Chasing Abby(11)

“It’s not about your birthday, Abby. Can we please talk? I’m tired of you blowing me off.”
I glare at him in confusion. “I have not been blowing you off.”
He pulls my hand into his lap. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just really nervous about this.”
“Nervous about what? You’re scaring me, Caleb.”
He looks into my eyes. “I don’t want to scare you. I just want to talk to you. About something very important.”
Holy crap. I don’t think Caleb would break up with me, but I have seen Jodi Weathers trying to flirt with him after fourth period. What the hell does he want to talk to me about?
He takes my hand in both of his and mine disappears as he pulls it to his chest. “Abby, baby, I’m pregnant.”
I wrench my hand away and punch his shoulder. “You *! I thought you were gonna break up with me.”
He laughs as he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him. “Baby, don’t get mad. I thought you would take the news better than this.” I laugh as he takes me in his arms and pretends to cry on my shoulder. “Please don’t make me raise this baby alone.”
“Shut up, jerk.”
He chuckles and plants a loud kiss on my cheek before he lets me go. “It’s not my fault you can’t remember April Fool’s Day.”
“I remembered!” I insist, grabbing my purse and throwing the car door open. “I was just playing along.”
“You’re a bad liar, sunshine.”
He puts up the top on the convertible, then we head for the food court. I hate the food court, but I’ll do anything to get away from my house right now. Every time I look into my mother’s face, I see the silent plea for me to not visit that safe-deposit box on Friday. She doesn’t realize that her need to keep me from knowing my birth parents only makes me want to know them even more. I mean, what the hell is she hiding? What am I going to find in that safe-deposit box?
I keep expecting I’m going to find my birth mother is a drug addict and my father works at McDonald’s or something similar. But the way my mom seems intent on keeping their identities a secret only makes me wonder if maybe my biological parents aren’t strung-out losers. Maybe they’re politicians or movie stars. It’s possible.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is I’m not going to decide until Friday. On Friday, I’ll know what to do. Today, I’m too freaked out about my mom’s shifty behavior and my boyfriend’s fake pregnancy.
Caleb and I grab some Chinese food then walk around for about ten minutes before someone vacates their table and we swoop in to take it. Caleb wipes the table down while I hold our tray, then we sit down to enjoy our orange chicken.
“Do you want to know what I’m getting you for your birthday?” he asks, then he wraps his lips around his straw and takes a long pull of his soda.
The tattoo on the outer edge of his forearm always makes me smile. Caleb had a few tattoos when we first got together four and a half years ago, but his arms are pretty much covered in them now. The tattoo on the outside of his forearm is very simple, yet it’s definitely my favorite. It’s half of a heart. I’m supposed to get the other half tattooed on my arm when I’m eighteen. That way, when we hold hands, our hearts will be whole.
There’s no way my parents would let me get a tattoo before my eighteenth birthday, so I haven’t even bothered asking. I’m actually surprised they’re allowing me to visit the safe-deposit box on Friday, should I choose to do so. It’s their box. They don’t have to show me anything. They could tell me to go to the county courthouse if I want to find out who my parents are. But they haven’t. They’ve agreed to give me the key on my birthday, whether I want it or not.