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."