Free Pop Princess by Rachel Cohn Page B

crouched down for a few minutes, attempting to slow the swirls in my head. Home was about a half mile down the beach. I barely had the energy to stand myself upright. Images of what I had just seen pushed their way to the front of my mind: Doug and Jen, nekkid; me, an imbecile. I couldn’t go back to school. Ever. I wished the sea would suck me in and turn me into a mermaid. Wonder the Mermaid would swim out to where the humpback whales ruled the North Atlantic coast and live with them and never come out again, not even to show off for the tourists on the whaling boats. I could never show my face again in front of, like, the whole island of Cape Cod, and Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, too, and quite possibly the whole State of Massachusetts.
    I started walking home, slowly. I bet this is what a hangover feels like, I thought, your head a ton of bricks and your body like Jell-O. I had a plan. When I got home, I would call Trina and throw myself on her mercy. Surely she would let me come stay with her for a few weeks, till I could figure out how to permanently liberate myself from Devonport.
    When I made it back to the house, it was silent, as usual. Charles would be out, Mom still at work, and Dad tapping away on the computer, probably IM’ing his little heart out instead of working on his great novel. Cash wouldn’t even bother to bark. We might as well all have been ghosts with Lucky.
    But when I opened the screen door to our house, to my horror, Mom, Dad, Charles, Henry, and Katie were standing in the living room. “Surprise!” they called out. Charles was holding a lumpy layer cake with sloppy pink frosting and burning white candles, but it was Katie I looked at: Did she know? Her smile was broad enough to glimpse her braces, but her eyes revealed no knowledge of my humiliation, just a slight twitch to indicate either that Henry had made her come or that she was looking toward the window to make sure no one she knew could see her inside.
    As they sang “Happy Birthday,” I glanced at the date on the pink Baby-G watch that Lucky had given me for my thirteenth birthday. Today was my birthday! Geez, file this incident away for future therapy, the mental girl who doesn’t remember, or care, about her sweet sixteenth. I blew the candles out. I muttered “Thank you” and then ran to the bathroom, where I crouched at the toilet to heave again, though nothing came up.
    Unfortunately, in my haste I’d neglected to lock the door, so who should follow me inside but Mom. At least she held back my hair as I attempted to throw up. When I was done, she sat on the ledge of the tub. “Oh God,” she said. “You’re pregnant. I knew I shouldn’t let you sing with those hoodlums.” Mom let out a soft chortle; she was kidding—mostly—but I didn’t find the joke funny.
    â€œMom, eww!” And yo, Ma, relax—at the rate I’m going, the only way I’ll ever get pregnant will be by Immaculate Conception.
    â€œSchool called. You didn’t show up for your afternoon classes. I would have been in a panic if Dad hadn’t gotten a call from Jodie saying you were spending the afternoon there. Charles has been looking out the window for an hour waiting for you. He and Henry baked the cake themselves. Isn’t that sweet? Henry said you weren’t feeling well at school and that maybe you wouldn’t want a celebration, but I insisted. Is that why you left school, because you weren’t feeling well?”
    â€œYeah,” I lied.
    The ring of the phone distracted us. We were not the popularity house; the only time the phone usually rang here was when the firemen were selling raffle tickets or when Mom was moping around in her robe and slippers munching Nutter Butters and forgetting she’d taken the afternoon shift at the grocery store.
    Charles knocked at the bathroom door. At least someone in our family had