Eleven Weeks Read online

  Six very vehement head shakes to that.

  “Have you had a pap smear before?” This time, the pharmacist lowers his voice, and I’m almost not sure who is more embarrassed here—him, or me.

  I dart my gaze to the corners of the room. Two pensioners, one middle-aged mum and a kid. Thank God. “Once.”

  It’s only a little lie. How’s he going to know?

  “I’m going to give you the morning-after pills to … ahem ... minimise the risk of—”

  “Whoa, whoa, what do you mean minimise?” I narrow my eyes.

  “The morning-after pill is only ever eighty-five per cent effective.”

  I swallow. Fifteen per cent, hey …

  “However, I would recommend that you see a doctor”—I give a sharp intake of breath—“today and get some STD checks done, too.”

  I suck in a deep breath through my nose. Part of me wants to ignore him, but a larger part doesn’t want to risk it. Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck living in this town. And if I do have some weird freaking disease transmitted by Guy I Don’t Remember, I’d rather know what it is. So I can get rid of it. And keep it under wraps.

  “Cool. Sounds good.” I smile. And I nod. Because, der.

  “Right. Just wait here a minute, and please fill out this form.” The doctor pushes a piece of paper toward me with some basic admin questions and I scribble my details across it, barely checking it twice.

  Minutes later, he returns with a small white box, and the same attitude he possessed when he walked over the first time. I’m fairly sure Mary Poppins has turned up her nose.

  “Right, this is your—”

  But it doesn’t matter what else he says. All that matters is that Michael, my Michael, is walking into the pharmacy.

  Frick.

  “Thanks so much.” I snatch the box out of his hands and stuff it into my handbag.

  “You pay up front.” The pharmacist furrows his brows, and tilts his head toward the counter.

  “Yes, and I will. Just, you know …” I trail off. You know, what? You know, how embarrassing it is when the guy you have crushed on your entire life, who thinks you may have spent the night with someone else last night, walks into a pharmacy while you’re getting the morning-after pill? You know, that?

  The pharmacist swallows. I keep my gaze fixed on him. “There are two pills. You can take them both together, or, if you’re concerned about nausea, we recommend taking them twelve hours apart.” My stomach lurches. I’m concerned about nausea, all right. “It has to be noted, though, that you do need to take both. If you do not …” The pharmacist keeps on talking, but I glance behind one more time to see if I can spot Michael. He’s looking at sunscreen, picking one bottle up, putting it down. The next bottle up, putting it down … what for? Summer holidays, tour …?

  Focus, Stacey.

  “And therefore the percentage rate would be less effective. The same goes if you have any health issues, such as vomiting, or diarrhoea, post taking the pill. This can render it less effective.” This time, the pharmacist glances over to Michael. “Should I be directing this talk to him …?”

  “No!” My eyes widen, my heart sprinting at a dance-party rate. “No. I got this. Take the pills, twelve hours apart. Go to doctor, have people swab at vagina. Anything else?”

  The pharmacist fixes me with a glare that can only be described as screw you. “Yes. Don’t drink so much.”

  I’d love to argue, but the guy has a point.

  “Stacey!” Michael says my name, and I spin around.

  “Michael, hey.” I smile, stepping away from the pharmacy counter and closer in to him. As soon as I do, I’m hit by that freaking scent again. Gosh, why does he have to smell so good?

  “What are you up to?” he asks, at the same time as I say, “What are you doing here?” Because seriously, what is he doing so far from home?

  “I had to get some new guitar strings, and the music shop here is so much better than the one near home.” He’s smiling, and it doesn’t feel like the venom, the anger that was in his voice earlier, is still there. Instead, he seems genuinely happy to see me. Odd. “What are you here for?”

  “Oh, you know …” I shrug, and look around. “Girl things.”

  Michael’s cheeks flush red, then he swallows, and they regain a semblance of their normal colour. Gotta love girl things. Best. Line. Ever.

  “So, about before—”

  “I wanted to say—”

  We both look at each other.

  “You go first.” I smile, lips pressed tight.

  “I’m sorry if I didn’t believe you.” Michael runs his hand through his hair. “I think, the thing is, I was just hating the idea of you being with some random guy so much. I just … Phew!” He widens his eyes, and I can’t help but catch his contagious smile. “I just … after what we spoke about last night, I thought you’d just … betrayed me.”

  There. That look of belief. That look of honesty.

  I feel like I’ve killed a puppy dog.

  I’ve murdered a dream I don’t remember.

  “No,” I rush out. “I mean … you know I don’t remember what was said.” There’s no point lying about it. “But I would never want to hurt you! And, you know, I … You know, we …” I search for the right words, but they’re so far out of my reach they could be angels. You know how you flirt with me, but you never take action? You know how I like you a heap, but my best friend is dating your best friend, and I hate him? You know how you’re about to tour the country with the world’s most famous band and I am always going to live in Lakes? You know, how you’re this awesome guy who has never seriously been into me, and I’m some stupid blonde who needs to get the morning-after pill?

  Because that’s probably the main thing it’s gonna boil down to.

  He is everything.

  I’m nothing.

  And despite that moment we shared this morning, the first real thing I’ve felt from him since we met, we will never, ever work.

  “It’s fine.” Michael throws an arm around my shoulder, pulling my body tight to his in the way friends do. It says everything and nothing all at once, and I want this. I want him, me together.

  It sucks that it will never work out.

  We start walking toward the counter, and I pray that he’ll go in front of me so I can discreetly reveal my purchase to the cashier.

  “We’re good. What’s one night between friends?” He smiles and gives my bicep a squeeze, and I genuinely think he means it. Either I’ve convinced him of my lie, or he doesn’t care enough not to play along.

  Either way, it’s a win.

  Michael drops his hold on me and pays for his sun block. He gives the woman behind the counter money to protect him from skin cancer.

  He leaves the store, but I see him waiting outside for me. Because he’s a good person. Unlike me.

  I walk up to the counter as Michael did only seconds before. Only I give the lady money to protect me from having a baby.

  Since I’m having the world’s greatest day already, I decide to stop at the sexual health clinic on my way home. Because, you know, why not add embarrassment at the hands of a medical industry professional to my already rapidly growing list of below-average things about today?

  I sit in the waiting room for what feels like hours, racking my brain, trying to work out what Michael told me last night, and, oh yeah, who the hell that guy was.

  “Shouldn’t be much longer,” the receptionist sticks her head over the counter to reassure me. I give a wan smile. She’s said that three times already, the last occasion being forty minutes ago.

  My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my pocket, bringing it up in front of me. A lady to my right gives me a disapproving eyebrow raise, as if the vibration from my phone had interrupted her silent musings. Cow.

  Kate: Happy birthday, hon! Hope you’re having an awesome day with considerably less shots than you drank last night. Can’t wait to celebrate your being of legal drinking age ag
ain later in the week. xoxo

  I smile and type out a quick text of thanks, then check my messages again. There are a heap of tags on social media, birthday shout-outs from all my school friends and even one from my cousin, June. Still nothing from Mum or Dad. Odd.

  “… and if I do that, the burning will stop?” A short, grey-haired man hobbles his way down the hall, leaning on his walker for support. Behind him, a tall bespectacled doctor nods, and says, “That’s correct.”

  “Jeanie will be pleased to hear that!” The old man chuckles, and I smile. This doctor hears embarrassing sexy stuff all the time. At least my problem doesn’t involve any strange itching or burning.

  “Miss Allison, come through.” The doctor gestures down the hallway behind him and I scramble to my feet, walking toward the open door at the end of the hallway.

  Once inside the small room I sit down. The walls are a stark white, with a row of Perspex holders containing brochures on all different topics lining the room. I catch a glimpse of What An Itch Can Really Mean before I snap my head forward and stare at the doctor, who is now sitting down in front of me. Focus, Stacey.

  “Now, Miss Allison, what can I do for you today?” The doctor removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes. I glance at the clock, ticking away on the wall. It’s three p.m.; he’s no doubt exhausted.

  “I had potentially unprotected sexual intercourse and wish to be checked for STDs.” I hold my head up high. No nervous stuttering this time.

  The doctor swallows. “Potentially unpro—”

  “Why is everyone so hung up on the potential? I can’t remember, but I really don’t want any …” I swing my gaze back to the brochures on the wall. “… unpleasant itches, or diseases, or warts—oh my God, if I ever …” I shudder. Growing up the youngest in a family of seven has meant a lifetime of hearing dating-gone-wrong stories from my three older brothers and one older sister.

  “Okay, so we’ll need to do a pap smear. Have you ever had one before?”

  I shake my head, no.

  “Great. I just need you to lie down on the bed over there, having removed the bottom half of your clothing, please.” The doctor turns his back to me and begins shuffling through papers on his desk. “There’s a robe you can use to cover yourself.”

  “All—”

  “Underwear included, yes.”

  I shrug. I know it’s a stupid question, but I figured it was worth asking anyhow. Just in case I could be less naked.

  I wriggle out of my shorts and underwear, tossing them on the floor underneath the bed. I then gingerly climb up and lie down, the plastic cover making a squelching sound underneath my sweaty skin. I stare up at the roof above me, the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles.

  “Ready,” I sing out, hands clasped over my ribs.

  “Good. I—”

  I turn to look at the doctor. He swallows. “The robe, Miss.” He promptly turns back around to look at the wall.

  I throw my head back. Of course. The robe. This doctor must be seriously doubting my ability to keep my clothes on.

  I grab the green terry-towelling number and slide it under me, then wrap it around under my armpits, velcroing it shut.

  “Are you done?” the doctor asks.

  “Sure am.”

  “Okay.” He walks toward me, plastic gloves covering his hands. He lifts up the robe—what is the big deal about, anyway, if he’s just going to go lifting it?—and grabs an instrument that looks disturbingly like a pair of tongs had sex with a pair of scissors, resulting in this odd monstrosity. I suck in a breath. He’s not going to …

  “This may feel a little uncomfortable …”

  Ouch! Yep, he’s going to. I cringe. Uncomfortable, my ass. This feels like someone is stretching my private bits and then—ugh! Scraping something …

  I clench my eyes shut tight, my teeth grinding together. If I make it out of this room alive, I will travel to every single high school in the area and preach the number one reason why you shouldn’t have unprotected sex. This cruel and unusual punishment is worse than listening to nails scraping down a chalkboard.

  Actually? That. That’s exactly what this feels like.

  “Just try to relax,” the doctor says, and it strikes me once more the injustice of it all. Here he is, sticking some horrible duck bill-shaped monstrosity in my lady bits, and I don’t even remember his name. Still, I don’t think he’d appreciate my ‘some guys take you to dinner and a movie’ joke, so I remain silent.

  Finally, after what feels like ten minutes, the doctor tells me to shut my legs—no doubt a message he’s hoping I take home with me—and get dressed again. Five minutes later and I’m sitting back at the desk while he gathers a few more notes.

  “And how many sexual partners have you had?” Doctor—quick check of his nametag—Higgins pushes his glasses back up his nose. I shift in my seat. Ugh. Did questions get any more embarrassing than this?

  “Are you after a specific timeframe?” I wrinkle up my nose. It’s worth a shot …

  “Since you were first sexually active …” He consults his notes from earlier in my visit. That was before the ultimate insult the medical health profession paid to females, the I’m going to stick some claws inside you, stretch you and scrape you, also known as the pap smear. “… two years ago.”

  “Three,” I mumble. Okay, so I’m not exactly a shrinking violet when it comes to the sexual relations department, but I’m certainly not a whore-bag, like some of the other chicks in school. And they were all when I was of legal age. Hell, compared to Boobs Becky, I’m basically Mother Teresa.

  Dr Higgins sighs and scratches his balding head, then clasps his hands between his knees and leans forward to look at me, to really eyeball me in the way only disapproving adults can. My stomach once again tries to heave its way out of my throat, and I decide to only take the one pill at a time. I’m hungover enough as it is—surely adding nausea to the mix is a bad idea.

  “You know, that’s quite a few for a person of your age.” The doctor raises his eyebrows. “It’s important to remember that sex is important, not just something you should be giving away at the drop of a hat. The rate of teen pregnancy in this area is—”

  “I know, I know. And I’ll never do it again. I already got the morning-after pill from the pharmacist.” I nod.

  Shame washes over my body again and I tilt my head back to stare at the ceiling. Why, oh why, had I had that seventh shot?

  “I’ll have your results for the STD tests back within the week. Call me between two and half past next Wednesday, and I’ll let you know if anything shows up.” Dr Higgins hands me a piece of paper his printer spat out with his name and phone number on it.

  “Thanks.” I take it and stand to leave, grabbing my purse from the arm of the seat as I do so.

  I make my way to the door and turn the handle.

  “And Stacey?” Dr Higgins asks.

  I spin around. “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Be more careful next time.”

  I GET home and pop pill number one in the car, dry-swallowing it and hating the feel as it forces its way down my throat. I put the cardboard box just under the seat to avoid any prying family eyes, making a mental note to come back for round two later. It won’t be safe from my nosy family inside.

  “Hey, Mum,” I say as I walk into the kitchen. Immediately, the seductive aromas of vanilla and dark chocolate fight for my attention. Mmm …

  “Hi, dear.” Mum gives me a brief glance then continues stirring something on the stove. She dips a plump finger in and sucks it into her mouth, a satisfied smile appearing a second later. She gives a brisk nod and puts down her spoon.

  “Whatcha making?” I ask, eying the mixture. It’s blond, with dots of chocolate-brown littered through it. Choc-chip? Please not fruit cake …

  “Nothing, dear.” Mum dusts her hands off on her apron.

  “Not a … birthday cake?” I smile, knowing that’s exactly what it is. Every year, Mum makes us cakes. Every year …r />
  But the words are like bullets. Mum freezes in her tracks, her hands thrown in the air like mini grenades. “I forgot,” she says through gritted teeth.

  She forgot? My eighteenth birthday, and she forgot? What could possibly be so important that she didn’t remember my—

  “I’m so sorry, possum. It’s just that everything has been so busy these last few weeks, with work, and your sister’s promotion, and Steve’s marriage …”

  My jaw drops. She really didn’t remember. But … it’s my birthday, my eighteenth, the one that’s supposed to mark my coming into adulthood. How did it just slip her mind? She’s my mother, for crying out loud.

  I open and shut my mouth like I’m a goldfish. I don’t know what to say. Surely every parent is supposed to remember the anniversary of the day they gave birth! It would have been one helluva painful day; at the very least she should remember and celebrate that she’s not in labour anymore.

  Then I look at her, and the apology on her face, printed in her eyes … it freaking sucks, but I can’t be angry with her. What’s it going to do? What will it achieve?

  I make a silent vow to myself. When I become a mum, I’m going to celebrate every milestone of my child’s life. Every. Single. One.

  The thought gives me comfort. Enough to school my features before Mum accuses me of being a brat.

  She walks forward and throws her arms around me. She smells of cinnamon, and small flour dust clouds tornado up in the air around us.

  “We will get you a present.” Mum presses a quick kiss to the top of my forehead. “Now go clean your room. You know Shae wanted tonight to be special.”

  Shae. How could I forget? The world’s most amazing sister, no doubt adding some routine to her act tonight, such as completing her law degree as the youngest student in Australia or becoming the only female partner in the best law firm in the city.

  “I think she’s closer to buying a house,” Mum squeaks. “She might be moving out.”

  I smile. I love Shae, I really do, and knowing she is happy is freaking awesome.

  No, really.

  It is.

  Even if it hurts, just a little.