Godmother of Normalness.”

“Right, my dream has always been to raise other people's babies.”

“Better than raising your own.”

“So true.” A definite lesson I've learned from my sisters is that teen pregnancy is not pretty. “I'm going to break family tradition and make it to graduation without getting knocked up. What do you think of that?”