“That’s his old girlfriend,” stage whispered Kyzie.
“Whose old girlfriend?” asked Brielle, in a normal tone. She was aggravated and didn’t care if the other girl heard her.
“Damon’s,” said Kyzie.
Brielle whipped around to get a better look but she was already gone.
“Her name is Sasha Anderson. Jada told me all about her and showed me her picture in the yearbook. Jada said she’s nasty and has all these boys hanging all over her,” said Kyzie.
Brielle snorted.
“She’s really pretty,” needled Kyzie.
“Nice, too,” said Brielle, sarcastically.
Brielle turned back around to look again but the girl had left the aisle.
“So,” said Brielle. “That’s the one they call the stalker, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Kyzie, with a snicker.
“Her personality needs work.”
“Jada said she is crazy,” said Kyzie, taunting. “He probably didn’t like her for her personality, anyway.”
“Whatever,” said Brielle. “She’s not all that. Besides, Damon’s hardly talked to me.”
“I bet talking to Damon is scheduled between history and math class,” said Kyzie, laughing. Brielle laughed, too, in agreement. Kyzie sobered first.
“You’d better watch your back.”
Brielle snorted, again.
“She’d better watch hers,” said Brielle, still smarting from the older girl’s rudeness. “That nastiness might be catching.”
Sasha
Sasha Anderson was desperate, but determined. Her narrow shoulders hunched up next to her ears. She had come to this store on purpose because it was right outside of Lansing and she wanted to avoid people that she knew.
From the next aisle, Sasha could hear them talking about her but kept walking. Just hearing Damon’s name made her want to cringe. It was too late to go back and tell those stupid girls that she was not nasty and she was certainly no stalker.
A woman in the green paisley crop pants and yellow tank top shuffled past her in laid over green flip-flops. Sasha breathed a sigh of temporary relief at seeing a strange face, continued down the aisle, pretending to look to the left and right as though searching. A hugely pregnant young woman in a Baby on Board t- shirt strolled down the same aisle, holding hands with a terrified looking young dude. The woman smiled at Sasha as though she was saying, ‘look, I got him, he’s mine now’. Sasha put her head down and kept walking. Another young woman, this one, with a baby tucked close in a snuggly cloth also walked past Sasha. She eased as far away from the woman as she could when they passed, not wanting to be contaminated with the woman’s fertility. Panic and nausea roiled in her stomach. She counted in her head, like she’d been doing for the past two months.
Finally, Sasha stood in front of the many different products, her head snapping back and forth so fast that it made her dizzy, trying to figure out which one would give the answer she was looking for. Finally, Sasha grabbed a box and scurried to the self-checkout at the front of the store. She looked neither left nor right. She put the box into her purse and crumbled the receipt in her right hand.
When Sasha got home she ran onto the porch and fumbled inside of her purse for her house key. The sunny sky mocked her desolate mood.
Seems like my mood has been sad my whole stinking life.
A cardinal, bright crimson feathers fluttering, tucked a small piece of wood into a nest and chirped at her from the nearby tree. She peered at the bird’s empty nest. Sasha could feel white-hot rage buzzing in her ears. Everybody, no, - everything had a baby! She hurled the box at the bird and flapped her empty hands. She wanted to catch that little red sucker and twist his little head off. What right did the bird have to be chirping? Why was the stupid sun shining?
“Go away,” Sasha screamed, and then looked around quickly to make sure no one saw her acting crazy. She clenched her teeth. The cardinal flew out of the tree, shrieking in raucous indignation, wings flapping like tiny battering rams and then landed on a nearby branch chirping with indignation. They stared at each other, bird and girl, united in mutual hatred, until Sasha realized how ridiculous she looked and turned away. She scrambled under the bushes and got the box. She let herself into the empty house and headed for the bathroom. Sasha walked on shaky legs and prayed.
Please God, maybe its cancer, or, or fibroids like Mrs. Holly at church who had to have a hysterectomy. No, cancer is better, I won’t get into trouble. If I’m almost dying, then mama won’t kill me.
Once Sasha got into the bathroom, she locked the door, even though no one was home. She pulled her pants down.
Maybe my period started in the last two minutes and I didn’t feel it.
She checked her panties for blood for the thousandth time. Finding none, Sasha sighed in defeat and ripped open the box. She read the instructions four or five times. She took out the test stick and looked at it like it was about to explode in her hand.
We read about bombs in history class, and how even small bombs could cause major damage if detonated in confined spaces. Here, in this confined bathroom space, I’m five minutes away from finding out. Just a little white stick, it sits in my trembling palm, two inches of terror; a bomb in the Beirut of my life.
Sasha wondered why the manufacturers put it into such a big box. Maybe it was to hold the instructions. Why did anybody need instructions to pee on a stick? Her stomach lurched. She reached down and checked the crotch of her panties with her fingertips and found smooth, bone dry, clean pink satin. She touched herself. Looked at her fingers. Nothing. Long minutes passed before she finally got up the nerve to move. Sasha picked up the commode top and toilet seat and squatted over the little stick.
Please God, please, I’ll never do it again. I’ll join a convent.
