Anywhere but Here (18 page)

She glances at her belly, hidden again beneath the sweatshirt. “This . . . this would never even occur to her. She thinks I'm . . .”

“Perfect?”

Lauren pushes herself off the wall and grabs my shoulders. She stares up at me. “I need you not to tell anyone.”

“Well, eventually they're going to know.”

She shakes her head, a frantic look on her face. “I'm going to figure this out, Cole, but I need you not to tell.”

Her eyes are not normal. She looks as if she hasn't slept in weeks. Her pupils fill up all the space between her lids. Is it possible she's pregnant
and
on drugs? Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure sitting in a ditch and smoking pot while pregnant is not doctor recommended. What the hell is she thinking?

“You can't tell,” she repeats.

I nod. “Okay. I won't tell. We have to talk more, though.”

She squares her shoulders and flicks her hair, then heads toward the bathroom door.

“Lauren, seriously. We have to talk.”

She leaves. She's gone.

I find myself bent over, my hands on my thighs, my breath coming fast and shallow. I might vomit.

There's a yelp. A girl's voice. “What are you doing in the girls' bathroom?”

What
am
I doing in the girls' bathroom? I need help, and this is not the place to find it.

I barrel out the door and down the hall, almost smacking into Ms. Gladwell, who looks momentarily alarmed.

“Everything okay, Cole?”

I don't answer. Her brochures are not going to help me now.

Turning the corner toward the foyer, I find Lauren crying, wrapped in the arms of Hannah, of all people. I can practically hear the crash as my worlds collide. Hannah ushers Lauren toward the front doors, shooting a single “what the hell” glance at me over her shoulder as they leave. My feet stop of their own accord and my eyes scan the foyer as if searching for cover. A minute ago I was an innocent bystander. Now it seems I'm the common enemy.

I head for the side doors that lead to the parking lot. The bell is about to ring, and I find Greg exactly where I expect, leaning on his car, shoulders hunched against the cold, yammering away to Dallas.

“Long hair and a beard, like some sort of time-warped hippie,” Greg's saying.

“And he just came out of your bathroom, first thing in the morning?” Dallas says.

“They pretended like he'd just stopped in for coffee. But since when does my mom have coffee guests before breakfast?”

I have no idea what they're talking about, and I don't care. I'm practically hopping from foot to foot, this secret pressing on my gut like a bladder about to burst.

“She says he makes jewelry in a studio up at the lake. An artist, apparently.”

I can't wait any longer.

“Greg, can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” he says.

Dallas turns to rummage in the backseat of the car, and I tilt my head toward him meaningfully. Greg shrugs.

Just as the bell rings, Dallas emerges triumphantly with a bag of chips and stuffs some in his mouth. Greg takes the bag and grabs a handful.

“Dallas, don't you have class?” I ask desperately.

“Nah,” he says, licking salt off his fingers.

He's killing me. If I have to stand here for one more minute with this knowledge filling me, I'm going to pop like a human blood blister. They can feature me in a real-life ER drama.

“Greg,” I say, as slowly as I can with my chest still heaving. “I have to get to class. You too, right?”

He looks at me as if I'm insane, but he hands the chips to Dallas and locks up his car. As Dallas ambles toward Canyon Street, I steer Greg around the corner of the school.

“Lauren's pregnant,” I blurt. The steam from my breath hangs in the air.

“You mean Sheri's pregnant,” Greg says.

“They're both pregnant!”

It's as if I'm in a 1970s film and psychedelic lines are radiating across the screen to indicate that the protagonist has lost his mind. Soon, men in white coats will rush up with gurneys and hypodermic needles.

I wish I was crazy. I wish this wasn't real.

“Lauren's pregnant. Think about it. She's been wearing extra-large T-shirts, throwing up in your car, sitting in a ditch and talking about choices. Then there's Lex's anger-management issue. How did we not see this before?”

“Dude . . . you're kinda scaring me here,” Greg says.

I take a deep breath and attempt to speak at a normal speed. “Greg, you know I would believe anything you told me, right? The aliens? If you saw aliens, I would believe you.”

He nods, wary.

“Lauren is pregnant.” I say it slowly and deliberately. Then I lean against the cold cinder-block wall, shaking as if I just spewed my guts out.

“Pregnant,” Greg repeats.

“I'm the biggest hypocrite on earth. I've been slamming
my dad for his stupidity, and here I am, the same sort of idiot. People are going to think the entire Owens family has sworn off birth control.”

Lauren was careful about birth control, though. Always.

Fucking pregnant.

“We could start our own religious sect,” I say. “Dad, Sheri, their baby, me, Lauren, our baby. We'll all grow dreadlocks and switch to hemp clothing.”

My mind is running a million miles a minute, leaping from idea to crazy idea, trying to find somewhere safe.

“I saw a doc like that once,” I tell Greg. It was called
Jonestown
. Maybe we could move our cult to Guyana and I could get a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

“Are you high?” Greg asks.

“No, I'm not high!” I'm yelling. I can't yell; I'm not supposed to be talking to anyone about this. Who knows where Lauren and Hannah went and what Lauren's telling her. They could be around the next cinder-block corner for all I know, having this same conversation.

With heroic effort, I lower my voice.

“I'm telling you, Lauren's pregnant. We slept together after we broke up. Just once. It was months ago. But she's pregnant.” How many times have I repeated that phrase now? Enough to last the rest of my life, I think.

Greg's face shuts down, as if all energy has drained from him.

“I just figured it out, and she made me swear not to tell anyone,” I say. “Lex is the only one who knew. The only one.”

When I meet Greg's eyes, I have to take a step backward. Greg has been mad at me before. When I borrowed his remote-control car in fourth grade and lost the controller, he didn't speak to me for a week. But this look—this look is exponentially more angry.

“What?” I say. What the fuck did I do? Well, except have unprotected sex with Lauren. That was a bit of a mistake.

“THIS is what's been wrong with Lauren?” Greg is the one yelling now. “I
told
you something was wrong with her. You said it was a thyroid problem!”

“I didn't know.”

“How could you not know? It's Lauren!”

This is not the reaction I was expecting. Not the reaction of a supportive friend. Greg's not on my side in this. Apparently, his crush on Lauren didn't end when she threw up in his car.

I suppose I should have anticipated this.

He pushes past me, heading back to the parking lot. A minute later, I hear the squeal of tires.

I stand there like a statue, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do next. The final scene I'd chosen for this year—the one where I drove out of town and into the sunset—has
just been cut, all the video clips deleted. But where's the alternate script?

I go back to class just for the comfort of sitting in a desk and pretending to be normal. Then my history teacher taps me on the shoulder. I look up to find the bell has rung, everyone has left, and I failed to notice.

•  •  •

I knock on Lauren's door after school. Her mom smiles so politely, so coldly, that you'd think I was a stranger going door-to-door for donations.

“I'm sorry, Cole. She's studying right now.”

Lauren has obviously given her mother instructions. And even though she doesn't know Lauren's pregnant, her mom understands that we broke up. Not that she ever loved me in the first place.

Mrs. Michaels closes the door firmly, leaving me staring at the oak grain and the brass door knocker.

I tried catching Lauren at her locker after school. I tried calling. And now she's inside this house and I'm outside. Her poodle is barking its head off, and between the dog, her mom, and the Virgin Mary, Lauren might as well be in the witness protection program.

I drag myself back to the pickup, scuffing the thin layer of white at my feet. The snow started this afternoon, the first of the
season, and I can hear kids whooping down the street, dragging sleds behind them.

I climb into the truck and slump in the seat, struggling to think logically. I've already counted the months. The time for abortion has passed—even if Lauren weren't as Catholic as the pope. So the way I see it, we have three choices. Lauren and I could get married. At one point, this would have seemed a natural choice. Now . . . well, what if I stay mad about bailing out of film school and what if Lauren's forever angry about Hannah? The whole idea seems like a sham.

Choice two: We arrange some shared system for finances. And shared system for the kid too, I suppose. It would be as if we'd gotten a divorce except without the marriage. We could still go to school, although maybe not at the same time. We could have separate careers, maybe even in separate places. This option would require both of us to act in a sane and predictable manner.

Choice three: adoption. In my mind, this is the choice that makes white lights glow and angels sing. But it's weird too. What if there's a kid out there who looks and thinks like me and he's being raised by a millionaire real estate broker and his plastic surgeon wife? Or by people who collect Star Wars figurines and name him Anakin?

My head has somehow come to rest on the steering wheel.
Anything Lauren and I choose is going to be disastrously messy. I can't see a white picket fence in sight.

Sighing, I drag myself upright and turn the ignition key. I want to go home and hibernate in the basement. Instead, I'm about to drive across town and meet Hannah's parents. I've been hoping for some sort of natural disaster—a freak avalanche blocking traffic on Canyon Street—but so far, no luck.

I saw Hannah in the hallway after school.
After
she'd seen Lauren. I tried to bail.

“I'm coming down with something,” I said.

“You look fine,” she said patronizingly. “I'll see you at six. We can talk after dinner—just you and me.” She gave me a peck on the cheek as she breezed onward.

So now my ex-girlfriend is pregnant and not speaking to me, and my current girlfriend may or may not know that, and I'm about to meet her parents. The timing is excruciatingly bad. And the dinner itself . . . well, obviously I agreed to it in a moment of extreme emotional weakness, involving nudity on Hannah's part.

Now I'm supposed to go to her house. Her gigantic house.

It's quite possible that I've been sucked into a bleak foreign film and I can't read the subtitles. And those award-winning European movies that end up in North American theaters—they never seem to end well.

[Panoramic shot:
manicured hillside lawn. Camera slowly pans in on large, mansion-like house with three garages and stone urns filled with fall foliage. Pans in farther onto double oak doors at entranceway. Protagonist approaches, looking disheveled
.]

Protagonist rings bell.

DEPREZ FATHER

[
Tall, thin, graying. Wears a gray sweater vest.
] Come in, come in. You're right on time. We like
punctuality around here. At least, I do. With two women in the family, it's generally hopeless.

[
Pair enters kitchen. Warm lighting shows rich, dark cabinets, granite countertop with fresh biscuits steaming in a basket. Matronly woman wearing apron and oven mitts turns from the stove top.
]

DEPREZ MOTHER

Cole! We've heard so much about you!

[
Mother extends oven-mitted hand, then, laughing, removes mitt. Shakes hair from her eyes. Protagonist appears shocked.
]

PROTAGONIST

We've met, actually.

MOTHER

Well, would you look at that. You're the boy who roasts his own chicken dinners. Imagine, all this time we've known each other and we didn't realize it. How did that chicken turn out, anyway?

HANNAH

[
Kissing protagonist on the cheek in greeting.
] What are you two talking about?

MOTHER

Cole and I met in the supermarket, sweetheart. What a coincidence! Especially since we just happen to be having roast chicken tonight. Isn't that something? I must be psychic.

[
Protagonist looks uncomfortable. He's still smiling, but his shoulders are hunched, and he darts glances toward the door.
]

FATHER

Should I set the table?

MOTHER

Oh, Hannah set it hours ago. Nothing too good for our important guest, apparently.

[
Camera pans to protagonist, who looks increasingly panicked.
]

MOTHER

Why don't you have a seat, Cole? Pour him a soda, would you, hon?

COLE

[
Visibly sweating.
] Thanks . . . um . . . Could I use your bathroom?

MOTHER

Right around the corner, hon.

[
Protagonist turns and strides from the kitchen. Camera follows him as he passes the open bathroom door and continues to the front entrance. He leaves. Camera flips to family members, looking stunned as they hear the front door bang closed
.]

That's how it happened.