Call It What You Want(18)

“That guy. Connor. He used to be your friend, right?”

“So?”

“It’s not like you can turn that off. I mean, isn’t that why divorced people hate each other?”

“I wasn’t in love with him, I was—” I break off and make a frustrated sound. “Why are you even sitting here? What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. His face is no longer red. “I guess I was trying to figure out why you gave me the money.”

I run a hand back through my hair and close my book. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah you do.”

“God. Fine.” I’m angry now, and most of it has nothing to do with Owen. “Because I felt bad. Is that what you want me to say? I felt bad that you have to eat a cheese sandwich every day.”

He finishes his banana and balls up the peel. He tosses it at a trash can at least fifteen feet away—and to my surprise, he makes it.

He doesn’t touch anything else on the tray. “Did you know what your dad was doing?”

After eight months, he’s the first person to ever ask me that question in a direct manner.

“No,” I say.

“Okay.” He shrugs and starts shoving all the other snacks into his backpack.

That’s it? I take a breath to demand more information, but then I let it out. I don’t deserve more of an explanation. “Why did you just buy snacks?”

He zips up his bag but makes no move to leave the bench. “Because they’ll last longer.”

Oh. Oh.

And he only ate one banana. I want to ask why he didn’t get his trusty cheese sandwich, but maybe they won’t give him one if he shows up at the register with money.

I tear a strip of paper from my lunch bag, then set half my roast beef sandwich on it and push it across the table.

Owen hesitates, then says, “Thanks.”

I shrug. He shrugs.

And then we eat, and we don’t say anything else.





CHAPTER TWELVE

Maegan

Mom likes to whisper when she’s talking about things you don’t say in polite company. Samantha and I have known about sex since fifth grade, but Mom will still drop to a hushed voice when she mentions anything even close to it. You’d think that the wife of a cop wouldn’t flinch from a word like heroin or affair, but when Mom wants to make a commentary about the drug problem in the community or our next-door neighbor’s proclivities, she acts like she’s shielding our precious ears.

Our supposed innocence doesn’t stop her from talking about these things. It stops her from talking about them at a normal volume.

Tonight, at the dinner table, she’s whispering the word abortion.

“I told you I don’t want to talk about it yet,” Samantha snaps. She grabs a piece of garlic bread from the pile on the table.

Dad clears his throat. He’s only been home for twenty minutes, so he’s still in his uniform. His low voice rumbles as he puts his hand over Mom’s. “Maybe this isn’t the time or place, Allison.”

“She needs to make a decision,” Mom hisses, as if our conversation is being recorded. “Her future is at stake.”

“I’m not going to have the baby under the table in the next twenty minutes,” Samantha says.

“You’re already ten weeks pregnant, and I think you’re being very cavalier about this.” Mom points her fork at Samantha. “I think that’s how you got into this situation. You always think you know best, but sometimes you don’t.”

Samantha takes a long sip of chocolate milk. The combination with spaghetti and meat sauce is enough to turn my stomach, but she said it’s the only thing that calms hers. “I didn’t hear you complaining when my cavalier attitude won me this scholarship.”

“Oh, and what’s going to happen to that scholarship if you decide to keep this baby? What’s going to happen if you take a month to make a decision?”

“Are you telling me to get an abortion?” Samantha asks. “You want me to kill your grandchild?”

Mom pales a shade. She might have been okay with an abortion, but it’s obvious the grandchild angle didn’t occur to her. She swallows so hard I hear it. “Samantha. I’m asking you to look at your options. Have you talked to the athletic director?”

“No.”

“Surely you aren’t the first girl to get pregnant while on a scholarship.”

“So I get rid of the baby or I get rid of my future.” Samantha tears another piece of garlic bread in half. “Great.”

“No one is telling you to get rid of the baby,” Mom snaps. “But I’m asking you to stop hiding in your room and deal with the problem you created.”

“Yeah, I created it all by myself. The turkey baster was so sexy. You should try it, Mom. Might spice up your—”

“Enough.” My father’s voice doesn’t rise much. It doesn’t have to. We both know when to shut up.

Silence falls like a woolen blanket.

“You’re not going to talk to your mother that way,” he says to Samantha. “Do you understand me?”

She shoves the second piece of bread into her mouth and doesn’t look at him. Her cheeks are faintly pink.