Quinn's bedroom was a mountainous landscape of all her clothes and possessions.
It was Wednesday morning. Today was her appointment with her mother's OB/GYN.
She'd been holed up for days. Called in sick to her job and the first day of school; sent a brief text to Jesse and friends saying she had a terrible flu; reread favorite books and binge-watched shows to distract herself.
This morning she woke in a panic before it was light, a sharp fear pulsing painfully in the middle of her chest. A condom. There was a condom in her room. One handed out at school during health class. If her parents found it they would think she was lying about being a virgin. Quinn's mind latched onto this thought and couldn't let it go, no matter how unlikely it was that her parents would ever be searching her room at all. She had to get rid of that condom.
She thought she'd hidden it in a small zippered pocket in a travel bag for toiletries. But, no, it hadn't been there when she checked. The back of her underwear drawer? No. The pain in her chest got worse.
Now, it was like Quinn had turned herself inside out—drawers and boxes and bags had all spewed their guts onto the floor. No hidden condom. Anywhere.
The only things that had been the least bit hidden—shoved way underneath her bed—were two shoeboxes, labeled "Quinns—dont tuch!" in her shaky second-grade handwriting. She opened them up. Childhood crap that she shouldn't even be saving—rocks and shells and drawings that reminded her of how weird and lonely and miserable she was the first year they lived in Brooklyn. She didn't have any friends until she transferred schools in third grade. By then, she'd learned how to talk and act like a city kid.
Looking at it all made Quinn even sicker. She shoved the boxes back under the bed.
Tears of frustration stung her eyes. Her breaths were quick and shallow. Calm down, she told herself. You haven't done anything wrong. You are not a liar. You're not even pregnant. Just calm the fuck down.
