Situations like this were something I was not equipped for. This was a best friend’s job, or at least someone with social skills. My stomach churned as I tried to think as a best friend would. I came up blank.
"I don't know. My parents are going to kill me." Tears poured down her cheeks at the thought.
I reached behind me and tugged at the toilet paper roll. My intention was to hand her another wad of paper to wipe up her face. The look of panic she wore sent my anxiety skyrocketing, erasing my mission from my brain until I had unraveled the whole roll.
Renee noticed the massive pile of toilet paper covering my arms and began laughing hysterically. She grabbed some of the unrolled mess and blotted her cheeks. Her laughter died quickly, her hand resting on her flat stomach.
"Are you going to puke again?" I scooted to the corner to give her more room.
"No, there isn't anything else left in me."
"Well, there's a baby."
This is why I shouldn’t be around people.
Stuff like this flies out of my mouth, because I was born without a filter. I tried to explain my disability to my parents when I was younger. It didn't work. Or I should say it didn’t work until little Jimmy broke his arm.
That was the day I informed Jimmy’s dad that statistically Jimmy wouldn't have broken his arm if his dad had paid attention to him, instead of staring at his neighbor bending over to pick up the paper.
That was the last time I was forced to go on a play date.
It was also the beginning of my sports career. My parents pushed me into every sport, trying to find somewhere I belonged. After many failed attempts, and once getting kicked out of a dojo for choking a sensei.
For the record, nobody told me when you tap the ground you’re supposed to let go. I just thought he was doing some weird karate clap.
I found softball.
The day I threw my first pitch was the day I felt something akin to affection for sports. When it was time for my pitching lessons, or a game, my stomach didn't knot up with anxiety or hatred like it did with any other sport. Assuming it was a sign I belonged on the mound, I threw myself,pun totally intended,into practicing and becoming the best pitcher I could be. It also helped I’d developed a huge stalker like crush on an up and coming pitcher named, Trip Butler.
Renee's bottom lip trembled. I moved to scramble into the next stall for more paper, positive another water work explosion was about to happen. She surprised me by throwing her head back and laughing instead.
"Why you? Out of all the girls on the team, why did you have to be the one to witness my total breakdown?"
"I was thinking the same thing," I told her truthfully, which made Renee laugh even harder.
"The socially inept one and the slut. We sure do make a pair."
My breath hitched. "You're not a slut. I think it's like one out of four teens get pregnant. Although it is at an all-time low, I think I read something where it’s around sixty-three percent in the US, so your situation’s nothing out of the norm."
"So it was inevitable for me to get pregnant?" Renee giggled, while slow, heartbroken tears trekked down her face.
"Well, when you engage in intercourse without birth control, yes. Even if you use birth control it isn't one hundred percent effective."
"Kenna, please stop. I can't handle any more percentages."
My mouth snapped closed, and I bit the inside of my lips to stop the incessant rambling from spilling out. We stared at each other, until I couldn't handle the awkwardness. "Do you want to come over to my house tonight?"
I'm not sure why I asked, but it seemed like the right thing to do. She looked so scared at the thought of telling her parents.
“Yes." Her answer came immediately, and her face looked just as surprised at her answer as I was when I asked her.
"Whoa..." Renee exclaimed when I hit the light switch to my room.
My cheeks heated as she took it all in. To be fair, my room was a little obsessive. The same pitcher I fell in love with years earlier, who was now on the San Diego Pappies in the American Baseball League, was plastered over every inch. Posters and signed jerseys graced my walls, showing my support and my stalker tendencies.
"You would be attracted to Trip Butler. You realize he has sworn numerous times he’d never get married?" Renee asked. She walked over to one of my posters to get a better look.
"He hasn't met me yet." My face flushed, realizing I had spoke out loud.
