Eat For Two

Tardiness

Dedicated to my first fan!! _Valentine_

Chapter  1: Tardiness

“No”,  I glance at the calendar pinned to the slate blue wall. “No. No, no, no, no, no.” I repeatedly whisper, gradually growing in volume. The date is clearly August 20th. An otherwise insignificant day, if it were not for the fact I have not gotten my period in exactly six weeks. Something that has slipped my mind due to my neurotic parents, excessive homework, juggling both of my jobs, my bizaare craving for food I am allergic to, and a sudden stomach bug I seemed to have caught a few days ago (which in itself is extremely rare for me).

Now let me explain something here, I am never late. For anything. Even my birth was on the due date. So, having missed two periods, I am extremely worried that my body is faulty.  Considering I am a virgin.

“Oh, are you?”

Where the frack did that voice come from. Great, now I am going crazy. Just another thing to add to the growing list of all my issues.

“Might as well add pregnant too…”

The cynical voice, I am guessing it is my own personal little cricket-conscience, only adds to my ever growing inkling that something is not right. And that something has nothing to do with my inner workings being off.

“Face it, you’re pregnant.”

The only issue with that is I am a virgin. I don’t rememb—

Oh shit.

*             *             *

Flashback: July 5th

Groggily, I opened my eyes only to snap them shut. Once again I broke through my leftover mascara as I slowly unpeeled my eyes to a squint against the sunlight blasting through the broken shades. Well damn, this isn’t my room.  Clutching my pounding head with one hand, which I found odd considering all I drank was lemonade and water, and I used the other to gradually push myself into a somewhat sitting position so I could further my search of the unfamiliar room. Wow it’s a disaster, and here comes the OCD overload. Fighting the unrealistic urge to scour the grungy room and the disgust of having slept in this disaster, I instead move on to examine the glittery sapphire shirt…oops I mean dress, that Clodaugh had forced me into wearing. Other than looking extremely disheveled and wrinkly from sleeping in it, there is a decently sized rip along the bottom, coming up in a vertical line to my uppermost right thigh. The rip, which I chalk up to being because it was so damn tight and probably ripped while I was dancing, is probably going to be my demise. Clodaugh is very protective of her clothes, even though she probably could buy the entire Deb (A/N for those of you readers who do not know, Deb is a retail clothing chain) line of dresses and have it be pocket change.

After my initial investigation of my surroundings and clothing, I come to the obvious conclusion that I never left the party last night and must have been ditched by Clodaugh, and must have slept in some grubby teenage boy’s bedroom. I know it was a teenage boy’s room based on the distinct smell, the football gear, and mainly the abundance of porn magazines sticking out of the white side table. I then come to the realization that it is entirely to quite except for the birds chirping away, meaning it is probably early in the morning, too early for anyone else who crashed from excessive amounts of alcohol. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, trying to not think about the cleanliness of the sheets, I reach up and into my bra to grab my prehistoric hand-me-down flip phone to check the time and to see if I’ve got any calls or messages.

8:05

One New Message:

From Clodaugh: FYI I left with some hot dude.

Well shit, my parents think I stayed at Clodaugh’s  for a sleep-over and are expecting me home by nine because they are controlling freaks who believe if they give a 17 year-old an inch of rope, they would somehow manage to not only hang themselves but everyone else too. Crazies. I go to stand up, but only collapse from a sharp soreness radiating from my groin. Geez, I must be really out of shape if the dancing I did last night made me this sore. Again, I stand up, only this time ignoring the dull ache and set off heels in hand to find a bathroom so I can pee and de-Clodaugh-ize my face and hair. My born-again Christian (A/n I have nothing against any religion, so please don’t think I am singling out and hating on born-again Christians, it just the view of how strict and overbearing her parents are that I am after. Half my family is born-again Christian) parents would die of heart attacks if I showed up at home looking like Kesha.

After I located the nearest bathroom and dragged two sleeping girls out of it, I began to attack the mess of black curls pinned haphazardly to my head with water and a comb I sanitized under hot water. Pulling my thick hair back in a bun, I gazed over my face. Freckles and fair skin jump out at me. Followed by hazel eyes surrounded by smudged black and brown gunk. Rolling a wad o toilet paper up and dampening it with warm water and a little soap, I cleared away the make-up Clodaugh had forced upon me. With my appearance all in order, continuing to ignore the hollow pain, I trekked through the house, stepping over sleeping bodies and dodging garbage.

When I made it outside, I headed over to a very inconspicuous bush. I had stashed a bag of clothes and bottle mouthwash there last night, expecting Clodaugh would once again ditch me. Not caring about neighbors, I stripped down to my underwear and bra and pulled on a pair of comfy gym shorts and an old t-shirt advertising Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream. Slipping on some flip-flops, stuffing my (Clodaugh’s) clothes into my bag, and swishing some mouthwash, I headed off down the street and began the thirty minute walk to my house and mulled over how sick I was of Clodaugh’s shitty antics, stuffing the unease the dull ache between my legs caused to the far recesses of my mind.

End Flashback

*             *             *

                Oh god. Oh ­god. I start hyperventilating. Tears start forming in the creases of my eyes. No. No. No. I can’t have—no don’t think about it. I wasn’t—. No. No, there must be some other explanation. I’d have remembered if I was—. I’d have remembered. I’d have remembered.

                “Sorry honey, but you should probably make your way to a pharmacy.”