Good Luck, Fatty

to keep upright. When I glance left, I notice a giant aluminum culvert (for the city folk among us, a big tube or pipe) burrowed into the earth and spitting gulps of water onto the rocks, that strikes me as a perfect spot to stop and regroup, hash out our game plan. “Hey!” I shout. “Tom!”
    When he turns around, I point at the culvert. He gets my meaning, nods and begins traversing the cobbled slip-and-slide under our feet. A little ways in front of the culvert, we meet up. Tom locks his arm around mine and guides me to the mouth of the pipe, where, at the risk of soaking our pants, we climb inside. Of course, what looked like a massive space before shrinks to nothing as we cram it full of a two-hundred pound tubbo and a gangly band geek.
    “I’ve never been in here,” Tom says, our backs curved against the culvert walls, our legs opposite and interlocked, like dueling crabs.
    “It’s neat,” I say. “Very intimate.” I’m not sure if I want this comment to mean anything, but I say it anyway. Once you start letting boys screw you, it’s hard to stop. I wish I could begin again with Tom and without the baggage. Go nice and sweet and slow.
    Tom seems happy that I’ve mentioned the culvert’s suitability as a love nest. He leans toward me and I mirror him, our lips brushing softly, our tongues dancing a silent tango. I could take his virginity right here in this drainage pipe, a cool rush of water washing over our nakedness, warmth in our flesh and our hearts. It would be quick and easy, and maybe he’d love me when it was over. Isn’t that what boyfriends are supposed to do?
    I let him get started, at least. Work his fingers under my t-shirt and around the waistband of my jeans. If I wasn’t so fat, it would be easier. Should I unbutton my pants? Or his? That’s the usual first step. As for the second step, I’m afraid I’ll be as lost as Tom, since every other screw I’ve been part of has been one-sided.
    We kiss harder and faster, to the point of lightheadedness. “I want to,” he tells me during a brief pause. “Do you?”
    There’s no use lying. He’ll be able to tell. “Uh-huh,” I murmur, my mind foggy and my thighs stinging. “But first I have to tell you something.”
    Obviously, he can’t anticipate the gravity of what’s coming next. “Okay,” he agrees easily. “What is it?”
    “I think I might be pregnant.”
     

----
     
     Nothing snuffs out the flame of sexual chemistry, or a fledgling romance, for that matter, like the knowledge that your girlfriend might be carrying another boy’s baby.
    Since we abruptly parted ways in that culvert, Tom has gone to extreme lengths to avoid me, which may explain why I’ve willingly subjected myself to an entire weekend in the company of Duncan, Marie, and little Roy.
    I jump my wheelie bag over the threshold of my parents’ barn, agitated and headachy from the nonstop screeching Roy has performed the whole way from Industry to Hollyhock, like some operatic diva.
    Please, God, don’t let me be pregnant.
    Please.
    Please.
    Please.
    I’ll do anything.
    “How do you get stuff upstairs?” I ask no one in particular. I’m afraid of lugging my hefty frame up that ladder—although it does look rather sturdy—let alone wrangling my bulging suitcase along with me. (Maybe I could strap it to my back?)
    “Piece of cake,” my father says proudly. He saunters over to a mission-style sofa (an ironic furniture choice given my parents’ previous occupations) and ducks behind it, coming out with an enormous rectangular basket with four metal hooks sprouting out of its back. “Give it to me.” He gestures at the bag, and I oblige. “Now go upstairs and wait.”
    I shoot a questioning glance at Marie, who’s got Roy calmed down with a binky (did they pacify me with one of those things?). “It’s fine,” she says, rolling her eyes just a tad.
    “Okay,” I say with a shrug. “But my blood’ll be on your hands. Remember that.”
    Duncan chuckles, and I award myself mental points for wit. Then, with a flutter in my stomach (was that a baby turning over?), I clamp my hands around the side-rails of the ladder and begin ascending.
    “All right!” I yell down from the top, my voice echoing throughout the barn. I crouch behind a bamboo half-wall that’s supposed to keep me from tipping over the edge of the loft and becoming an ugly splatter on the living room floor. “Let ‘er rip!”
    Duncan loads my suitcase into the basket