OUTCAST: A Stepbrother Romance (15 page)

S
econd
, I had to figure out whether or not I should tell my folks, my dad especially. They should know... but I was afraid about how they’d react. My dad would be furious. Worse, he’d be so sad and that wouldn’t be good for his health.

T
hird
, I should tell Finn before he would expect more from me. But how? Does he deserve to know who the father is?

T
hinking
about those things made me realize another problem that might potentially come up... one that was far more harrowing than the others...

What if Nash doesn’t want me to keep this baby?

T
he question lingered
in my head, so much so that I became detached and listless as I left the restroom and started to walk back to my class.

S
o detached
and listless that I didn’t even notice the girl who was entering the restroom just as I was about to exit it.

I
bumped
into her with so much force that a loud thud echoed within the confines of the room. I lost grip of my handbag and it fell on the floor, spilling its contents on the ground.

I
picked
up my things as quickly as I could, apologizing profusely to the girl I collided with, without looking at her face.

“
O
h
, it’s alright, dearest,” she said, seemingly with a mocking tone. “I’m sure that’s the least of your worries these days.”

I
looked
up and saw who she was.

T
all
, tanned, big breasts, slender and shapely legs, and a neatly-styled ponytail...

K
yla Sanders
.

T
he school’s resident bitch
. The girl who tried to steal Finn away from me. The girl who wanted me out of the cheerleading squad. The girl who has always tormented me with her cryptic messages about Finn and Jaynie’s secret affair.

I
hated her
.

E
ver since
.

B
ut I never had the
courage to confront her.

S
o I just finished collecting my
things and stuffed them inside my bag. I got up and walked away as soon as I could without even bothering to look at her again.

“
B
e seeing you around
, Andrea,” she jeeringly said as I turned left on the bend at the end of the corridor.

I
got back
to my seat just in time for a discussion on the Cold War in the eighties. I looked around and saw that no one was really listening to Mrs. Thurman. Everyone in the room was busy... fiddling with their phones... chatting silently with their seat mates... exchanging notes... dozing off...

I
took
that time to arrange the things that I hurriedly thrusted in my bag.

M
y purse
, check. My lipstick, check. My comb, check. My mirror, check. Some gasoline receipts that dad promised to reimburse, check. My water container which I forgot to wash, check. A small notebook to jot down the things that I don’t want to forget, check. My cellphone, check. The pregnancy test stick with two red lines...

O
h my God
...

I
t was missing
...

W
here was it
?

I
have asked
myself that question countless times the past two days.

I
t should’ve been
a simple matter... a used pregnancy test that many people would’ve just thrown in the trash after it has served its purpose. But things weren’t that uncomplicated. The result was positive... something that was quite devastating for me and utterly humiliating if someone else found out. I lost it in school. IN SCHOOL! In an area populated by people who know me! And I wasn’t ready for them to find out that I’ve been knocked up. There have been no cases of teenage pregnancy in my batch. Well... there was Althea Carter who dropped out before junior year... but no one was really sure about her condition. All we ever heard about her were gossips and hearsay at a time she was already gone.

I
tried
to comfort myself with the thought that it was just a pregnancy stick. No one would know that it was mine. It’s not as if they’d run a finger print scan on the damn thing and match it with a database somewhere. My life wasn’t an episode of CSI. Reality was so much more... archaic.

N
evertheless
, the whereabouts of that missing pregnancy stick still bothered me that Wednesday afternoon as I was waiting for my stepmother outside Elmo’s Grocery Store. She texted me earlier, asking if it was alright for me to pick her up after school.
Monthly supplies
, she said,
too many paper bags to carry
.

I
left
my car at the parking lot and waited by the shed in front of the supermarket. I sat at a long metal bench fronting the main road. I looked at the vehicles passing by, ruminating about how my youth has come and gone like a breeze and how I had to grow up faster than I should to deal with the months ahead.

T
hen my thoughts
went back to that pregnancy stick, and I cursed myself for being so stupid to lose it.

“
S
tick
?” someone suddenly said behind me.

I
was paralyzed in horror
. I turned around to see who it was.

H
e was a decent-looking man
, probably in his late twenties. He was wearing a moss green jacket and a black shirt underneath.

“
E
xcuse me
?” I asked, stunned by his question. I clutched my handbag near my chest in fear. Recent events have made me very wary of strangers.

“
O
h
, I’m sorry,” he apologized as he grabbed something from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a pack of cigarettes. “I meant... would you like a stick?”

“
N
o
, no...” I charily replied. “I don’t smoke.”

“
H
mmm
... sorry ‘bout that,” he remarked. He sat at the other end of the bench, a good three feet away from me, and lit up his cigarette.

W
hat made
him think that I was a smoker, I wondered?

I
surreptitiously stole
some glances at this intriguing man.

His face was quite attractive... in a rugged sort of way. A strong jawline, well-defined cheekbones, and a pair of blue eyes that could pierce through anyone’s soul. His hair - short, dark brown and messy - actually enhanced his roguish appeal. What made him somewhat mystifying, however, was the seeming gentleness in his voice, which was a stark contrast to his craggy good looks.

T
hen he turned
his head towards me, catching me staring at him. My eyes widened in shock as I quickly tipped my head towards the opposite direction.

I
wasn’t looking
at him anymore... yet somehow... I felt him smiling at me.

“
Y
ou’re probably wondering
why I thought you smoked?” he asked. Some of his words slurred off his tongue as he was balancing the cigarette stick between his lips.

I
tilted
my head to face him.

“
A
ctually
, yes,” I answered. “I never smoked a single stick in my life.”

H
e just smiled
at what I said. Then he fixed his gaze somewhere above me, protruding his lips as if they were trying to point at something that was there.

I
got
out of my seat, turned my head and looked up... then I saw it. A sign with words so clear that I couldn’t believe I missed them.

S
MOKING AREA
.

I
t was
a
face-palm
moment and I ended up laughing at my own idiocy.

S
urprisingly
, he laughed with me, coughing in between as he might’ve inadvertently swallowed some smoke.

“
W
ould
it have been better if I just told you that I was a frustrated mindreader?” he asked in jest.

“
I
guess
,” I said, “that would’ve saved me the embarrassment.” I tried my best to stifle a giggle.

H
e laughed once more
.

I
t was then
when Aunt Susan came out of the grocery, pushing a cart filled with packed items. I excused myself from his company, and went towards my car. I opened the trunk and waited for my stepmom to get there. We placed the groceries inside and prepared to leave. I waved at him to say goodbye, and he waved back with a wide beam.

O
nce inside the car
, I turned the key.

S
ilence
.

I
pumped some gas
, then turned the key once more.

A
nd again
, there was only silence.

“
U
h-oh
,” Aunt Susan muttered.

I
clicked
my tongue and tried to get it started for a third time. The same result greeted me.

“
I
think
we have to call dad,” I told her.

S
he immediately got
her phone from her bag and started to dial.

A
ll of a sudden
, someone tapped on my window. It was him. He flicked away his cigarette and puffed out the remaining smoke in his lungs. I opened the door - because the power windows have been broken since I got the car - and he started to speak.

“
P
roblem
?” he asked.

“
Y
eah
. The car won’t start,” I answered.

“
T
he engine’s not responding
?” he tried to clarify.

“
Y
ep
. Not at all. Not even a single bit.”

“
M
anual transmission
?”

“‘
M
atic
. Is there a difference on how to fix it?”

“
A
world of difference
,” he said. “You’ve got a dead battery. Not really dead, though, just... asleep. Wait for me here. I’ll go get my truck.”

H
e darted
off towards the other end of the parking lot. A few minutes later, a Ford pickup pulled up behind our car. He went out of his vehicle, carrying some thick cables. Then he opened his hood and attached one end to his battery. He ran towards us carrying the other end of the cord.

“
O
pen your hood
,” he instructed, still smiling.

I
did
.

H
e bent
over to reach for something near the engine, then he got up and gave me the thumbs up sign.

“
L
et her rip
,” he barked.

I
turned
the key and the engine roared back to life.

H
e quickly pulled
out his cable and returned it to his truck.

“
W
ow
!” I remarked. “That was amazing!”

“
H
eh
!” he dismissed my awe. “Basic stuff. You would’ve learned it yourself if your car... well... broke down more frequently... just as much as my truck has.”

“
W
ell
, thank you so much for your help!” I told him. “Be seeing you around the area!”

“
Y
ou sure will
,” he said with that rather disarming smile.

A
few minutes later
, when we have exited Lincoln Highway, Aunt Susan decided to share her observation.

“
W
hat a nice man
,” she enthused.

“
H
e sure was
!” I agreed.

“
W
hat’s his name
?”

What’s his name?
After all the help he has extended - not to mention how he made me laugh despite the emotional wreck I have been the past month - I couldn’t believe I forgot to ask for his name.

“
I
dunno
,” I answered. “I didn’t get around to ask.”

“
S
ad
,” she replied. “We could’ve used his help...”

“
H
is help
?”

“
Y
es
. Just in case the car broke down again.”

W
e laughed
at her comment until we reached our house. It was a refreshing afternoon, after days of sorrow. The things that happened... they made me forget about the stress and the problems I had to confront in the coming days.

B
ut one thing
seemed to bother me as we entered our home with the paper bags filled with groceries.

S
omething
about that guy’s name...

S
omething I knew
I should be worried about, but I couldn’t really pinpoint why...

I
didn’t get
the chance to ask for his name... but I did manage to read a name tag strewn on the left pocket of his jacket.

N
o
, no... It wasn’t a name, though. It might not even be related to him. It was just a word... a rather common word...

A
simple word that somehow
... somehow... caused me to be perturbed.

G
eneral
.