Positively Mine Page 4

  Her friends shoot her the look of death.

  “That’d be great.” Mike is satisfied with the workings of his charms. “I’m Mike.” He reaches across the invisible hostile line that separates our tables and shakes her hand. “This is Liz and Laurel.”

  “I’m Natasha. This is Jessica, Jen and Becca.”

  We exchange cool hellos, and Mike begins the diplomatic mission of teaching us all to get along, which with their attitudes is probably going to be more difficult than negotiating peace in the Middle East.

  “What year are you?”

  “Sophomores. You?” Natasha asks.

  “We’re freshmen.”

  “You’re freshmen, and you already have to go off campus to do research? Your school must suck.” That comes from Jessica, who doesn’t look up from her gel manicure.

  Mike shrugs off the comment. “So tell me about this party.”

  Chapter Seven

  Turns out, the party is in a group of run-down apartments on the other side of the Greek mansions. Almost everyone who lives here is participating as most every door is open and filled with a crowd. “It’s their annual fall fest,” Natasha explains.

  No one seems to notice that we are strangers to this campus, and we roam from apartment to apartment, looking for a place where we can plant ourselves. Each one has a cheap, modular feel with old shag carpet and outdated fixtures.

  Natasha explains to Mike (not to Liz and me although we are standing here too), “These buildings are scheduled to be demolished in a year or two, so no one cares about taking care of them. They have wild parties all the time.” She points to a hole in the wall that goes all the way through to another apartment. “That’s from two weeks ago. My friend Doug lives here and punched it when Eastman lost to Syracuse. He was going to seal it up, but then he and his neighbor decided they like the fact they can pass beers to each other now, so they made it bigger instead.”

  Eventually, we find ourselves in a shabby, crowded living room that belongs to who knows who, music too loud. I clench a plastic cup of diet coke and sigh. This is not what I had in mind.

  Liz is in the kitchen, talking to three guys. She’s already had a couple of mixed drinks despite the fact she said she wasn’t drinking tonight. And I notice she’s stirring up a third while she chats. Mike’s sitting at a table with Natasha and two other people playing beer pong. I have no idea what happened to the other girls, nor do I care.

  I wander down the hall in hopes of finding a bathroom. A line has formed down a corridor where the bedrooms and bathroom are located so I get on it, avoiding all eye contact.

  No one seems to be in any rush, and the wait is endless. Judging from the framed collages that decorate the hall, this apartment belongs to a couple. Every picture tells their story: fraternity formals, football games, 5K runs. She’s pretty with red hair; he’s long and lean. Their families have met. Their friends are the same. I poke my head around the wall to see if I recognize either of them in the living room.

  There he is, front and center, nodding his head enthusiastically as he talks to a small group of people by the television. She’s nowhere to be found. Maybe this is a my-girlfriend-is-out-of-town thing.

  Finally, it’s my turn, and by now I do have to go. Badly. Since no one showed me the courtesy of making it quick, I continue my voyeuristic exploits once I’m done and open up a closet.

  A messy mismatch of extra toilet paper, razors and toothpaste, towels, wash cloths and sheets cram the shelves. On the floor is a basket filled with a pile of bathroom reading material – old fashion magazines, a couple paperback books. I’m about to move on to the medicine chest when a title catches my attention. Your Pregnancy Month by Month. I lower myself down on the pink-carpeted floor and open it.

  The book has clearly been read. A lot. Someone has underlined sentences, folded pages, and in a chapter which discusses prenatal testing, a question mark has been written in green pen with the words “Ask Dr. Levy” next to it.

  “Are you almost done in there?” someone calls through the door. “The line is long out here, and there’s only one bathroom.”

  I throw the book back in the basket, close the closet door, and dart out of the bathroom. “Sorry,” I say to the people scowling and coil out of the corridor before anyone takes a swipe at me.

  When I return to the living room, Liz has moved to the couch, immersed in a conversation with a guy who has draped his arm around her shoulder. She’s still drinking. Mike is standing near the sliders, by himself now. When he sees me, he gestures for me to come over.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asks.

  “Waiting to use the bathroom. It took forever. Where’s Natasha?”

  “She went to find her friends.”

  “I think she liked you,” I tease.

  “She’s not my type. She’s from Pennsylvania.”

  “So?”

  “I prefer a New York woman.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do you want to stay here? It’s kind of lame.”

  “No. I’d like to get going, but what are we going to do about Liz?” I ask, motioning to the couch.

  “She’s a big girl. We can catch up with her later.”

  “Where should we go?”

  “I don’t know, but why’d we come all the way to Rochester to go to a campus party? Let’s go downtown.”

  Liz squints at us with glassy eyes when we approach. She doesn’t want to leave, but I can’t tell if it’s love or vodka. She promises she’ll text us so we can meet up later. I’m not so sure about that.

  As we inch our way to the other side of the apartment, I spot the girl from the photos. She’s replenishing potato chips, and when she turns, I see it. I see her belly. It’s not obvious, and if I hadn’t found that book, I would never guess, but it’s there, a small baby bump protruding over her pants.

  She crumples up the empty bag, and as she does, I notice one more thing – a diamond on her left ring finger. My stomach knots up. Clearly she has this figured out.

  “Laurel,” Mike calls from the door. “Come on.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mike and I set the GPS on my phone to “walk” and navigate our way through Rochester. Soon we’re on a street with several bars and restaurants crowded and alive with the energy of a Saturday night.

  “Want to get something to eat?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  We settle on a place called Abby’s. It’s half ale house, half restaurant, and the smell of the burgers everyone is ordering has me salivating.

  Mike’s pleasantly surprised when he asks for a beer and it’s brought out to him without anyone checking ID. I stick with water.

  “So, what was up with that place we were at?” Mike asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The people who live there are, like, getting married or something.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Natasha told me.”

  “So married people can’t have parties?”

  “No, they can, but why would anyone want to get married when they’re in college? You have your whole life to get married.”

  I bite my lip, wondering if I want to bring up the subject. I can’t help myself. “I saw a book in the bathroom about pregnancy. Maybe that’s why they’re getting married.”

  “That would suck!”

  My body clenches with his reaction. But the truth is it does suck.

  “If they’re married, maybe it will be easier,” I offer.

  “Would you want to be our age, getting married and pregnant?” Mike asks.

  My throat burns.

  He takes a sip of his beer. “College is supposed to be fun. Work hard, play hard. Create the best memories of your life. Not about merging bank accounts.”

  “I’m sure they’re merging more than that.”

  He laughs.

  Soon our burgers are in front of us, and Mike orders another beer. I’m happy to drop the subject and focus on eating
, letting the noisy atmosphere fill the void of conversation for a while.

  When we’re through and we’ve paid the check, I look at my phone to see if there is any sign from Liz. Nothing. I shoot her a message asking where she is.

  After a reasonable amount of time waiting for a response, I sigh. “I don’t want to go back to that party.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Well, it’s 12:30. We’re going to have to get her eventually. I don’t feel like spending the night in Rochester either.”

  Mike drains his beer. “Let’s go back. Maybe between here and there, she’ll write or call or send smoke signals from the balcony or something.”

  As we retrace our steps, Mike reaches over and takes my hand. I glance at him, surprised, expecting to see some sign he’s joking around or about to say something sarcastic, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead and he doesn’t let go. A part of me wants to pull away, but to be honest the warmth of his fingers around mine is nice.

  As we approach the apartment complex, he pulls me into the shadows of a building, presses me up against the stucco wall, and kisses me. At first it is whisper soft, but slowly the pressure of his lips increases. I am totally thrown off guard. He moves to my ear, then to my neck, and his hands begin to wander. I know I shouldn’t let this happen, but with all the tension I’ve felt in the last day and a half, the release is nice. I don’t want him to stop. His hands are gentle. He feels good pressed against me.

  When he slides his hands under my shirt, I let him. Now mine are reaching under his too. We explore each other above the belt until he runs his hands down my stomach, moving towards my jeans, caressing the place where I had the ultrasound. I take them away. “I can’t.”

  He surrenders with a shy smile. “Got carried away.”

  The chime on my phone breaks the awkwardness of us tucking ourselves back in. Liz is ready to go and wondering where we are.

  The ride back to Colman is quiet. Liz passes out before we’ve even pulled off of Eastman’s campus, and I don’t think Mike or I know what to say to each other. He fumbles with the radio, but in this old truck, there is no chance of getting anything more than static. He’s snoring before long, leaving me to drive the dark country roads without a co-pilot. It feels like forever.

  When I finally pull the truck up in front of Miller, I announce loudly, “We’re here.”

  Mike lifts his head and rubs his eyes. “I fell asleep.”

  “I know.”

  Liz is still passed out. I get out of the car, and Mike follows. He opens the passenger door. “Come on, Liz. We’re home.”

  She groans.

  “Let’s go upstairs.” Her neck is barely holding up her head, but she does climb out of the truck.

  “Wait here,” Mike says to me. “I’ll be down in a couple minutes, and we can find a place to park.”

  “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “I’m not going to let you walk back to the dorms by yourself in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  Liz is leaning on the truck, moaning.

  He shakes his head. “You know what? I’ll park it, and you take Liz upstairs.”

  I’m about to protest, but this does make more sense. I hand him the keys. “Thanks.”

  When I loop my arm into Liz’s, I have to turn my head away from the stench of alcohol on her breath. “Ugh. How much did you drink?”

  She’s out of it. “A lot.”

  “I thought you weren’t drinking tonight.”

  “But he was so…”

  “He was so what?”

  “So hot.”

  “Whatever!” I can’t help laughing.

  Liz uses the wall to hold herself up while I unlock the front door. She runs her hands through her hair, which looks more like a squirrel’s nest now.

  “Come on, you lush.” I joke and grab her, and we make the trek arm in arm up the three flights. I manage to get her in bed and her shoes off. “Do you want me to bring the trash can over?”

  “No…wait…okay.”

  I place it next to her bed. “Sleep tight, Liz.”

  As I leave her room, Mike is cresting the stairs. We meet halfway down the hall. “That was fast,” I say.

  “Got you a spot right in front of the president’s house.” He hands me the keys.

  We stand tongue-tied until he says with a shy smile, “I had fun tonight,” and he reaches behind my neck and pulls me into him, planting a soft kiss on my lips. “See you tomorrow?”

  Then he’s gone.

  And I’m more confused now than ever.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday arrives cloudy and damp, and I see no reason to rush out of bed. I roll over and stare at the bright white ceiling panels. Today. It’s got to be today. No more putting it off. No more denial. This pregnancy isn’t going away. I reach for my backpack and the paper with the questions. After propping my pillows and grabbing a pen, I read through and consider my answers carefully.

  1) Am I ready to be a parent?

  I’m only eighteen with my whole life in front of me. I haven’t told the baby’s father and not sure I want to. And now I like a boy who isn’t the baby’s father. So I would say the answer is a definite no.

  2) Can I afford to be a parent? Can I afford an abortion?

  Not without my dad’s help. Well, I could afford an abortion. Karen said the pill costs $500 and I have $7000 from waitressing at the Yacht Club all summer.

  3) If I am not ready to parent, nor want an abortion, would I consider adoption?

  My hand clamps the pen. I had trouble giving away kittens a couple years ago. How do you give away a baby?

  4) Would having a child now make it too difficult to go to school or work?

  I don’t know. Bottles, diapers, textbooks. I guess I could manage both.

  5) Psychologically, do I think I can handle an abortion? Will I have the support of family and friends if I choose this option?

  Since I don’t know if I’d tell anyone, I would have to handle it. No support.

  I sigh. Glancing at my window, I see it’s starting to drizzle now, and thick droplets of water roll down the glass, colliding into each other and pooling at the sill. More rain in Milton…I continue my answers.

  6) What are my religious beliefs about abortion?

  I haven’t been to church since the last funeral. ’Nuf said.

  7) What will it mean for my family’s future if I have a child now? My hand shakes with this one.

  What family?

  8) Psychologically, can I handle this pregnancy and either parenting or putting a child up for adoption? Will I have the support of family and friends if I choose either of these options?

  Who the hell knows?

  I crumple the paper and toss it in the garbage. This is NOT helping!

  Running my hands down my stomach, my mind wanders back to last night. Despite the fact I’ve only known him a couple of weeks, I’m really attracted to Mike, and if I wasn’t in this situation, I wouldn’t be thinking about anything else but him.

  I let myself contemplate where he and I could take this if only I wasn’t pregnant. He makes me laugh. He seems to get me. And he sure knows how to kiss a girl.

  I roll over and pour the contents of the manila envelope on the floor. Karen’s card stands out in the pile. One call, a pill and it’s over.

  I dial the number on the back and hope a voice will pick up at the other end. Instead, the phone rings three times and goes to voicemail.

  This is Karen Davis of the Women’s Choice Health Center. I am currently unavailable, but if you leave a message, I will get back to you as quickly as possible. If this is a medical emergency, please dial 911.

  After the beep, my voice cracks. “Hello, Karen. This is Laurel Harris. I was at your office on Friday. I, um, wanted to get in touch with you because I…want to come in this week to take it… that pill.” I swallow hard. “Could you please call me back? I’m not sure how I’m supposed to
set this up.”

  I take a huge breath and lift my body out of bed. It feels like I’m dragging a million pounds of lead, but I’m going to force myself to go to the library and focus on schoolwork, otherwise I’ll drive myself crazy.

  Chapter Ten

  I stop at the cafeteria and grab water and a bagel, then head to the library and find a spot at a desk on the far end of the fourth floor of Colman’s massive book stacks so no one will see me. I turn the sound off on my phone and log on to my laptop, scrolling through the professors’ webpages to find out what I missed on Friday. No homework for Swedish Massage. The biology homework looks manageable, some reading and questions to get ready for Tuesday’s lab. Then I get to my Legal Ethics class page.

  Professor Thompson has been at the college since my parents went here. He’s old, boring, has no sense of humor, and he thinks his Legal Ethics class is the most interesting thing since sliced bread. He doesn’t seem to understand that most people don’t feel the same way, nor does he care, which is why he assigns a maddening amount of reading. Every single class. Not surprisingly, we’re expected to read 150 pages by tomorrow, and that’s just since Friday. It’s not an easy read, Thompson!

  If I had any interest in being a lawyer, I could probably force myself to get through this, although most of the people in my class who actually want to be lawyers are struggling too. Since I have no interest, it is particularly grueling. So why am I putting myself through this torture? No other reason than a last ditch attempt to connect with my father.

  We came up to Colman the night before freshman orientation and stayed at a hotel on the lake. We were out for dinner, just the two of us, and he was in an unusually happy mood. I think it was the excitement of being at his old alma mater, reliving his freshman days. While we waited for our entrees, he was looking through the course catalogue although he didn’t make it beyond the pre-law offerings. When he came upon the Intro to Legal Ethics course, he pointed enthusiastically. “Maynard Thompson. Well, look at that, he’s still teaching!”