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I want to tell her I think I might be pregnant. That no matter how I calculate it, one night of sex plus a disregard for protection inevitably equals fertilization. That probably, as we sit here in class, the first few cells of a human being are developing inside of me. A baby.

I want to tell her how the thought of kissing my boyfriend makes me dry heave; he infuriates and repulses me. My voice develops a monotone chill whenever I speak to him on the phone. He doesn't have to worry about going to class or playing lacrosse a few months from now, when his stomach is the size of a backpack, but I do.




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