Tell Me a Secret (10 page)

Where my pregnancy made a mere ripple in the Elna Mead ecosystem, the fallout from Dylan’s party turned out to be massive. Suddenly I was a one-woman episode of
Girls Gone Wild
—first my pregnancy, then my shocking attempt to trap Kamran, then my brutal treatment of Chloe, who at five-foot-two stood a full six inches shorter than me and couldn’t possibly stand up to my bullying.

I felt even worse when I found Chloe’s email in my in-box the next morning—“This is Friendship Week, and I’m glad you’re my friend!” Sent right before the Halloween party.

Ty Belkin bumped me in the hall and apologized loudly: “Oops. Sorry, Rand. I thought you were Chloe.” Pretty soon everybody was bumping me with the same excuse—except
for freshmen, who gave me a wide berth and were content whispering
I heard she’s psycho
, and
I heard her sister was psycho, too
.

Delaney was in her element, relating the scandal to a fresh wave of disciples: “I had no idea she was
like
that. But then I should have known—even her best friend Essence doesn’t talk to her anymore. I mean, I feel sorry for her, after her sister died and everything. But still.” Chloe stood by, basking in the avalanche of sympathy. Kamran looked pained, my existence a glitch in the pattern of his life.

Even Essence’s status rose among the general populace—no longer Cross Your Heart, she was now Victim with the Inside Scoop. People who never would have noticed Essence before were lining up to get the story. She tried to catch my attention as I strode past—to rub it in or to offer pity? I didn’t need either one.

With French fries and root-beer milk shakes, I bribed Mrs. Crooker to write passes for my other classes, supposedly to finish my portfolio. I still had to face period after period of art students, but at least she kept them too busy to bother me. Maybe she had heard. Maybe she felt sorry for me. Maybe she remembered my sister and hoped I wouldn’t end up the same way.

So my parents’ ultimatum might have seemed like a blessing—if it hadn’t come attached to a curse.

Ever since my mom caught me after the Halloween party, I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Bars on my
window, grounded for life, cutting off all communication…any one of them might have been better than having to go to the first montage rehearsal and watch Essence arrive with a carload of the drama crowd, laughing and then going serious when she saw me. Her lines echoed in my head as if they were mine, only she played the good daughter while my mom nodded her head in approval.

At least when I got home, I could hide in my room to work on my drawings. I had tucked the stolen picture of Xanda into my sketchbook, sandwiched between the labyrinths as a reference for my portraits. It was a window. A clue.

Mom and I were driving home from practice the week after the party when she cleared her throat. “Your dad and I have been talking…”

I braced for impact.

“…and we’ve decided to enroll you in the work-study program at school. Your dad has arranged for a paid internship at First Washington Credit Union doing some accounting…”

“Accounting?”
This was so out of left field, I couldn’t even believe what I was hearing.

“It’s a great program,” my mom continued. “You go to the work-study class right after your lunch period, then you go to the bank for training every day. On Fridays, you’ll go straight from work to rehearsals. You start next week.”

“But I have my art class in the afternoons!”

Mom sighed, infinitely patient. “I know this isn’t what you want, Mandy. But the reality is, what you want is no longer
possible. We’re trying to help you. You’re having a baby. You should be grateful we’re not kicking you out.”

“But a
bank
?” This conversation was only going downhill. “What about art school? I thought you said you wanted me to be a teacher.”

Her voice dripped with cold, common sense. “I’m sorry, Miranda, but you’ve got to be practical, and you can’t afford to spend four years in school plus a teaching-prep program—because you’re having a baby now. We’re not going to be there to pick up the pieces. You can still do your art when you’re not working.” She snorted, “Or taking care of the baby, which is going to be a lot more work than you—”

“But
Mom
—”

“Art school would be fine if you had a few years to play around before settling into your career, but you don’t have that luxury anymore.”

“I’m not
playing around
. I’m serious about my art.” She didn’t understand. It’s what I was meant to do.

“You’ve made some poor decisions”—we pulled into the driveway at a crazy angle, and the car stopped with a jerk—“and your father and I are trying to help you get back on track. If you’re going to keep this baby, we’re not going to be able to support your art school plans.”

What?

Shock and outrage flooded me, but all I could seem to do was squeak out a whine. “Why not? What difference does it make?”

“It makes a big difference. First, you’re going to expect us to pay for college. Then you’re going to expect
me
to take care of the baby. Next thing you know, you’re going to be off doing God knows what with your artist boyfriends and getting yourself killed—”

Like Xanda.

“—then where will this baby be? Without a mother
or
father, and we get stuck with the bill?” Her voice rose to a familiar tone. She slammed the car into park. “If you have any shred of unselfishness, you’ll give this baby up to a family who is capable of caring for it. If you keep it, you’re condemning it to a life of misery. I can’t believe you would be that selfish.”

You mean condemning
you, I thought.

“On the other hand, if you give up the baby, you could still pursue your art.” Under her breath, she added, “We can only hope you will decide to pursue a more stable career later.”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. Was she really trying to force me to give up Lexi?
How did Xanda and I ever come out of you?
I wanted to scream. All she cared about was looking perfect. Even if I said the words, I knew she wouldn’t hear them.

“You can either keep the baby or go to art school. The choice is yours.”

I couldn’t wait to find Nik online. I didn’t even care about keeping up my college-student story. She could know everything there was to know about me, every hideous truth I’d ever tried to hide.
Ugly or not, Nik, here I come.

I hadn’t seen her online since before Halloween. Maybe she was visiting her stepson, who lived a few hours away. She was bound to be back by now.

I logged on to the BabyCenter board, and a feeling of dread swept over me. Entry after entry began, “Nik, I am so sorry.” Or, “Nik, I can’t believe this happened to you.” The chat room was silent.

I scrolled back through the day’s posts and found hers, posted by FemmeNikita at 9:32 this morning:

I’m writing to tell all of you how much it has meant to me to have your friendship and support through this sweetest time of my life.

Last week, I started cramping and bleeding. My husband rushed me to the hospital, where I delivered our baby at twenty-three weeks, too early for him to survive. Even at less than a pound, he was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. We named him Micah James. I won’t forget his tiny fingers and toes, or the way he fit in the palm of my husband’s hand. I have never seen my husband weep as he wept over our little boy.

Our hearts are broken. But faith always manages. I won’t be posting anymore on this board, as it is painful to hear about your pregnancies when we have lost one so precious to us. I hold you all in my heart and wish you joy.

Faith. The future. A life without Micah James.

My own crisis suddenly seemed so small.

That night I lay in bed, the images of Lexi replaying in my mind like a window into another world. I tried to recapture
the wonder of her profile—tiny chin, nub of nose, round skull with two hemispheres of brain beneath. Ten fingers, ten toes, a spine rippling with tiny bones. Small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.

I lay on my back like the ob-gyn said, waiting to feel a flutter.

I had nearly slipped into unconsciousness when I did feel something, like a bubble popping. A gurgle. I wondered if it was just gas. I poked my belly where I felt it and waited.

The bubble popped again, a tap of recognition.

Nineteen weeks after we had started this journey together, Lexi and I shared our first communiqué—a secret Morse code between passenger and host.

My parents wasted no time setting me on the path to banking glory. I completely bypassed the application and interview process for my cushy new job at First Washington Credit Union, filing and processing checks in the secretarial dungeon and occasionally filling in for a teller.

No doubt they expected the job to be so terrible, I’d make the call to Social Services myself—and I might have, if I hadn’t just read about Nik and felt Lexi for the first time. I wasn’t about to lose her or my dream.
Money in the bank,
as Dad would say. Lexi and I would need it.

I’d been in the credit union a thousand times before, but it’s funny how you notice details when your cell door is about to slam and lock—like the carpet coming undone in the middle
of the room, or the slightly mismatched square by the loans desk. Or the scowl on the loan officer’s face under a mop of fat dreadlocks as she watched my mom and me walk through the revolving doors. Carefully she extricated herself from the desk and shambled toward us. She shot a glance toward one of the tellers, who immediately hustled to the loans desk. The others rearranged themselves to fill the gap like the Von Trapp Family tellers.

I struggled to arrange my new shirt and pants.

As usual, I had gone through my closet about fifty times yesterday. Desperate and close to tears, I’d crawled into the passage to check Xanda’s boxes for something—babydoll dress? Poncho? Anything. I nearly crashed into my mother as she came into the office, my face a red, puffy dam.

“What’s this about?”

Just pick something,
I thought. Instead, I sniffed, “Nothing.” We did a little dance in the hall, her capturing and me trying to escape.

“I was looking for something in…the passage.”

“Why do you want to get into Xanda’s things?” Her eyes narrowed as she took me in—red eyes, skanked-out hair, my low jeans and the hem of my sweater grazing my newly outed, and extremely touchy, belly button. The light of dawn spread across her face.

“I see. Well, I guess we’re just going to have to go shopping then.”

She smiled—like this was a peace offering, after trading
art school for banking hell.

A half hour and a rainstorm later, we were cruising through the mall in search of The Well-Heeled Mother. Though it could have been The Well-Heeled Grandmother. When I started to look through a rack of cute sheer tops, Mom steered me to the “much more practical” round of striped button-ups and stretchy black slacks.

The salesgirl, perky and looking ready to pop herself, sidled up to my mom. “We’ve got some great new winter arrivals. Are you the lucky mama?”

“No,” glowered Mom.

The clue gun missed, and the girl turned to me. “You?”

I nodded.

Back to Mom: “So you must be the proud grandmother. Is this your first?”

“Yes.”
Though she looked anything but proud, with me hunting through a rack of enormous, tent-shaped tops.

“Congratulations! Let me show you our basics—great for work, or”—the salesgirl shot an unsure look at me—“er, school, or…
whatever.
”

Before I could say “muumuu,” I had a stack of clothes in a dressing room with two “bellies”—pillows I could strap around myself to see what I might look like in a few more months. I put on one of the shirts—a red one, like Nik’s Killer Tomato shirt.

She wouldn’t be needing it now.

After hours of mother-daughter retail bonding, we finally
emerged with a nonrefundable bag of the most unflattering clothes I would ever wear. But at least I would
have
something to wear, Mom reminded me.

We had almost escaped the mall when I spotted an Elna Mead group at the sushi bar next to Guess. They hadn’t spotted me, probably because I looked like a well-heeled grandmother now.

And that’s when Essence’s voice said brightly, “Hi, Rand. Hi, Mrs. Mathison.”

My mom stopped dead in her tracks, and I had no choice but to follow suit. It was still pouring down rain, and she was the one holding the keys.

“What are you doing here?” Essence asked. Like we weren’t allowed to go to the mall or something.

“Just out to do some shopping,” Mom said, waving our bag.

“Wow, you’re getting
huge.
” Exactly the kind of observation I could always count on from Essence.

“I’m not huge,” I muttered. “I’m almost five months pregnant.”

“She didn’t mean anything, Mandy,” my mother growled. Mom defending Essence—that was a first. Must be their chummy new relationship, now that Essence had stepped into the role of Brenda the Perfect. “She’s tired,” Mom explained. “Pregnancy, schoolwork…”

“Yeah,” I cut in, “and starting tomorrow, I have that job you got for me since I can’t go to art school anymore.”

Even Essence was taken aback. “You’re not going to art school?” Of anyone, she would understand exactly what art school meant to me.

“No, because
somebody
has to support this baby,” I parroted, “and it won’t be a starving artist.” I could see my mom getting increasingly uncomfortable with this line of conversation. Essence was right. Revenge could be fun. “Besides,” I added, “even art school isn’t worth giving up the baby.”

“So,” Mom said, giving me the death stare, “Essence. About that Cornish recommendation letter—I’ll get it to you in the next few days. You’ve made some really incredible strides as an actor this year. I’ve been really impressed.”

I was too stunned to respond.
A letter of recommendation? For Cornish College of the Arts?
Essence went back to gushing, completely oblivious to my mom’s conversation coup.

Essence was prattling about the
Guys and Dolls
tryouts coming up, but I was somewhere between hurt and rage. Did she spill my secret just to get brownie points? This was about getting on my mom’s good side? Suddenly my memory shifted, the details in sharp relief—like her car spinning out of Milo’s driveway, a phone call away from ruining my life.

So now, as the dread-head bank manager woman ambled toward me, some of that meekness stuck with me as I tugged my pants and shirt into place, unconsciously smoothing the tummy that had gone from fat to pregnant in one, unexpected pop.

The woman finally reached us and locked eyes with me. “Shelley Jones. Manager. Follow me,” she said.

“Well, I can’t stay,” my mom twittered, “I have to get to—”

“Oh,” Shelley Jones said, “I’m sorry. Are you working here, too? I was under the impression it was only your daughter.”

Whoa. I was instantly impressed. And the tiniest bit terrified.

“Well,” said my mother. She looked more flustered than I had ever seen her. “I’ll be back to pick you up at six, then.”

“Make it six forty-five. We don’t leave when the customers do.”

“Oh. Of course. Six forty-five, then.” And my mom was out the door, leaving me to face Shelley alone. I followed her timidly to a windowed office in the back corner of the building. Plum-colored metal blinds fit floor to ceiling in the windows, sealed as if for an interrogation. She closed the solid wood door behind me and shuffled around the desk to an office chair clearly designed to accommodate her considerable weight.

“Wow, that was incredible—”

“So, you’re the pregnant girl I had to hire. Mandy.”

“Rand.”

“Rand. Apparently I’m supposed to reform you.” I was still standing there, unsure whether to stand or sit. She gave me the once-over, lingering for a moment on my newly striped belly.

“What would you rather be doing besides banking? And don’t tell me hanging out with your boyfriend, because I really
don’t want to hear about that.”

I knew I looked like the village idiot, staring with my mouth open, but I really had no idea how to respond. I mean, I’d never been around anybody so…direct before. My family didn’t operate that way.

Shelley leaned her head in closer. “I asked you a question. Are you impaired in some way that you are unable to answer my question?” She was completely deadpan as she said this, her eyes round and huge.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I mean, no, I don’t have a boyfriend. Not anymore.”

“Of course not. So now that the boyfriend is no longer in the picture, and you graduate this year, what were you planning to do?”

“Art,” I said, proud of myself for finally forming a straight answer. “I mean, I’m an artist.”

“So banking is the worst thing your parents could think of to punish you for being pregnant.”

That pretty much summed it up, didn’t it? So I simply said, “Yes.” And then I kind of felt bad for my parents and added, “Though they just want me to be able to support the baby since I decided to keep it.”

She raised one eyebrow, the effect near petrifying. “And what made you decide to keep it?”

I thought about telling her about Xanda, about the path I’d been tracing, how this baby would be the bird, the escape, the thing to change everything. But instead I blurted, “It was my
parents. My parents wanted me to give it up. I wanted to keep her from the beginning.”

“So you got pregnant on purpose?” Again, the deadpan face. I didn’t think I could get used to this.

“No!” That, I was sure about. “No, it just happened. It was an accident.”

“Right,” she said, like she didn’t quite believe me. “So. Back to banking. Can I assume you are planning to dedicate yourself to learning the banking trade? Or are you going to be daydreaming about art and babies all day long?”

Of course I would be thinking about art and my baby. But I would try. That was all she could expect from me. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

The rest of the afternoon, Shelley Jones dedicated herself to teaching me the fine art of banking grunt work.