Stella Wright
No one ever expects me to be the nice girl, and I'd hate to disappoint them.
“Holy, fucking shit,” I hear Bethy mutter to herself, her head between her legs, her brown hair cascading down like a waterfall onto the carpet. She's wearing jeans, because Beth doesn't really believe in anything else. Skirts are too girly and make her feel naked. Shorts are either (in her opinion) a) hooker short or b) terminal nerd long. She wore dresses until she tucked her underwear into a floral number, and that was the end of that.
The car ride with her little sister had been incredibly awkward, but we got through it. I played sick, slumping in my seat and resting my forehead against the window. Maryanne had rambled senselessly, but Beth had acted so fucking normal, no one ever would have guessed she had a positive pregnancy test in her back pocket. The aforementioned test had been hurled out the window moments after dropping Maryanne off at the massive church. When I tried to say something she just raised her hand, silencing me until we got behind her closed bedroom door in her empty house.
“Holy, holy motherfucking, goddamned shit.”
“Wow, okay, just let it all out,” I said, rubbing her back. I would normally get a kick out of Beth cursing so flagrantly, but I'm just a little stunned she said “goddamn”. Don't get me wrong, she could swear with the drunkest of sailor's, but goddamn is the sort of blasphemy that she doesn't touch.
“Daddy will kill me,” Beth moaned to the floor. “He really will... and y'know this might make Mama blink, or something. Oh God, I think I'm gonna be sick”
“Isn't it a little late in the day for morning sickness?”
When she lunges for me, I have to admit, I am totally unprepared. Beth shoots up so fast it doesn't even register in my brain until I am flat on my back across the bed. Her fists land across my belly as she forces me into the faded floral comforter covering her bed. This could be an all out brawl, but when I raise my hand to strike back, all I can think is “only white trash bitches hit pregnant girls”, and contrary to popular belief, I am not white trash. Off white, sure, but nothing about me is pure.
Beth is a sissy, so her attempted punches don't hurt. They stop as suddenly as they started, leaving me flat on the bed shaking, and her sitting against the wall shivering, even though the August sunlight streaming in from the large window has heated her room. This moment feels like it is shaking, like it is struggling not to collapse under the weight of itself.
“We're gonna get through this,” I say, propping myself up on my elbows. It sounded right, and like it was something she needs to hear in that moment, even though I am not entirely sure that we will.
And this is certainly a “we” situation, not as she/me deal. You know, like “she is knocked up, so let me slowly back away from this train wreck.” Beth and I are besties, formerly known as bffs but sticking an “ie” on the end makes it infinitely cuter. In all seriousness though, she is my total and complete soul mate. Not any of in a sexual way or in some weird religious sense. No, Beth knows me and knows what I think before I even think it myself. She and I came together over all the shit middle school throws at you, and various traumatic events that turned us both into the girls no one ever wanted to play with.
“Daddy'll kill me, Stella,” she said blankly, staring straight ahead.
“Don't be ridiculous! Sure, Frances will have a hissy fit—”
“I know you're not afraid of him but he'll fuck me over,” Beth interrupted, her voice growing more desperate as she continued, “He'll kick me out, or make Tim marry me!”
Sitting up completely, I try to touch her knee in a reassuring way, but she avoids my touch. “That's not gonna happen! You know no one can make you get married.”
“No, they'll just threaten and push and prod until it's the only thing to do!”
“Well, you know we could solve this in just a few minutes. Okay, it would take more than a few minutes, but we could still get this taken care of before anyone knows any different. You don't have to have a baby.” I know this is an issue we don't normally touch. Soul mates share everything, but sometimes it's just easier to avoid some things altogether.
“Yes I do. This is not up for argument, Stell.”
“I don't see how you can just close that door without even thinking about it!”
“You know I don't believe in abortion,” Beth whispers the word abortion. I'm not sure if it's just some holier than thou habit she's picked up or if she really is considering it a harsher swear word than all the others than have slipped out of her mouth lately.
“So you're saying it's like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy? Or are those things really just Jesus sneaking into your house to spread commercialization and steal your baby teeth?” Religion is right up there with abortion on the list of topics we avoid.
“You good and well know that it's not like that!” Beth says, her voice higher pitched than normal. “Please be serious. I think abortion is wrong. I think it would send me to hell.”
“You know, your theology is really starting to bug me. You can't cheery pick what you believe Beth! Aren't you already going to hell because you fucked Tim? Oh, and you swear...doesn't that mean you'll be heading straight to hell?” I am trying not to be loud, so everything comes out in the violent whisper.
“God forgave me for that. He loves me, but if I had an abortion it would just be too much.” Beth looks up as she talks, making me realize that she really believes this.
“Why would God not forgive you for having an abortion?” Her room is too small for this conversation, and I find myself pushing off the bed and getting up to pace restlessly.
In a lot of ways, Beth's room is more familiar to me than my own. Old green shag carpet covers the floor, leading up to plain white walls that she has covered with images cut out of magazines. Blank eyed girls and gruff guys cut from the pages of Cosmo stand with elephants from National Geographic marching over their hearts. The day bed is pushed against the wall with the door and directly across from that is her large window with the tattered white sheers. I'm never really sure why she even bothers with the curtains, because the light always shines straight through them anyway, especially now that there are so many tears in the white fabric.
This is the room of a girl, a girl trying to become a woman, but a girl all the same. This is not the bedroom of a mother. There is no room for a crib or one of those damn bouncy seats. Beth can barely stand to be around her ten year old sister, let alone an actual infant. Plus, she couldn't just lock a baby in the closet, the way we used to lock up Maryanne.
Her silence is louder than words. I can't help but ask her, “Bethy, why can't God forgive you for getting an abortion if he forgives you for fucking and swearing?”
“I don't expect you to understand,” she said, looking down at her hands. “But he wouldn't forgive me.”
“But why? Does God cherry pick too? All those times over the years you've dragged me to church, I remember that they said all sin was created equal. Why would God forgive you for straddling Tim's scrawny hips and doing the nasty, but not for having an abortion? For doing something that will make your life so much better!”
She shifts, sitting up straight for once. Her face is clear, because it seems like something inside of her has shifted. Like a chasm has opened up inside of her and she has pitched all of her emotions into the abyss. In the bathroom earlier, Beth reminded me of our “roles.” I am the wild one, the bad girl who rages. She is the strong, silent, dependable one. For a few minutes, it seemed like we were the ones shifting, we were going to become something other than ourselves. Now though, Beth is becoming herself again, and when she speaks, her voice is strong, determined.
“I know you think all of this is ridiculous. I know this is why we never talk about this, but Stella, God is real, and he is forgiving,” she said, preparing to rise from the bed.
“So why won't he just forgive you for having an abortion?”
Her face is still peaceful a serene, but her voice is not nearly as powerful. It is a weak thread, pulled too tight. In my head, I imagine her desperately clinging to it and trying to avoid that giant chasm that has opened up inside of her.
“For God to forgive you, for you to be squared away and even and shit, you have to be sorry for what you did. I don't think swearing is that big a deal, but GD is bad and I'm sorry I said it. The sex thing I'm sorry for that too. I try to be good.”
“So have an abortion and be sorry for that too!” I say, throwing my hands up in exasperation as she gets off the bed. “This is because you think it's a baby?”
“It's not a baby. This isn't about that. You have to be sorry about what you did, and if I had an abortion, without anyone ever knowing I was pregnant, without anyone finding out I had sex or if I never had to suffer, I wouldn't ever be sorry.” Her voice shook slightly, and the thread came close to breaking.
“Are you going to have this baby to just be a martyr?”
“I am going to have the baby because I don't know what else to do.”
