Girls on the Verge Read online

  “I have to get to work,” I say. But it’s like she doesn’t hear me.

  She flips the pages to the ultrasound picture. She smiles and turns it so I can see. “Look at that little miracle—” she says.

  “I think there’s a mistake,” I say, interrupting her.

  She looks at the name on my folder. “You’re Camille Winchester, right?”

  “That’s my name, yes.”

  “Looks like your due date will be—”

  “I don’t need to know the due date because I’m not having it.”

  “It?” Susan says. “What is it?”

  I swallow. “The…”

  “Baby?” Susan says. “Because it is a baby, you know that, Camille, right?”

  “I guess I should have said on the phone. I think Jean misunderstood.” I bunch my hands in my lap. This is bad. I should have spoken up and told them right away instead of assuming they knew I wanted an abortion. Now I’ll probably have to pay for that ultrasound, and I only have a few dollars in my purse.

  “Well, let’s chat about that,” she says. Her voice is calm and she forms each word perfectly. “God sent you here to us, and we want to look after you. Now, you have other options for your little one, and I’d like you to know what they are before you jump to a decision you may regret later in your life, right?” She comes around to my side of the desk and sits on the chair opposite me. She leans forward and puts her hands over mine. “We can help you find a wonderful deserving Christian family to adopt your baby, or you can keep her and raise her yourself. Both of these decisions will give her the same chance at life that your mother gave you. Can I tell you a little bit more about how we can help?”

  Four hundred dollars, I think. I’ll owe that if I don’t listen. So I nod.

  “It looks like you’re three months pregnant.” She reaches into a wicker basket on the table and takes out a little doll. “This is what your baby looks like now.” The tiny figure has a face and little arms and legs.

  “I’m not that far along,” I say.

  She sets the figure on my lap. “It’s very hard to tell the exact age.”

  “But that can’t be—”

  “Now, the first step is to keep you safe, happy, and healthy. Our school for expectant mothers will protect you from people who might try to make you feel bad for your decision. We also have a dormitory if you feel unsafe or unwelcome in your home. In addition, we’ll teach you important mommy skills like baby care and budgeting. We also offer vocational skills at the school like retail sales, waitressing, housekeeping, to help you earn money.”

  Over on the picture frame, a photo of a lady’s birthday party slides into view. Her grayish blond hair is tightly curled, and she looks like an older version of Susan Clark.

  “I’m not dropping out of my school,” I say. “Why would I do that?”

  Susan stands and reaches up to take a pamphlet off the shelf. “We find it’s for the best. Our girls made the terrible decision to give themselves to boys before marriage, and they have to deal with that. Bullying only adds fuel to the fire. Our school is the best option.”

  “I don’t want to drop out of my high school,” I say again, this time more firmly. “I want to finish my senior year and go to college. I don’t want to have a baby.”

  “I know you feel that way now,” she says. “But once you hold your baby in your arms and see her little face for the first time, you’ll realize you’ve done the right thing. Don’t you want to do the right thing, Camille?”

  “I … of course, but—”

  “What if your mother had aborted you? Have you ever thought of that?”

  “My mother resents me,” I blurt out. “She had to give up her dream of being a pastry chef when she had me. If my mom had aborted me, she’d be living her dream. So…”

  Susan’s face hardens.

  “Why is my life more important than hers?” I whisper.

  She slides the pamphlet across the desk. “To take a life, a little innocent baby’s life, is tantamount to murder. I think you need to think a little harder about this decision. It’s proven that abortion can cause terrible mental health issues for you like depression and suicide, and physical problems down the road like uterine perforations and infertility. It can also cause painful periods for the rest of your life.”

  I shouldn’t have yelled at her like that. Now she’ll kick me out and force me to pay. “Can I just schedule the … procedure? Please?”

  “You can’t say the word out loud?” She looks me right in the eye, her face expressionless. “Abortion.”

  I meet her gaze, but I don’t reply.

  “We are here for mothers, not murderers. I think the next step for us is to contact your parents.” She reaches for the phone. She opens my folder. I see my mom’s cell phone number under emergency contact.

  I stand up and snatch my folder from under Susan’s hand; the doll tumbles to the floor. I race out of the room.

  “That folder is clinic property,” Susan shouts.

  I cram the folder into my backpack on top of my Iggy’s uniform and push the door open.

  I’m halfway down the street when I hear footsteps behind me. I’m scared it’s Susan or Lisa running after me to make me pay for the ultrasound and to get my folder back. But it’s Jean. She’s holding a bag with tissue poking out of the top.

  “I want you to have this,” Jean says. “It’s a little something I made for you the night you called.” She hands the bag to me. “You get in touch if you need anything, Camille. I mean that.”

  When I get to work, I look inside the bag. Under the tissue paper is a pair of pink-and-blue knitted baby booties with little tassels. I find a trash can and shove the booties underneath a pile of wrappers smeared with ketchup and chili cheese.

  EIGHT

  JUNE 30

  “See?” Annabelle says to Bea. “I told you it was a trap. And there are tons of those fake clinics around. Way more than there are real family planning clinics.”

  “But that can’t be true.” Bea looks at me, bewildered. “How can that be right?”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t even begin to answer her.

  The family from the van is seated at a table next to us. The mom smiles at me.

  The waitress comes over and sets plates in front of us. Annabelle scrapes the whipped cream off her waffles and flicks it to the side of her plate. She drowns the waffles in butter and syrup and then slides the pitcher across to us. Bea syrups her waffles and passes the pitcher to me.

  I can’t stop looking at that family.

  When their waffles arrive, they hold hands and bow their heads over their waffles. The father starts saying grace. He has a booming voice, and he’s saying the prayer so loud, everyone in the restaurant can hear.

  “Dear Lord, we thank you for this bounty you’ve placed before us, and we ask you to give us strength to pray for the sinners in the world who have turned their faces from you. In your name we pray.”

  The father finishes his prayer, and the family begins to eat their waffles.

  The waitress comes back to refill Annabelle’s coffee cup and notices my plate. “Anything wrong with your waffles, sweetheart?”

  “My stomach hurts a little,” I say.

  “I’ll get you another Sprite—that always settles the tummy. And I’ll box these up for you in case you get hungry later.” She picks up my plate and goes off.

  I glance at the church family again.

  The parents are looking at us and whispering to each other. The man leans in, his hand over his mouth like a little kid telling a secret. His wife nods, her lips pressed into a line. She’s looking at Annabelle’s Wendy Davis T-shirt.

  “It’s your T-shirt,” I say.

  Annabelle looks down at her shirt, confused. “What about it?” She pulls at it. “Do I have syrup on it?”

  “Those people are looking at your T-shirt.” I half stand up, then sit down.

  Annabelle leans back in the booth. “I hope
my T-shirt sears their retinas. I hope they can’t unsee it.”

  The mother reaches into her purse and hands a paper to the littlest girl, who is maybe six years old or so, and points at Annabelle. The girl comes over to our table. She holds out a little pamphlet.

  I take it, even though she was trying to give it to Annabelle—it’s a little comic book about hell. In the first cell, the devil is forking people into a fire with a pitchfork. The caption underneath it reads: “Fornicators and abortionists are damned to hell.”

  “Jesus loves you,” the little girl says before skipping back to her seat.

  Bea sits stock-still.

  “What did she give you?” Annabelle says. She leans forward and pulls the comic out of my hand. “What the fuck,” she whispers.

  “She just loves spreading the word,” the mother says to us.

  Annabelle slides out of the booth and stands up. “Let’s go, okay?”

  I fumble in my purse for money.

  “Don’t worry. I got this.” Annabelle drops money onto the table.

  “I’m not like that,” I hear Bea say to herself as we leave the restaurant. “I know I’m not like that.”

  * * *

  We’re flying down the highway. Annabelle is in her groove, alternatively changing the radio dial and switching lanes. That cheesy Carrie Underwood song, “Jesus, Take the Wheel,” comes on.

  “What about keeping your hands on the wheel instead?” Annabelle says. “Turn into the skid, idiot.”

  I’m happy we are on our way, but my bladder has other ideas. “Can you please pull over? I am about to pee myself.”

  Annabelle rolls her eyes but takes the nearest exit. “You just peed at Waffle Factory, but fine. I’ll fill up the car.”

  I jump out of the car as soon as it comes to a stop and run into the shop. When I come out of the bathroom, I pass two guys by the refrigerated section pulling out tallboys of Red Bull. They’re maybe twenty or so. Both wear battered cowboy hats and old faded western shirts.

  I look through the aisles for some Mike and Ikes and cheese crackers. I find them and get in line behind the guys in cowboy hats. The door dings and Annabelle comes in, holding her go-cup. “I’m going to get some coffee,” she says to me.

  “Hey,” one of the guys says to her. “Get me some coffee, too.”

  She ignores him and goes over to the bank of coffee machines.

  “Smile much?” the guy yells.

  “Whoa, she is hot,” his friend says.

  “Face is okay,” he replies. “But her ass is something else.”

  My shoulders tense up, and I look down at the floor.

  The boys pay and leave with their tallboys. I step forward to pay for my junk food. The woman behind the counter shakes her head. “Jerks,” she mutters under her breath.

  Annabelle returns with a large cup of coffee in her hand, her eyes on her phone. Bea trails behind her, holding a box of Dunkaroos.

  “Are you buying more food?” Annabelle asks her. “You brought an entire pantry with you practically.”

  “But they have Dunkaroos.” She points at the box. “You can’t find these things anywhere.”

  “Let’s stay in here until those guys leave,” I say.

  “What guys?” Annabelle says, cramming her phone in her back pocket.

  “The guys who were in line ahead of me,” I say. “They were talking about you.”

  Annabelle glances out the window. The guys are standing outside by the ice freezer drinking their Red Bulls. “I don’t care about those dudes. Let’s go.”

  We go outside, and the guys immediately notice. The one in the blue shirt is squatting with his back against the wall. The other is leaning against the freezer.

  “Sorry my friend yelled at you,” Blue Shirt says. “He has Tourette’s syndrome when he sees a hot girl.”

  “That’s not funny,” Annabelle says. “My sister has Tourette’s.”

  Blue Shirt pushes himself away from the wall. “Aw, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. Just a joke.”

  “Whatever,” she says.

  Blue Shirt shades his eyes against the sun and looks Annabelle up and down. “Really? Your sister has Tourette’s?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean you get to make fun of other people’s afflictions.”

  “You got me there,” he says. “I’m Billy, and this ugly-looking dude up against the freezer is Justin. You girls up for hanging out?”

  “We have to get going,” I say. “We’re supposed to be somewhere by dark.”

  “It’s not even noon yet,” Justin says. “You can get to your somewhere in plenty of time.” He pulls a joint out of his pocket and waves it at us. He raises his eyebrows.

  I shake my head. “Really, it’s nice of you…”

  “Can I have one of them Dunkaroos?” he says to Bea, pointing at the box with his joint. “I haven’t seen those in years.”

  She steps back, clutching her box so hard she’s denting it.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you talk?”

  Bea turns away.

  “Uptight much?” Billy says.

  “Leave her alone,” I say.

  Justin holds the joint out to Annabelle.

  “No, thanks,” Annabelle says.

  “Come on,” Justin says. “Don’t be that way.”

  “I am that way.”

  “What, you never smoked a joint before?”

  “I don’t have to explain why,” Annabelle says. “The ‘no, thanks’ should be sufficient.”

  “Jesus Christ, don’t be so uptight,” Billy says. “Justin’s trying to be nice, sharing his weed with you and all, and you’re acting all shitty.”

  “Let me give you some advice,” Annabelle says. “When a girl says she doesn’t want to do something, guess what? She doesn’t want to do it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say to them.

  “Don’t apologize to them,” Annabelle says to me, but I ignore her.

  “We’re in a hurry,” I add. “Come on, Bea.”

  “Yeah, go on, Bea,” Billy says. He’s not smiling. I don’t like the look in his eyes, like a snake about to strike. He reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out a cigarette and lights it.

  We head to the car. “Damn, Annabelle,” I whisper. “Why did you have to say that?”

  “Why did you apologize? I hate dudes like that.”

  “I hate guys like that, too, but I’d rather just avoid them.”

  Bea chucks her box of Dunkaroos in a nearby trash can.

  “See you later, bitches,” one of the boys calls out.

  “Assholes,” Bea throws over her shoulder. I look at her, mouth open. I have never in my life heard Bea swear.

  “Hey, she talks,” Justin says. “The little mouse can speak!” He starts to laugh.

  But Billy doesn’t share in the joke. He stands up, flicking the cigarette away from him. “What did you say?”

  Bea turns around and walks backward. “What are you, deaf? I said you and your friend are assholes.” And then she flips them the bird. Both hands.

  And then we run.

  Bea piles into the back seat and slides across it as Annabelle whips out of the gas station.

  “Wow, that felt great!” Bea says. She sits up and puts her seat belt on.

  “Oh my god!” Annabelle bursts out laughing. “That was hilarious. I was living for the look on their faces when you flipped them off. Priceless.”

  “I bet they thought you were the harmless one, Bea,” I say.

  “I didn’t expect any of that to happen,” she says, breathless.

  “Normally I walk past guys like that, but sometimes you gotta recognize a teachable moment,” Annabelle says.

  “Think they will fix their behavior?” I ask Annabelle.

  She rolls her eyes. “No, but it makes me feel better.”

  Annabelle flips through her phone and puts on Beyoncé’s “Run the World.”

  “Anthem time, ladies.”

  We sta
rt singing along at the top of our lungs, and even Bea joins in. She doesn’t know the words so she starts making up her own: “Freaks and freaks and boys are jerks and why did I throw my Dunkaroos away!”

  Beyoncé gets to the part about Houston, Texas, and we whoop and sing as loud as we can.

  Annabelle looks in her rearview mirror. She turns off the radio. Bea is still singing. “Hey,” Bea says.

  “Oh shit,” Annabelle says.

  “What?” I say.

  “Those guys,” she says. “I think they’re following us.”

  Bea and I look out the back window. A bright red Jeep is speeding down the lane behind us.

  “Are you sure that’s them?” Bea asks.

  Annabelle switches lanes and the Jeep follows, flashing its headlights. Annabelle moves into the far-right lane. “I’m willing to bet yes, that is them.”

  “Oh my god,” I say, turning back around. “What the hell? What should we do?”

  The Jeep moves into the lane next to ours and pulls right alongside our car.

  “Don’t look at them,” I say. “Scrunch down in your seat, Bea.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have called them assholes. This is what I get for swearing!”

  I see Billy lower his window and stick his hand out the window, middle finger raised.

  “Good lord, these guys must have tiny dicks.” Annabelle slows down, and they slow down, too.

  Traffic zooms around us. No one pays attention. No one looks.

  “Why are they doing this?” Bea cries.

  “Because they are assholes,” Annabelle says, her voice tense. “Just like you said.”

  Annabelle speeds up. They speed up.

  Annabelle is gripping the steering wheel hard. Her mouth is tight.

  I take out my phone. “Should I call the cops?”

  “I don’t know,” Annabelle says.

  I punch in the numbers 9-1-1, my thumb hovering over the screen, about to place the call.

  The Jeep pulls ahead of us and swerves into our lane. Annabelle sucks in her breath and jerks the steering wheel. We skid onto the verge, gravel flying. I start screaming. Bea is screaming. There’s a popping noise, and the car jerks to a stop.