The truth was she didn't belong anywhere.
LAUREN RETURNED TO CLASS AND WENT THROUGH THE motions of high school. She took notes and filled out her daily planner with upcoming assignments and talked to her classmates. Once or twice she even smiled, but inside, she felt cold. An unfamiliar anger was spreading through her blood.
David had promised to keep their secret. He knew-- they knew--it would get out sooner or later, of course, but not yet. She wasn't ready to face the questions and gossip.
By lunchtime, she'd gone beyond anger. She was pissed. She ignored their friends and strode across campus to the weight room. He was there with his football buddies. Amid the clunking of weights and the huffing of exertion, they were talking and laughing.
When she stepped into the room, it fell silent.
Damn you, David.
She felt her cheeks heat up. "Hey," she said, trying to sound normal, as if she were just another high school girl instead of a ruined one.
David slowly sat up. The way he looked at her made it difficult to breathe. "Bye, guys."
No one answered him.
In silence, she and David walked across the campus and out to the football field. It was a cold, crisp day, with a layer of frost glittering on the grass. The air smelled vaguely of apples.
"How could you do it?" she said at last. Her voice was surprisingly soft. She'd expected to scream the question at him, maybe hit him for emphasis, but now that she was here, she was icy cold and afraid.
He took her hand and led her to the bleachers. They sat down on the cold, hard seat. He didn't put his arm around her. Instead, he stared out at the grassy field and sighed.
"You promised," she said again, louder this time, her voice shrill. "And Coach Tripp. Everyone knows he has a big mouth. Didn't you think--"
"My dad won't talk to me anymore."
Lauren frowned. "But ..." She didn't know how to finish her sentence.
"He said I'm a stupid idiot. No. A fucking idiot. Those were his exact words." David's breath floated out in pale clouds.
She lost her anger; just like that it was gone. Something inside her seemed to fold inward. She touched his thigh and leaned against him. For all the years she'd known him, he'd been trying to get his father's attention. It was one of the things they had in common. A parent who didn't seem to love you enough.
The Speedster was David's pride and joy not because it was the envy of other boys or because girls loved it. He cared about the car because his father loved it. What David cared about were the hours spent in the garage with his dad. There--and only there, it seemed--they'd talked.
"He won't even work on the car. He says there's no point in fixing up wheels for a kid who's going nowhere." He finally looked at Lauren. "I needed to talk to someone. A guy."
How could she not understand that? This was a time of almost unbearable loneliness. She slipped her hand in his. "It's okay. I'm sorry I yelled at you."
"I'm sorry I told him. I thought he'd keep quiet."
"I know." They fell silent again, each staring out at the field. Finally Lauren said, "At least we have each other."
Softly, in a voice that held no confidence, he said, "Yeah."
WHEN LAUREN GOT HOME, MRS. MAUK WAS WAITING for her on the front step. By the time Lauren saw her, it was too late to turn around.
"Lauren," she said, sighing heavily. "I went to see your mom at work today."
"Oh? Did you catch her?"
"You know I didn't. Her boss said she'd quit. Left town."
Lauren sagged beneath the weight of those two words. "Yeah. I'm going to get a full-time job. I promise--"
"I can't do it, kiddo," she said, and though Lauren could see she didn't like this news, she broke it anyway. "You can't afford this place by yourself. My boss is already tired of your mom's late payments. He wants me to evict you guys."
"Please, don't."
Mrs. Mauk's fleshy face folded into a sad look. "I wish I could help you. I'm so sorry." She slowly turned and went inside. The busted screen door banged shut behind her.
If one more person told Lauren they were sorry, she was going to scream.
Not that it would do any good.
She trudged up the stairs, walked into her apartment, and slammed the door shut.
"Think, Lauren," she said, searching for her old self, the girl who could climb any mountain. "Think."
Someone knocked.
No doubt Mrs. Mauk had forgotten to tell her that she needed to vacate the premises by tomorrow.
She went to the door, yanked it open. "I can't--"
There, standing in the gloomy darkness, was Angie.
"Oh" was all Lauren managed to say.
"Hello, Lauren." Angie smiled, and there was a gentleness in it that caused Lauren a physical pain. "Maybe you'd like to invite me in."
Lauren imagined it: Angie Malone inside, walking on the smelly shag carpeting, sitting--no, not daring to sit--on the lopsided sofa, looking around the room. Making judgments, feeling sorry for Lauren. "No. Not really." She crossed her arms, blocked the doorway with her body.
"Lauren," Angie said sternly. It was the mother voice. Lauren was helpless to resist. She stepped aside.
Angie eased past her and went inside.
Lauren stumbled along beside her. It was impossible not to see the place through Angie's eyes. Tawdry stucco walls stained from years of chain smoking; cloudy windows that revealed no view except the brick building next door. She couldn't possibly offer Angie a seat. "You ... uh ... want a Coke?" she offered nervously, moving from foot to foot. When she realized what she was doing--practically dancing the macarena, for heaven's sake--she forced herself to stand still.
To Lauren's utter amazement, Angie sat down on the broken sofa. Not one of those I'm-worried-aboutruining-my-clothes perches either. She sat. "I don't need a Coke, but thanks."
"About my job ..."
"Yes?"
"I should have called."
"Yes, you should have. Why didn't you?"
Lauren twisted her hands together. "It's been a bad week for me."
"Sit down, Lauren."
She didn't dare get too close to Angie. She was afraid one touch would make her cry. So she grabbed a chair from the dinette set and dragged it into the living room, then sat down.
"I thought we were friends," Angie said.
"We are."
"You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"What can I do to help?"
That was all it took. Lauren burst into tears. "N-nothing. It's too late."
Angie left the sofa and went to Lauren, taking her in her arms and pulling her up from the chair. Lauren's sobs grew louder. Angie stroked her back and hair, said, "It'll be okay," about a dozen times.
"No, it won't," Lauren said miserably when the tears eased. "My mom dumped me."
"Dumped you?"
"She ran off with a guy named Jake Morrow."
"Oh, honey. She'll be back--"
"No," Lauren said quietly. The surprising thing was how much it hurt to admit. After all the years of knowing how little her mother loved her, still it wounded her. "And Mrs. Mauk says I can't stay here. How am I supposed to earn enough money to pay for my own apartment?" She looked down at the floor, then slowly up at Angie. "That's not even the worst of it."
"There's something worse than that?"
Lauren took a deep breath. She hated to say these words to Angie, but what choice did she have? "I'm pregnant."
TWENTY-THREE
GOD HELP HER, ANGIE'S FIRST REACTION WAS ENVY. It stung her heart; she felt its poison begin to spread.
"Nine weeks," Lauren said, looking miserable, and young.
So desperately, impossibly young.
Angie pushed her feelings aside. There would be time, late at night, she supposed, when she was vulnerable and lonely, to think about why the world was sometimes so unfair. She scooted backward and sat on the coffee table. She needed some distance between them. Lauren's pain was so palpable, Angie wanted to make it go away, but this wasn't one of those times. A hug wouldn't do it.
She stared at Lauren. The girl's red hair was a tangled mess, her round, puffy cheeks were paler than usual, and her brown eyes were steeped in sadness.
If ever a girl was in need of mothering ...
No.
"Did you tell your mother?" Angie asked.
"That's why she left. She said she raised one mistake and wouldn't do it again."
Angie sighed. It had, over the years of her infertility and losses, occurred to her often that motherhood was too random. Too many women that shouldn't raise a child were granted that gift, while others lived with arms that felt empty.
"I tried to have an abortion."
"Tried?"
"I thought I'd just take care of the problem, you know? Be mature. But I couldn't do it."
"You should have come to me, Lauren."
"How could I come to you with this? I knew it would hurt you. And I didn't want you looking at me the way you are."
"How's that?"
"Like I'm stupid."
Angie was drawn forward in spite of her best intentions. She tucked a stringy lock of hair behind Lauren's ear. "I'm not looking at you like that. I'm sad and scared for you, that's all."
Lauren's eyes filled slowly with tears. "I don't know what to do. David says he'll bag Stanford and marry me, but it won't work. He'd start to hate me. I don't think I could stand that."
Angie wished there were some string of magic words that would ease this poor child's heart, but sometimes life backed you into a corner and there was no easy way out.
Lauren wiped her eyes, sniffed, and sat up straighter. "I don't mean to dump all this on you. I'm just scared. I don't know what to do, and now I have to find a new place to live."
"It's okay, Lauren. Take a deep breath." Angie looked at her. "What do you want to do?"
"Go back to October and use a condom."
Angie laughed, but it was sad and a little strained. "Do you and David want to keep the baby?"
"How can I know something like that? I want ..." She sagged deeper in her chair and bowed her head. Angie could tell that she was crying. She made almost no sound, as though she'd learned to keep her tears inside. "It's my mess. I got myself into it; I have to get myself out of it. Maybe Mrs. Mauk will let me stay here for a while longer."
Angie squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears of her own. Memories came at her hard--Lauren at Help-Your-Neighbor House, freezing cold, but asking for a coat for her mother ... in the grocery store parking lot on a rainy night, pressing flyers on windshields ... saying softly I can't go to the homecoming dance and then hugging Angie for something as simple as a borrowed dress and some makeup.
Lauren was alone in the world. She was a good, responsible girl, and she'd do the right thing or die trying, but how could a seventeen-year-old possibly find the right way on so treacherous a road? She would need help.
She's not your daughter, Angela.
You be careful with this girl.
It was good advice, and now, at this moment, Angie was terrified not to take it. She'd worked so hard to come out of the darkness of baby-wanting; how could she let herself slide backward? Could she stand by Lauren and watch her belly grow and grow? Could she survive the intimacies of another woman's pregnancy-- the morning sickness, the dreams that expanded with every gained pound, the wonder in tiny words like: She kicked me ... he's a little gymnast ... here, touch my stomach ...
