Call It What You Want(59)

She said she wanted to go to the party because she wanted to forget everything that’s going on. Maybe I should have paid more attention. She’s so confident and determined that I forget she might be hurting underneath it.

A soft tap sounds on my door, and Mom pokes her head in. “I saw your light was still on.”

“I was just about to go to sleep.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

I scoot over in bed and sit up against the headboard so she can climb in with me. She used to do this when I was a little girl and she’d read me stories. Then, in middle school, she’d listen to all my angsty grievances about first crushes and mean girls.

Now that I’m in high school, her nighttime visits haven’t been as frequent, but she has an uncanny way of knowing when I’m troubled.

She puts an arm around my shoulders, and I lean into her. I sigh, already drowsy.

Then she says, “Is Samantha talking to you, Maegan?”

I go still.

“I’m not trying to get information out of you,” Mom says. “I’m so worried about her. I would feel better if I knew she was talking to you.”

I swallow, unsure if even this is safe.

Mom’s breath hitches. “She always used to tell me everything, but now she won’t talk to me.”

Mom reaches up to brush at her face, and I realize she’s crying.

I draw back and stare at her. “Mom.”

“Can you tell me something?” More tears fall, and her voice hitches again.

I hold my breath. Indecision is surely written all over my face.

Mom breaks down crying in earnest. Her hands are pressed to her face.

“Mom,” I whisper. I touch her shoulder. “Mom. It’s okay.”

“Is she getting an abortion?” she asks. One hand is clutched over her abdomen, and she’s almost curled over. “Is she doing it tonight? Is that where you were?”

“What? No! Mom. No.” I can’t take her tears. I’m crying now, just because Mom is. Does Samantha know how this is affecting our mother? She needs to. “Mom. She’s not. She’s at Taco Taco with a boy who graduated with her. You could drive over there right now.”

“Are you sure?” She’s still crying.

“I mean, pretty sure. I saw her an hour ago.” I pause and wipe at my own face. I can’t lie like this. Not to my mother. Not when she’s sobbing in my lap. “We weren’t at the movies, though. We went to a party.”

“A party?” Mom almost laughs through the tears. “You were at a party?”

“Please don’t be mad.” I hesitate. “I would’ve told you, but—”

“I’m not mad.” She dabs tears away from her cheeks, then pulls me into her arms. “Oh, Maegan. I’m so relieved.”

She’s holding me so tight. She must still be crying. Her body is still shaking.

“I wasn’t worried earlier, but then you came home alone, and I started thinking.” Her voice breaks. “I thought she might be in a hospital or something. My imagination got the best of me.”

“No. She’s still pregnant.” I swallow. “If that’s a relief.”

That makes her give a choked laugh. “It is. I can’t believe I’m saying that, but it is.”

When she finally pulls back, I look into her tear-streaked face. “You really don’t want her to have an abortion.”

“No.” Her face contorts and she looks at her hands, now wringing in her lap. “Does that make me selfish? She worked so hard for this scholarship. This will complicate her life in ways she doesn’t understand yet.”

“It doesn’t make you selfish,” I whisper.

“I wish she would tell us about this boy. We could meet with his parents. We could work something out. We could help them.”

Right. This boy. I can’t say anything.

Mom zeroes in on my face. “Wait. Who is she meeting with at Taco Taco?”

“Oh! Just a boy she went to school with.”

Mom’s eyebrows go up. The emotion from the imagined abortion is gone, leaving suspicion in its place. “Do you know him?”

“Mom, it’s not him. Trust me. It’s not him.”

“Then why is Sam meeting with him?”

“Because he’s a nice guy.” I wish I hadn’t mentioned alcohol, because I’d show her the text messages.

Mom’s face falls again. “So, she’s avoiding me.”

I hesitate.

“Please,” Mom says. “Please tell me, Maegan. Whatever it is.”

My thoughts are so tangled up. Rob said he wished Connor’s dad had given them a heads-up—would it be better for Mom and Dad to know what’s going on, before it’s too late? Or is this different?

Mom frowns. “Now you won’t talk to me, either.”

“Mom …” I take a breath. I’m not sure how to finish that statement.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she says. “Is Samantha talking to you, at least?”

“Yes,” I breathe, hoping I’m not about to face a firing line over this.

Mom puts her hands on my face, then pulls me forward to kiss my forehead. “Okay. Then I’ll let you keep her secrets. I’m glad she’s talking to you.”