11.

“I wish the weekend weren’t over,” Will said on the phone Sunday night. “Four days without you. Sucky.”

“I know,” I said, telling myself I wouldn’t mention the potential problem until I knew for sure what the deal was. “I’m so sick of Dad, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Uh-oh, what happened?”

“Nothing specific,” I said. “Wait, that’s not true. Let’s see, I spent Thanksgiving morning making these hors d’oeuvre–y things he likes, or at least I thought he liked.”

“What did you make?”

“Devils on horseback,” I said. “Mom made them for parties all the time when I was little and he would devour them.” I remembered hearing her heels clomping restlessly around the kitchen as she filled the hors d’oeuvre tray with olives and toothpicks. Mom was always really animated when she threw parties. When it was just me and Dad, she was bored. “But when Dad’s guests came on Thanksgiving, I put the hors d’oeuvres out and he wouldn’t touch them. The pudgy trader guy and his wife ate all of them. When I mentioned that Dad used to eat entire plates of them when Mom made them, he glared at me as though I’d insulted him. ‘Well, that was then, Thea.’ I swear I can’t win with him. You’re lucky your parents are still together.”

“My dad says divorce is overrated,” Will said.

“He’s right!” I said.

“Yeah, but it sort of sounds like he’s considered it as an option.” He laughed. “Parents.”

“Parents,” I said.

“What else?” he asked. “Did I mention I wish you were here?”

I threw the blankets off and sat up. “Will, I’m scared,” I said, immediately wishing I’d waited. “I think I might be pregnant.”

“What? We’ve been on the phone this whole time and you don’t say anything until now?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything until I took a test.”

“You’re on the pill!”

“I know, but it can still happen. Remember when I stayed up there a few weeks ago? I skipped it that day,” I said.

“That was one pill!” he said.

“Well, I’m probably just late,” I said, remembering that Vanessa’s cousin had done the same thing—skipped one pill—and gotten pregnant. There was a long silence. A door slammed on his end.

“I almost wish you hadn’t told me. How am I going to sleep?”

“Sorry,” I snapped. “Don’t worry. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, I’ll take care of it. It’s not your problem.”

“It’s not my problem? Of course it is.”

“Well, it’s not even a problem yet. I’m just a little worried.”

“In a way it’d be cool,” he said.

“What would?”

“Having it,” he said.

I heard Dad walk by my door on the way to his bedroom and turn out the light. “What do you mean?” I whispered.

“I don’t know. I know we can’t. It’s just nice to think about. A little green-eyed G-Rock baby, rockin’ the bridge.”

“It’s late,” I said, lying down and pulling the covers back up. I looked at the ceiling and found the streaks of light shining in from the building across the street. They formed a distorted face across the beams—eyes, nose and straight, mean mouth. She looked like a mean queen.

“Call me tomorrow,” he said. “It’s going to be okay, okay?”