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Impact

By Audra Sanlyn

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August 14, 2000

A threatening wall of rain cast a shadowy mist across the mountains as Amy paused in front of the convenience store. Only seniors were allowed to leave school this early on Fridays, and although the drive from school was short, it had felt like a thousand miles.
She tucked her long, dark hair behind her ear and pushed on the handle, a burden heavier than the door weighing on her chest. A chime announced her presence, sending her heart into overdrive. She gripped the straps of her book bag and scanned the store. Please don’t let anyone recognize me.
She picked up some items in addition to the one she actually came for, just so it wouldn’t be so obvious. She’d passed through almost every aisle when the small boxes caught her eye. Of course, they’d be all the way in the back. She grabbed two and resisted the urge to sprint out the door as she made her way to the register.
An older woman in a red store apron showed no emotion as she took Amy’s money. She nodded toward the large window. “Looks like it’s gonna be a washout.”
“Uh, yeah.” Amy grabbed the plastic bag, shoved it in her backpack and made a beeline for the door.
The Honda’s old speakers drummed Wayne Watson’s “Here in This Town” as Amy turned left onto a street lined by Oregon ash trees. The leaves shook in the wind, heralding the imminent rain. The familiar neighborhood had been home since her parents divorced eight years ago. The split-level ranchers weren’t huge, but they were larger than Dad’s bachelor pad on the other side of town.
Mom’s income as a personal shopper went mostly to Jimmy Choos and Belvedere vodka while Dad chose to live modestly and invest his earnings, despite his financial consultant salary.
Old Mr. Heavner waved as he strolled down the sidewalk behind his sluggish cocker spaniel and Amy attempted a casual smile. Less than a minute later, she pulled into the driveway.
Once inside, Amy slipped her shoes off at the door. Mom’s car wasn’t in the garage downstairs, but she performed a thorough search anyway. Upstairs, she breathed a sigh. Good. She isn’t here yet.
Amy shut the bathroom door behind her. She fumbled with the box and scanned the instructions. I have to do this. I have to find out. She held the test underneath her and tried to swallow the dry lump in her throat. Her hands quivered as she set the test on the floor. Quickly, she washed her hands, then leaned forward against the sink, the porcelain cold under her palms.
She was forever trying to straighten her wavy, dark brown hair. Amy wet the palms of her hands and patted down the sides. A heart-shaped face with smooth fair skin surrounded her large dark eyes. She frowned. Her body wasn’t quite thin enough or tall enough for her liking. She lowered to the floor, back against the sink cabinet, and tugged on her blue spaghetti strap shirt so it covered the skin above her low-riders. She’d been so excited to finish the peasant-style appliqué along the bottom of the fitted top only a week ago.
Amy squeezed her eyes shut. A baby bump might show beneath it within three months.
She tried to wait the full three minutes, but her eyes landed on the test before she could will them away. Already, a blue line started to form on the cursed white stick.
Surely it was a false positive.
She waited and then peed on the second one. Then the third. Jenna always teased her that she could “pee on demand” any time of day. This wouldn’t have been her choice of opportunities to test this little talent.
Amy threw the empty box against the wall and stared at the bathroom floor, now littered with blue and white test strips that blurred into a puddle through her tears.
The blow up with Thomas had kept her mind preoccupied over the past few weeks, so the absence of her monthly gift had gone unnoticed until several weeks after it was due. Maybe she should make an appointment with a doctor to confirm. But what if she ran into someone she knew? And a visit to the doctor would put a big dent in the allowance she’d been saving.
Amy dug her toes into the thick rug as she gathered up her “evidence,” then walked on shaky legs to her room. She tucked the entire drugstore bag into the bottom of the black trash can and slumped onto her bed.
What now? She stared at the depressing gray walls. She’d wanted to paint her bedroom lavender, her favorite color. Mom wouldn’t have it. Everything had to be her washed out gray that looked like death. Of course, Mom insisted it looked sophisticated. Amy compensated for its ugliness by papering her wall with designs by Vera Wang and Karl Lagerfield, some of her own sketches peppered among them. Several of her clothing designs now hung in her closet, an accomplishment that always made her feel warm inside. But today her mood matched Mom’s deathly gray walls.
A rock the size of Mt. Hood settled in her stomach. How could she tell Dad—and worse—Mom? Eventually, everyone would find out.
Amy peered at her Nokia sitting on the bedspread. I could call Jenna. Amy squeezed her eyes shut, and tears burned her lids. No. Not yet. She needed time to think, to sort things out.
She scanned the drawings that covered the bedroom walls, and her eyes hovered over a particularly detailed lead pencil sketch of a sweetheart blouse. Above it hung a blue ribbon, proof of her achievement at last year’s Future Designer awards in San Francisco. It seemed like forever ago. The pencil lines clouded in a labyrinth of confusion, mirroring her gray and tangled thoughts.
What am I gonna do?

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