in movies, girls vomit. they get crazy cravings, they complain about missed periods and there are gasps and tears and sympathetic friends.

molly doesn't realize she's pregnant until she's four weeks in and she realizes, with a frown, that her jeans haven't been fitting her right. she stands in the apartment her mother has begrudgingly gotten post-divorce, one she says that she and molly won't have to live in for long, with the groaning walls and the loud neighbors and the feeling that her brothers were missing her more than she missed them. one eye is on her jeans, the ones she'd finally fished out of of a goodwill against her mother's wishes, had slashed up months before for a concert she ended up not being able to go to, attempting to button it up.

but she can't.

for days, she hadn't been feeling all that different. just as if she was constantly on the edge of a bad period; her tits hurt like crazy even with the softer bras she bought, she found that eating was a little more difficult like it always was before a period, and now, she was too bloated for her favorite jeans.

"you've gotta---," molly sucks in her stomach as far as it can go, and attempts to button it up again. it fails.

she saunters late into second period in a pair of jeans she borrows from her mother's closet, all too aware of some of the snickers as she goes to sit down. she expects the looks, but for her credit, she at least tries to pay attention to mrs. owens as she drones on.

the thing is, molly's never been a good student or a smart student. and that makes her inattentiveness even worse today as she feels herself grow more and more exhausted, until her eyelids flutter shut. she doesn't open them again until someone's hand shakes her shoulder, jolting her awake.

she scowls when it turns out that hand belongs to one david Peña, smirk and all as he says, "sleeping through another class, patton? you're not gonna pass owens' next test if you keep it up."

"fuck off," she says, pulling her back over her shoulder, following the rest of the class out the door. "you can tease me about sleeping through class when i'm not doing your calculus homework for the third time this month."

still, even as he flips her off, he's right. the last time she passed a test had to have been before christmas break. her mother wasn't even aware of it, since molly had "forgotten" to change the address for their report cards. and if she could keep it that way, it would be fine.

by the time lunch rolls around, she can't shake the utter exhaustion in her. she doesn't have it in her to rib stacy over lunch, or to even swap lunches like usual. she just puts her head down on the crappy linoleum table as the talk ebbs and flows around her. she can only nod every so often and adjust the jeans she wears, stomach roiling in discomfort until, like clock work, her eyes droop again.

"hey," stacy prods her petulantly for the third time that period as the bell rings, interrupting the sleep molly had been drifting into. molly's eyes snap open, finger clutching her bag. stacy looks concerned, brows furrowed. "you get enough sleep last night?"

"not sure," molly grumbles, fingers pushing through her hair. she wobbles as she stands up, gripping the table for support. "we've got gym, right?"

stacy nods, and probably for the best, takes molly's hand. they walk down to the gymnasium in silence, fingers interlaced. she wonders, for a moment if she should say something. it's been weeks since their last fight, and even if their usual apology of ice cream had worked in the moment, it still felt like a gulf between them.

she says nothing, and stacy lets go of her hand when they get to the lockers. getting dressed fro gym is almost as frustrating as the morning; her stomach still feels bloated and uncomfortably pudgy in already tight shorts. when they make it outside, molly feels hesitant and not just because of the way her shorts fit her.

coach webb eyeballs her for a moment as she lags behind, and molly glares at her back. "go on, patton. one mile." the woman gestures to the track, and all the people already out there. molly doesn't want to run, but she doesn't have any way out, not until fifth period.

so she does what she's told, she hits the track.

the heat bears down on her, five steps in. sweat coats her cheeks, her forehead, and the last thing she remembers as sweat rolls down her back and her tongue feels too big in her mouth, that there's no way the ground should be rushing up so fast to meet her.

when she comes to, coach's face is as purple as a prune, yelling out for the nurse. there's a too heavy towel on her face, that feels cool. molly can't get a word out, and the next time she blinks, she's in the hospital, with ehr mother's face pinched tightly, her hands gripping her purse.

by the time she's discharged, with promises of test results and to watch her health, molly doesn't particularly care for the frigid, angry silence that envelops her mother on the way home. she doesn't want to hear the usual spiel of why aren't you applying yourself, why do you have to do this for attention, i raised you better than this. it's not as bad as her father; at least she's never afraid that her mother will reach out to strike her or that her voice will get so loud that she feels like curling up in herself.

somehow, though, her mother's silence is worse. it traps any thought she could give, keeps stretching between them as they go home to that apartment.

for the first time in weeks, molly eats dinner with her. stuffs the hardly cooked food in her mouth, swallows it, and tries to talk to her mother. except the words die before she can make them, and when they go to bed, she doesn't sneak out like she normally does.

three days pass. each day, she feels more bloated, more exhausted than before. her mother takes her to and from school like molly is five again. she does not answer molly's questions about it, and when the third day comes, her mother is clutching her purse, eyes hard as molly approaches. molly wants to turn back, immediately, ignore her.

She can't.

When she climbs into the car, her mother hands over an already opened enveloped, from Rose Medical Center. "Open it," her mother says, revving up the engine.

Molly opens it, turns it in her fingers. The paper is full of words too large for her to decipher regarding blood tests until she reaches the bottom. It takes three reads, her fingers shaking as she goes over the words over and over and--

"I can't be---," She protests, her chest clenching up, looking at her mother, hands shaking. "Mom --"

"I don't want to hear it," the words may have been spoken softly, her mother's face may have been stoic, but each and every last one feels like an unsympathetic knife in her chest. "You had no excuse for this. None. This is all on you and this is going to ruin your life if you let it." She doesn't look at Molly's crumbling face as she eases into traffic. "I won't let it. I don't believe in abortion, nor do I believe in punishing you with a child you aren't prepared for. From here on out, Margaret, you're going to have to grow up. Do you understand me?"

What kind of choice does she have? What else can she do, feeling small and terrified and alone, beside her mother? Nothing except tearfully say, "Yes, Mom."

There's nothing else to say or do. Molly can only curl up in the passenger's seat, mind racing, staring at the letter over and over again. Her life is over.