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It only takes about ten minutes for me to reach the corner store I’d seen on my way into the neighborhood. It’s much nicer than anything I grew up with in my middle-class community, and the surplus of organic snacks and drinks lining the shelves appears completely foreign to me.
To my disappointment, I see an older woman guarding the cash register at the front of the store with the expression of a bitter, jaded bulldog. She must be working to pass time while her husband works, because her perfectly styled hair and fresh acrylic nails tell me that she doesn’t need to earn a paycheck here.
She’d have nothing to lose by letting me steal a pregnancy test, but I fear that she’ll be on my tail as soon as she notices my irregular breathing and suspicious posture.
I certainly don’t look like I belong on this side of town. My classmates have made that observation more times than I can count.
“Good morning,” the woman chimes, employing her most syrupy customer service voice, emphasizing her southern accent to an obnoxious degree. “Can I help you find anything?”
I freeze in place, having only stepped maybe five feet through the front door before being acknowledged by her.
“Oh, not really. Thank you,” I stutter, avoiding direct eye contact. I always find myself overcorrecting when I realize how unnatural my behavior is, and I straighten my spine and lower my eyelids a little.
“Alright, let me know if you need any help. We just got some local fruit leather shipped in. You should try it. It’s to die for.”
I smile as sweetly as I can as my eyes threaten to roll out of my skull.
There’s no way in hell that any fruit leather isto die for.
But that’s not why I’m here.
After giving a subtle nod, my eyes scan the numbered signs hanging from the ceiling between aisles. Everything is worded in the least accessible way possible, which is just another way that the rich locals set themselves apart fromthe poors.
However, some things about them are just as predictable as ever, and the feminine hygiene aisle is tucked into the back of the store where the obscene nature of its contents can be hidden away.
Placing the condoms next to the pregnancy tests makes the most sense from a business perspective, but I feel like it’s all here to mock me.
I figure that stealing one of the cheaper tests would be easier to cover up, though I don’t think any of these tests have security tags.
I do the best I can to elicit the confident, irreverent nature of my high school cohorts, but my hands shake as my fingers wrap around the slim cardboard box at the bottom of the shelf.
Peeking my head out of the aisle is enough to get a better view of the woman at the counter. Her boredom is obvious, and I justknowthat it would make her day to put a shoplifter in jail to save the company five dollars.
The stakes are higher than I expected, but I can’t turn back now.
I need to take the test here.
The woman has found herself diligently monitoring the activities of a group of teenagers approaching the store, which gives me a small window of opportunity. I tuck the test into the pocket of the hoodie that Ruslan has been letting me wear, and I sneak off to the outer edges of the store in search of a bathroom.
Just like everything else here, the women’s bathroom is excessively bright and glossy. It emphasizes just how dirty and unkempt I’ve always felt in the presence of wealthy women, even though there’s nobody here to leer at me from the corner of their eye.
I take the test out of the package, ensuring that every piece of plastic trash is contained within the box to avoid the possibility of leaving behind evidence. I’ll have to dump this box somewhere between here and Ruslan’s house.
The test itself feels insubstantial and cheap in my hands, but it holds the ability to change my future forever.
My anxiety makes it easy to pee.
Now I wait.
I set a timer on my phone for three minutes, promising myself to not even glance at the test until the timer has gone off. These might be the last three minutes of ignorance that I have for the rest of my life. I might as well enjoy them.
The speaker above me plays an absurdly pretentious jazz tune, which threatens to unhook the remaining braincells from their precarious grip inside of my head.
Two minutes left.
Ruslan’s face comes to mind, particularly the way his eyes fluttered shut when he came inside of me. That one moment will live forever in my mind whether I’m pregnant or not. He looked beautiful, even transcendent.
One minute.
