The Weight of the World (3 page)

“
Oh
that could be fun,” Devon said with a smirk. Adam was tall and
broad-shouldered. He was very good-looking. The other girls on the
cheerleading squad would just about die of envy.

Devon’s
phone buzzed in her tight pocket. She slipped it out and looked down.
Frank. Devon ignored the call. Now was not the time to discuss their
news. Her mother stood up to start clearing away dishes. Devon stood
up to help, which drew a look of surprise from her father. Devon
never volunteered her help unless she wanted something. She compiled
the empty cardboard containers and carried them to the kitchen to
throw away.

“
Devon?”
her mother asked when she came back to start clearing away the actual
dishes. Devon had barely touched her own dinner. Fried rice had been
pushed around the edges of the plate, but it was still clear that she
had hardly eaten. And she was quiet. “Is everything okay?”
Devon’s suddenly dark demeanor was foreign in their home. She just
wasn’t like those other moody teenagers.

“
I’m
fine,” she said. Devon stopped and looked at Adam. Now was a hell
of a time to have a house guest.
“We
can talk about it later.”

Adam
nodded and stood up. Mrs. Valentine pointed him towards the bathroom
so he could wash up. Devon stayed standing. She felt stronger if she
was on her feet.

When
Adam returned, he seemed to have noted the tension. He shoved his
hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoes. “Well, thank you
for dinner,” he said, “but I think I need to head home. I’ve
been traveling since sun-up.”

Devon’s
parents exchanged pleasantries as they walked Adam to the door. When
he was out on the front walk and the door was shut,
h
er
mother came back into the room and sat down. “What’s wrong,”
she asked, “is it drugs?”

“
Ew,
no. Do I look like a junkie?”

“
I
saw a lovely young girl on TV the other day who was doing meth. Are
you... how do you take crystal meth?”

“
No,
Mom, I don’t have a meth habit, and I’m not running a meth lab.
I’m pregnant.”

Mrs.
Valentine knocked over her wine glass. A pool of red crawled across
the table and wicked through the white table runner.

Mr.
Valentine just stared, his forehead twitching.

“
Say
something,” Devon said to her father after too much time had passed
in silence.

“
How?”

“
From
sex, how else?”

His
eyes looked ready to pop out. Devon tried to back track. Now was not
the time to be fresh. “From my boyfriend, Frank.”

“
Frank?”
Mrs. Valentine asked. “This wouldn’t have happened if you were
dating that Morrisey boy.

Devon
didn’t feel like telling her mother that Nick Morrisey would have
been worse. Instead, she looked down at the table to avoid laughing
at the irony of that comment. “Frank Guerrero. The football team’s
center.”

“
The
Mexican,” Mr. Valentine said.

“
He’s
Cuban.”

“
Same
thing.”

Devon
winced. She looked back up at her father. “I’m six weeks along,
and I’m not getting an abortion, so there you have it. Ground me
till I’m eighteen if you want.”

Mr.
an Mrs. Valentine looked at each other. There was no way that they
were ready for this. Did they punish her or hug her? Did they blame
themselves or the other parent? Mrs. Valentine had started to cry,
and Mr. Valentine looked ready to pop.

A
motorcycle’s rumble faded into earshot. Devon heard it go quiet at
the end of the cul de sac. Frank. She started clearing the rest of
the dishes. “I’ll let you two talk. You know, agree on my
punishment.”

Devon
dumped the dishes in the sink and ran up the stairs. She closed her
bedroom door and ran to the window, throwing it open. Frank climbed
through. She was glad he came back. Devon threw her arms around his
shoulders and buried her face in his neck. He couldn’t remember the
last time she’d simply hugged him.

“
We
needed to talk about it,” he said. He held the blonde in his arms,
breathing the scent of her hair. Devon was not frail by any means,
but in his extra-strong embrace she felt soft and delicate.

“
I
told them,” she whispered.

Both
of them heard footsteps at the same time. They barely had time to
step apart before Mr. Valentine came through the door with a shotgun.
The shock had worn off and he was angry. “You!” he pointed the
gun at Frank’s chest. “Climbing in my window, breaking in to my
house. Get your dirty paws off my daughter.”

Frank’s
heart hammered in his chest. He could feel the pulse of every finger
and toe. The back of his neck felt cold as muscles contracted and
released with the rush of adrenaline. He just stared back at Mr.
Valentine and his Ithica model 37, pump-action shotgun, not backing
down an inch.

“
You’re
not going to see this boy again, do you hear me, Devon?”

“
Dad!
Put the gun down.”

“
If
I catch you with her again--”

“
We’re
having a baby,” Frank said. His deep voice was rich and terrifying.
“And I’ll be damned if you’ll keep me away from my son.”

Frank
wasn’t sure why he said son. It just seemed more personal and
sincere than the generic “my kid.” The six-foot-six war god
stepped closer to Mr. Valentine, towering over him. Mr. Valentine was
scared but he wasn’t about to shoot him. Not yet, anyway. He swung
the butt of the rifle quickly. He knew what he was doing; he had been
in the military before he was married.

The
back of the gun seemed to come at Frank in slow motion. He had ample
time to anticipate the attack, block it, and wrench the gun from Mr.
Valentine’s hands before the world snapped back into normal speed.
To the Valentine family, Frank appeared to react with lightning quick
reflexes. He bent the barrel of the gun and shoved it back into Mr.
Valentine’s arms, causing him to stagger.

Frank
was out the window without a word to Devon. She was crying now. Damn
those hormones! Mrs. Valentine wanted to go comfort her daughter, but
the rage in her husband’s eyes caused her to stay back and stay
quiet. Devon had clearly brought this upon herself by being
promiscuous with that beast.

“
I
meant what I said,” Mr. Valentine muttered, looking up from his
mangled gun. “You’re to only leave the house with my express
permission. If I see you with that boy again, you’ll be visiting
Aunt Nancy for the next eight months.

He
turned and left the room. Mrs. Valentine looked back at Devon, her
eyes wide and wet with suppressed tears. “I’ll get you some
vitamins tomorrow.”

She
closed the bedroom door, leaving Devon alone to sob into her
comforter.

Devon
woke up five hours later. The summer sun had set some time ago,
leaving her bedroom dark. A number of mosquitoes had flown in through
her still-open window. She swatted one on her arm. The bloated insect
left a splotch of scarlet blood. Devon couldn’t be sure that all of
it was hers.

She
got up from the bed and found a tissue to clean the bug bite with.
She closed her window. It was after eleven. The house was silent.

She’d
had that dream again, the same one from her nap this afternoon with
Frank. How easy it was to fall in love.

Devon,
still in her jeans and t-shirt, changed into a pair of tiny red
pajama shorts and a tank top.
She
flipped open her cell phone and clicked down her contacts list. She
thought of calling Dr. Davis. Hell, she’d talk to June Herald right
now. Anyone.

A
text message set her phone vibrating. It was Frank. “Are you okay?”
she read. Not really, but she typed “yes” and sent the message.
She closed her phone and went downstairs for a glass of water.

She
filled a tall glass from the dispenser in the door of the
refrigerator and then slipped out the back sliding door. The summer
air was thick and humid, but the concrete patio was cool under her
bare feet.

A
pair of indigo eyes flashed reflected moonlight. Devon gasped and
staggered back into a patio chair. “Shit, Adam,” she cursed. “You
scared me.”

“
Sorry,”
he mumbled in the dark. He was sitting on a chair, in the dark, in
the yard next door, holding a tall glass of water. Devon turned on
her father's grill light so she could see him.

Adam
sat with a can of ginger ale and a jar of peanuts. He was dressed in
a pair of blue basketball shorts and a white undershirt.

“
You
don’t have to sit in the dark,” she said.

“
The
bulb back here is burned out. It's more peaceful this way. I like the
moonlight.”

Devon
dragged her patio chair to the edge of the fence. It was a low wood
structure, meant more as a property divider than a privacy fence.
When she sat down next to it, the top of the fence was the perfect
height to rest her drink on.

“
Are
you alright? I heard a lot of shouting after I left.”

“
You
must think we’re crazy,” Devon replied.

“
Everyone
has fights.” He took a long sip of ginger ale, eyeing Devon
curiously with those dark blue eyes. They had seemed lighter at the
dinner table. She assumed that the low light accounted for the
change. They seemed more mysterious now. “Are you okay?” he
asked.

Devon
shrugged. “I’m pregnant.” Her parents knew and in a few weeks
she would be shopping for elastic waistbands. There was no use hiding
it. “And Dad tried to beat up Frank-- my boyfriend-- and Frank
broke his gun.”

Adam
stopped eating peanuts mid-bite. He stared, shocked that she would be
so casual in her recollection of events. “A gun?”

“
Daddy
wasn’t going to shoot him, just scare him.”

“
Oh,
sure.” He busied himself with his can of soda.

Devon
tapped her french-manicured nails on the fence. Adam slowly put the
can down and ran his finger around the rim. “I think every Dad
would want to pull a gun on the guy who impregnates his daughter. I’m
just surprised he actually did it. I pegged him for being more...
controlled.”

“
You’ve
only known him for half a day,” Devon said. “He’s protective.
I’m an only child.”

Adam
nodded. “Your Mom?”

“
She’d
rather Nick Morrisey had knocked me up.”

“
Who?”

“
This
guy from school. He’s pretty much the biggest slut I know. But to
anyone over forty he's an angel.”

Adam
snorted.

“
It’s
amazing. Frank works a part-time job and cooks and cleans for his
mom. Yeah, he gets into fights, but he’d never hurt me. Nick sleeps
with anything female and has absolutely no responsibility, yet Moms
love him.”

“
Some
guys have that gift.”

“
I
don’t really have a problem with him, it’s just ironic. And kind
of racist. Daddy just prefers Nick because he isn’t Cuban.”

“
Are
you keeping it?”

“
The
baby? Of course.” Devon took a gulp of water. “I just have to
figure out how. But I am.”

“
That's
good,” he said. He picked out a peanut (honey-roasted) from his jar
and rolled it in his fingertips. After a long pause, he spoke. “I
was almost aborted. My grandfather, my mother's father, wanted me to
be.”