Call It What You Want(19)

I spin pasta on my fork and keep my eyes fixed on my plate. I would rather be anywhere than at this dinner table. Literally anywhere.

I’m meeting Rob at seven. Sixty minutes away.

I don’t know if I can last that long.

“You keep refusing to talk about the boy,” Dad says. “Can you share his feelings on the matter?”

The word boy throws me, because David isn’t a boy at all. The spaghetti in my mouth turns to stone. I hate secrets. Especially the secrets of other people.

Samantha doesn’t answer him. The silent tension in the room grows by leaps and bounds.

Mom sets down her silverware. Quietly. Then she smooths her napkin over her lap. When she speaks, her voice is softer. “Maybe we should talk to his parents about setting up a family meeting. Do they live near the university? We could meet somewhere in the middle.”

Samantha takes a drink of milk.

I force down another forkful of spaghetti.

We’ve all been sitting here in silence for a while.

Finally, Samantha says, “He doesn’t think it’s his.” Her voice is so quiet we can barely hear her over our breathing.

Beside me, my father’s fingers curl into a fist. I’m not sure if he’s mad at Samantha or this “boy,” but either way, it’s never good to be on the wrong side of my father’s temper. “He what?”

“He doesn’t think it’s his.” Samantha swallows. “He—”

“He what?” says our mother.

“Nothing.”

My father’s voice, usually a low, calming rumble, is lethally quiet. “Is it his?”

“Yes.” Samantha’s voice breaks. A tear snakes down her cheek.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want his name and phone number. I’m going to call him myself. I’m not going to watch you go through this on your—Where are you going?”

Samantha has burst from her chair and bolted through the kitchen doorway.

A sob escapes her as she tears up the stairs. A moment later, a door slams.

My father sighs and twists his fork in his pasta. His voice is tight. “This is ridiculous. I want you to find out who this boy is, Allison. We pay for her phone. If she’s not going to give us information, I’m going to figure it out on my own.”

Then he points his fork at me. “Not a word to her about that, either. You hear me?”

I squeak and nod quickly.

He sighs, then reaches over and squeezes my forearm. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. You always do the right thing.”

But then he goes still, as if he’s realized what he’s said. He looks back at his food. I look back at mine.

The table falls silent for a while, broken only by the crunch of garlic bread. They haven’t asked me one single thing since we sat down at the dinner table, and I am one hundred percent okay with that.

My phone chimes. Rachel.

RACHEL: Drew is working and I’m bored. Want to see a movie?

MAEGAN: Can’t. Meeting Rob Lachlan to work on our project.

RACHEL: Awkward

MAEGAN: Tell me about it

But as soon as I send the message, I regret it. I replay our late-night meeting at Wegmans. It was definitely awkward—mostly because of me—but it was also sad.

He seems so lonely. I don’t think I ever realized that. His eyes lit up when he mentioned lacrosse scholarships, but that light burned out so quickly when he remembered his current situation.

“Do you really want her to have an abortion?” Dad says softly.

“I don’t know,” says Mom. Her voice is thin and reedy. “I don’t know what to do.”

My chest is so tight it hurts. We aren’t religious, and I’ve always considered myself pro-choice.

It’s a lot easier to say that when the choice isn’t staring you in the face.

“I don’t like it,” Dad says. Then he sighs. “I don’t like the idea of her having a baby at nineteen, either.”

“Even if they let her defer for a year,” says Mom, “how is she going to keep up a sports scholarship while raising a baby?”

“There’s always adoption,” Dad says.

“Are you going to hand over our grandchild?” says Mom.

“Would you rather she kill it?”

I can’t be here for this.

“Can I borrow your car?” I say to Mom.

She sniffs. “What, Maegan?”

“We have a group project in calculus, and we’re meeting at Wegmans. Is that okay?”

She smiles at me, but her eyes are watery and distracted. Mentally, she’s still fixated on my sister. “Oh. Yes. Of course. Go ahead.”



Today, I’m the one with schoolbooks spread across a table in the upstairs eating area. I’m half an hour early, but I had to get out of there. I can’t listen to the abortion debate in the middle of our kitchen. Every time someone says kill it, I want to throw up.

I need to think about calculus.

I can’t think about calculus.

I try to imagine my vivacious, unpredictable sister giving up lacrosse and school to raise a baby. And what would she do for a job? She can’t live with Mom and Dad forever. Besides, Mom and Dad both work. Would the baby have to go to day care so Samantha could keep going to school? Could Mom and Dad afford that? I remember one of our teachers had a baby and came back for a week after maternity leave, then quit. She said she had to work a week to keep what they paid her during her maternity leave—but if she kept working, most of her salary would have to pay for day care. She didn’t want to work so someone else could raise her daughter.