Good Luck, Fatty

bleach from under the sink and jam it between the door and the vanity, which probably won’t stop anyone from bursting in on me, but gives me an acceptably false sense of security.
    I draw a deliberate breath. Okay, here goes, I think as I tear into the scale’s cardboard packaging. I’m not sure I’ll have the guts to ask the pregnancy question, but the weight issue I’m prepared to confront.
     It takes me a few minutes to get the batteries properly installed and the digital readout programmed for my age and height, but soon I’m poised toe-to-scale, a knot of anxiety roiling in my stomach. I take the step (why prolong the agony?), stare down at the display with a mixture of dread and hope. Last I knew, I clocked in at a solid two twenty. But as the numbers settle, they hover in the high one hundreds. One ninety-seven, one ninety-eight. I’ve lost over twenty pounds? No way. I hop off the scale and then back on again, and the results are the same: one ninety-eight point two. I want to scream.
    Suddenly I’m hopeful about the pregnancy test too, since, if I were preggo, I should be gaining weight, not losing it.
    The pregnancy test is even more complicated to operate than the scale, particularly since its directions are microscopic and printed mostly in foreign languages.
    I read and re read the English version until I’m sure I’ve got at least a vague grasp of the testing procedure, which requires me to aim my pee at a tiny little stick (presumably without bathing my hand in backsplash or dropping the stick into the toilet bowl). Alternately, the instructions suggest I may pee into a cup, dip the stick just-so into the pee, and proceed as directed.
    Another good thing about Denise (besides the fact that she loves me more than my parents do) is that she’s kind of a germaphobe. Consequently, we always have a stack of Dixie cups in the medicine cabinet. I pull back the mirror and pilfer one from her stash, then peel the wrapper off the pregnancy test and rest the stick on the vanity. Owing to my size and relative klutziness (not to mention my complete lack of experience in these matters), it takes a good bit of effort for me to cajole my pee into the cup (so imagine the trouble I would’ve had if I’d tried the direct-to-stick method).
    The results of a pregnancy test are available in only two minutes, a fact that seems implausible at best. Such potentially life-altering news should require a day to process, at minimum. Preferably a week. Maybe even forever.
    I press my ear to the door, just to be sure no one is headed my way. Then, when I’m satisfied the coast is clear, I dip the stick into the pee and pray.
    Negative, negative, negative, negative. Negative, negative, negative, neg—
    Holy shit! Something’s happening! A line is forming! Frig, where did I put the…?
    Negative, negative, negative, negative.
    I locate the directions and flip to the “results” chart, which I study until I conclude that the line I now see, as big and bold as a Vegas marquee, is the “control” line, representing nothing more than a usable test. If another line forms parallel to the control line (this one’s the “test” line)…congratulations, you’re expecting.
    I’m staring at that damn control line and, more importantly, the line-free space beside it, with so much force I feel as if my eyeballs may drop out of my head. But nothing’s happening. Not even the faintest hint of parallelism. And it sure as hell seems like my two minutes are up.
    For certainty’s sake, I count to one-hundred in my head, then compare my test to the results chart.
    Still no parallel line, meaning…
    I AM NOT PREGNANT!!!!
    If this bathroom weren’t so small, I’d break out in a dance routine right here. Instead, I settle for grinning hopelessly at myself in the mirror, as if I’ve accomplished something extraordinary by avoiding the p-word. I mean, really? Kids my age shouldn’t even have to deal with this kind of thing.
    Even though part of me wants to mount and frame this test stick, I set about concealing it (and its box and instructions) in a cocoon of toilet paper that I leave behind on the counter as I get the shower running. I’ve just started stripping down when I hear a high-pitched squeal.
    It’s Denise, and the way she’s shrieking has me convinced she’s spotted a mouse (or some comparably eek-worthy rodent). I hike my pants back over my hips, flip the shower controls off, and peek my head out the bathroom