Round and Round She Goes

"You 'bout ready to get off, baby?"
"No, please, Daddy- one more time!"
The father- a thickset man with a bright pink tie knotted high up around his neck- was calling to his daughter. She had gotten on four turns ago, clad in a poofy-pink princess gown, while her dad was on the phone, yelling at someone, and had taken the horse behind and to the left of me, a white one with a gold saddle and blue feathers. I could tell that I, a grown woman who had been on the ride for longer than the two had been there, was making the father nervous. The little girl, hopped up on fair food (the stuff that tastes so good while you eat it but makes you sick as a dog later- fried butter on a stick anyone?) didn't seem to notice- I think that her eyeballs were vibrating.
The ride stops and the little girl reluctantly gets off. "You wanna go 'gain, sugar?" the worker, a short man wtih a shaved head and handlebar mustach asked. I nod, and he presses the big red button. "You're luck this place ain't crowded today." he winks, leaning forward to give me the oh-so-sexy (gag) view of his curly black chest hair with a gold chain nestled in the middle of it.
The carnival is almost completely deserted: the entire state has been under a hurrican advisory warning for the past sixteen hours and, while it seems that we have once again dodged the bullet, the rain that has been almost continuous makes me sympathize with the inhabitants of the lost city of Atlantis. There is nothing more depressing than an empty carnival: the barker sits in his shed, his bullhorn beside him, reading ("Buxom Babes of the Bahammas", somehow I don't think that it's an instructional book); all of the games and food stands are closed; the poor schmuck who works the ferris wheel is stuck cleaning the vomit out of the front seat. All the while, though, the carousel goes around and around, its lights making the small circle within its realm look bright and it's cheery music ("music to slit your wrists to" I call it in my more snarky moods) reminding you that, no matter what, some things don't change- and never will.
"So....you couldn't ride around aimlessly in circles in your car?"
I jump- by the way, never a good idea when you're sitting on a plastic horse's saddle designed for kids aged two to seven- almost falling onto the hard metal of the carousel's base. Kent, his hair dark mahogany brown with the rain, smiles at me from his pink pony.
"What, and miss the chance to see you on the gayest-looking horse on this ride?" I laugh, "Not a chance."
"Your mom's worried about you, Cill. She's been calling you for an hour."
"Phone's in the car." I stare off into the distance, "I'm thinking about joining the Carnies. Could be a clown or something."
"Cellia, you hate greasepaint. Besides, your aim sucks."
He looks around, shuddering, "Cill, can we get outta here? This place gives me the creeps. All carnivals have since I read this book about a haunted carousel that made you vanish if you rode it."
I roll my eyes, "Kent, you gotta stop reading those tween horror books that people wrote to support their acid habit."
"Hey, you read Stephen King."
"That's different. He did Coke. Besides, Carrie was one of those girls that you just had to root for."
"Oh, yeah. Regular American Sweetheart that girl was."

Untitled

I'm holed up in my room, my Trig book, notes, and paper spread out on the desk in front of me, Bullet for My Valentine screaming in my ears. I'd been home from the hospital for a little over a week, according to the calender hanging in the kitchen. Mom had circled, about fifteen times, in red ink, the day that I would be released, like it was a celebration, an "oh, goody, it's time to break out the streamers and the cake" instead of an "oh, goody, my baby is coming home from the hospital after trying to kill herself!" Horray.
Mom and her "boyfriend" (jeez, how I hate that word when applied to grownups. "Boyfriend" and "girlfriend" made you think of first dates, lipgloss, borrowing Dad's car to go out on Friday nights, not commiserating over how much your cable bill was this month and flashing pictures of your kids at their Homecoming dance) Mike were sitting in the living room, Mom giggling her head at one of Mike's jokes and both having an impassioned debate about the still prevalent role of sexism in today's society, (which is like Mom's idea of foreplay, something that I really wish that I didn't know).
Mike was a tall man, what we Southerners call "Scrawny" with lank hair that grew just past his collar, and looks like he tried (unsuccessfully, like Epic Fail unsuccessfully) to make it look cool with massive amounts of hair gel and mousse. Thankfully, in a few months, he would be transfered, heading to teach at the University of Sascathcawan (and, personally, I think is bull. Does anyone even know where it is?) But, for now, he's at the house at least three times a week, trying to play the role of Caring and Concerned Parent #2. If I were a casting director, he wouldn't get past his first line.
I'm in the kitchen, making a sandwich, when Mom rushes out of her room, blushing frantically. "Cecillia, where's my lipstick?" she calls, banging drawers and cabinets in the bathroom.
"Which one?" I answer, wincing as the clatter issuing forth tells me that her hands are shaking and she's just knocked a shelf of cosmetics into the sink.
"Uh...the Rose Dream? No! The Passionfruit Punch!" she calls.
Now, my mother is many things, but a makeup person she is not. When I was five, I remember Grandma forcing her to go back to her room to "put on some blush so that you don't look dead, for goodness' sakes!" before we went out to dinner, and this seemed to set the tone of Mom's attitude toward makeup for my entire life. So, if she was hunting for lipstick, either the Pod people had invaded, and made one glaring mistake, or something huge was happening.
"Um...I think that you threw it away Mom. The phrase 'clown makeup' comes to mind!" I yell.
She groans, "Fine, do you know where any is?"
"I think that I've got some red lipstick in my purse, if you wanna use that..." there's the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway and a prefunctory "shave and a haircut, two bits" honk on the horn. I pull the curtains aside and groan, "God, Mom!"
"What, 'Mom'?He's my boyfriend and I invited him over." Mom answers from the bathroom, muttering something about degredation of women by the amkeup industry as she blows past me.
"Cecillia!" Mike bellows after kissing Mom hello. He sweeps across the room and wraps me in a rib-crushing hug, planting both hands on my shoulders and looking into my eyes after he lets me go. "How are you?"
"I'm just dandy, Mike." I replied, tonelessly. It wasn't that I didn't like Mike, it was just that he was so damn cheerful all the time- like that really overenthusiastic camp counselor who used sock puppets to teach moral lessons and could use the words "neat-o" and "swell" without being ironic. He was the kind of guy that, after five minutes in his prescence, made you be overcome with the urge to grab him by the shoulders and scream "there is a war going on that is killing millions of people-men, women, and children, innocent bystanders- billions of gallons of oil spill into the Gulf every day, people are losing their jobs and homes in the economy today, and the biggest news story right now is that Mel Gibson is a foul-mouthed zenophobe! Why are you so happy?!?!"
"That's wonderful, honey." he tousled my hair, "Just a little bump in the road, that's what I told your Mom. 'It's just a little bump in the road, Dinah, all teenagers have them!' But she didn't listen." he laughs, a women-can't-live-with-'em laugh. I roll my ees and move away from his hand- just in case he decides to try tousling my hair again.
"Sure, right, ok." I answer, piling a bag of chips and a full cheesecake onto my plate. "I'll be in my room"
In my room, I pull my cigarettes out of their hiding place, tucked inside a pair of my socks, and pop one in-between my lips.
"Dinah, do you believe me now?" I hear his voice from under the door, but don't hear the answer, "Wait..."his footsteps fall close to my door and I hear a loud sniff- suddenly, I don't care if he smells my cigarette smoke. He's not my dad, he can't do anything about it. "Dinah, do you know that you're daughter's smoking?" he sounds horrified, "Are you really gonna let her do that?"
"Mike, honestly, I'm not going to stop her. She has to make some of her own decisions. She is almost nineteen." That was about the time that I turned on my music.
The window behind me opens, "Wow, I've heard of 'Death by Chocolate' but never 'Death by Ice Cream, Chips, and Cheesecake'." Jess laughs, perched on my windowsill.
"I'm commiting, in the words of Bruno, carbicide." I hold up a spoonful of cheesecake. "Want some?" he takes it and we both eat in silence for a little while. "So, why are you here?"
He shrugs, "Was worried about you. Wanted to make sure that you were ok."
"Yeah. It was just." I sigh.
Jess sits beside me, pulling my face up to his, "Ciliia, you know you can tell me, sweetheart."
Tears spring to my eyes and I bury my face in my hands, "Jess, I'm pregnant."

Sorrow

Maggie's bed was too small, my feet are hanging off of the edge and the headboard is cutting into my neck, despite the pillow that I have on top of it.
The road trip here wasn't planned- not by a long shot- but when I got up this morning, I was too restless. I wanted to get away, to be free from my problems for a little bit. So, I packed up the car and headed for Maggie's dorm. I was sitting outside her door when she came back from her last class, popping up beside her as she dug in her purse for her keys with one hand, her nose buried in a book.
"Hiiii!" I trilled. She squealed and dropped her book, the dull thump of it hitting the carpet, echoing through the hall. "That's dangerous, you know. Not being away of your surroundings and all that jazz."
"What are you doing here?" she asks, opening the door and shooing me into her room. I look around at the two beds seperated by a small wooden bookshelf/study area. "My bed's over there." she says, pointing, "My roomie's out at class. She'll be back in a little while."
I plop down on her bed and pull off my shoes, laying back.
"So, what are you doing here?" Maggie prompts, pulling up a chair.
"Aww, Mags, can't a girl drive up just to see her best friend's wonderful, shining face?" I joke.
"I think that the limits of our friendship are less than a six hour drive one way."
I stare at the ceiling, "Well, the thing is, I kinda need to talk to somebody."
She nods, pleased with herself, "I knew it." Settling into her desk chair and crossing her legs, she smiles. "Proceed, Dr. Maggie is here to help you with your problems."
I pass my hand over my stomahc, already feeling the beginnings of a bump under them. "Well," I say, slowly, "I'm pregnant."
Maggie squeals, "Really? Who's is it? Do they know? What are yall going to do?"
"It's Grant's." I answer, in a monotone, "He knows, but he doesn't care." Already the day that I had confronted him feels far away, like a part of some long-forgotten dream which you can only remember the pieces of. "Mags, I want you to be the godmother. Grant wants nothing...to do with it." By the end of the sentence, I'm crying: it didn't hit me while I was fighting with him, or even when I was in the hospital, I'd just figured that he was going to come around, that everything would be ok. Now it hit me like a wrecking ball through an abandoned house: he didn't want me, or anything to do with his baby. "He says...it's not even his. But...I know that it is. When he was...holding me down...he'd never put on a condom...he said....he'd pull out...and that....it would  be fine...that I wouldn't...that I couldn't....get pregnant." I sob, brokenly.
"Wait," Maggie stops me, "He held you down?" I nod. "C'mon," She stands, grabbing her bag off of the back of her chair. "We'll go for a walk and you can tell me all about it."

Baby Steps

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting. I called Grant over two hours ago-did it really take that long to return a call? The sky outside was growing gradually darker, but I didn't get up to turn on a light, just lay there staring at the ceiling even harder, willing him to call. My phone lays beside me, an accusing weight that keeps pulling my hand to it like a magnet, to see if it was on, if it was working. Desperatly, I wanted a cigarette.
My mind is moving two hundred miles per minute, thinking of names, of how it would look, imagining how happy Mom would be with being a Grandma, of how much joy this thing would bring into our family. I thought of holding it, decorating a nursery, seeing it walk and hearing it talk, of how strange it is that something so precious, so beautiful could have come of such an ugly situation.
The phone stays silent and, not being able to bear the anticipation, I get up and drive to the dorms.
Grant seems surprised to me, and not in a good way, "What do you want, Cecillia?" he demands, arms crossed, trying to look tough and intimidating.
I wrap my arms protectively wrapped around my stomach, wanting yo keep my baby safe and whole, away from this man who could be such a monster. "Did you get my message?"
"Yeah. What about it?"
I take a deep breath, feeling my vocal chords constrict. "I'm pregnant." I manage to squeak out.
Grant's reaction reminds me of the Bugs Bunny cartoons that I used to watch when I was a kid and I get the sudden urge to laugh: his jaw drops and his face goes pale white, so pale that Casper, the Friendly Ghost looks Middle Eastern beside him.
"Are you sure it's mine?" he asks, when he's finally able to speak, "I mean, I'm gonna want a DNA test to make sure, of course."
"Of course it's yours!" I stutter. I didn't add "you idiot", but felt as if it were clearly implied in my tone.
He paces around, waving me into his dorm. I sit on the edge of the bed, following him with my eyes.
"Of course, you're going to have to get an abortion."
"Excuse me?" I reply, feeling shell-shocked.
"Yeah. I mean, c'mon, Cecillia, we can't raise a baby! I want to be able to provide for my babies, and we're in no situation where we can do that right now!"
I feel a snide comment coming on, and don't even try to bite it back, "And who was it that decided to not wear the condoms that I bought?"
"Oh, jeez, Cill. This again? I pulled out! There's no way you coulda gotten knocked up by me. Besides, I hated those condoms."
I roll my eyes, "And I'm gonna hate feelin' like crap for the next seven months. I'm gonna hate having to push a baby outta my body. And I'm gonna hate having to give my baby up for adoption because you knocked me up!" my voice is growing more shrill by the moment.
"Don't you dare blame this on me!" he screams, whirrling around. "You don't even know if it's mine! Hell, you're such a slut, you probably don't even know who the father is!"
That hits me like a whip across my face. I stand, "Just because your dad was a runner who didn't give a damn doesn't mean that you have to be, Grant. You get all teary-eyed about the crap that he pulled with you, but you're just like him-someone who doesn't give a damn about anyone but you and who runs away at the first sight of things getting tough."
"Rot in hell!" he yells at my retreating back.
"I hope that I don't 'cause I don't want to be around you for the rest of eternity." I snap back, slamming the door so hard that the windows shake.