16 & Pregnant, page 12
We make it to the inside of the school, squeezing through crowds who are acting like the bell never rang. Ray gives me a quick kiss, then heads the opposite way to his gym class. E straggles behind, barely able to keep up, but I can’t wait. Her class is a few doors down from mine.
“Kelly, wait up.” She waves, but I just keep power walking. I usually take the elevator with her, but today I gotta take the stairs. Just as I begin to climb them, E taps me on the shoulder.
“You’re not gonna ride up with me? It’s probably faster,” she says, panting.
The warning bell rings.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This can’t be happening. I jog up a flight of stairs, leaving E behind. She stands there, occasionally getting bumped. I can see her fist tightening like she’s about to sock the next person who doesn’t say excuse me. She looks at me with a pained expression, but I gotta put me first.
“E, I’m sorry. I really gotta go,” I say superfast. Then I dart off toward my first-period class like my ass is on fire.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Kelly
Today has been the absolute worst. Dr. Holiday marked me as late even though I barely missed the tardy bell. I’m glad she didn’t make me get a late pass. Instead, she gave me a warning and said that she still has to mark it on the attendance tracker. In stats class, I could barely keep my eyes open. Effia had to bump my shoulder a few times just so Mr. Morgan didn’t catch me dozing. Maybe if Erykah wasn’t snoring so damn loud and waking me up all night to use the bathroom, I wouldn’t be so damn tired.
I have no idea how I’m going to keep up in basketball today, but I know Coach Steph is not going to go for any excuses, especially since we’re playing against a team that’s undefeated tonight. Warm-ups started fifteen minutes ago, and I barely have any energy to dribble. I sneak off to the locker room to recoup for a bit. When I return, the team is practicing layups on the court. I try to blend in, but Coach Steph is no dummy.
“Lancaster. Over here. Now!”
I fall out of the line and jog over to her.
“What’s up, Coach?” I breathe heavily while bent over.
Her tall figure overshadows me. She doesn’t even blink. Coach used to play for the Los Angeles Sparks before she became a high school basketball coach. I would give anything to be in the WNBA one day.
“Why were you late to first period today?” She doesn’t take her green eyes off me.
Damn.
“About that. See, what had happened was, my mom couldn’t give us a ride this morning and—”
She holds her palm up.
“I don’t wanna hear your excuses, Lancaster. I don’t care about we. I want to know why you, my star player, were late. Did you not see my text this morning?”
She crosses her arms, waiting for a response. Her face is tight. A few curls are spiraled outside of her high bushy ponytail. Some of the girls call her Coach Keys for giggles, cause everyone swears she looks like Alicia Keys. She usually doesn’t trip about it, but I know now would not be a good time to basically call her anything but Coach.
“Listen, Lancaster, I don’t have time for this nonsense. Do you want to play tonight?”
I blink a few times, like she’s asking me a trick question.
“What? Yeah, Coach, of course I do. I’m really sorry about today. Please don’t bench me. I’ll do extra suicides on the court. I’ll even do Rosemarie’s job.”
Rosemarie is our manager, aka the girl who washes all of our sweaty towels and makes sure the Gatorade container is full every game, and let me just say that she does make the best orange Gatorade. Tastes better than the bottle.
Coach takes a step forward. She stares at me for a moment, then lets out a sigh. “I’ve been letting you slide all week. You were late to practice three times this week. What kinda message does that send to the team? You’re the freakin’ captain and the girls look up to you.”
Coach is right. On Monday, I had to stay late after biology to get an extension on my science project. On Tuesday, Erykah asked me to ride the bus home with her since it was raining and Miguel was a no-show. Today, I was exhausted because Erykah was making so much noise last night. I had to sleep with my headphones, just to get some rest. I know I’ve been slacking, but I just feel so tired all the time and my brain is all foggy.
“I’m benching you for the first quarter.”
What? No. I need game time. I can’t be sitting on no bench while the recruiter from my dream school is here. Coach Steph turns to walk away after she’s just shattered my world to pieces.
“But, Coach—”
She turns around sharply, like she’s hella annoyed.
“You wanna be benched the entire game, Lancaster?” The bass in her tone is telling me to shake my head and get back on the court. So, that’s exactly what I do.
Damn, this sucks. I want to scream, curse, and flatten this damn ball. What if the recruiter sees me riding the bench instead of killin’ it on the court? If I’m gonna go to Howard, I’m gonna need some type of scholarship. My parents have made that very clear. I don’t qualify for financial aid because they make “too much,” and even though I can use my dad’s GI Bill, it still wouldn’t be enough to cover tuition, books, and my dorm.
After warm-ups, I hang out in the locker room to lace up for a game I’m not even starting in. All because I was marked tardy and wasn’t even tardy. I wish I could call Ray right now, but he’s probably about to start his game soon. And E is out of the question, because she’s the reason I’m in this situation. I wish I could call Mom or Dad, but they’re so tied up with work, I’d probably only get an answer if I text 911 first. I say a little prayer instead, praying that since my day sucked, my night will be the opposite.
* * *
The good news is, it’s five minutes before the second quarter and I don’t see a recruiter in sight. I mean, I could be wrong, but I know just about everybody’s parents, and the rest of the people in the bleachers are kids from school and some of the players from JV. The bad news is, we’re down by twelve points, and Coach Steph keeps mean-muggin’ me like I’m the cause. I’m not even on the court, and whose fault is that? The girls from Desert Valley High look like giants compared to our team, and number 23 plays like she doesn’t even need a team. I guess that’s why she’s rockin MJ’s number. Not gonna lie, he was the GOAT, but once Kobe got swooped up, Michael Jordan’s greatest-of-all-time status got snatched. That’s why I rock the number 24. I don’t think there’ll ever be another player as great as the Black Mamba.
Everyone is basically just passing the ball to number 23, like she’s the only one who can shoot. TBH, she probably is. I gotta give it to her, she’s smooth with the ball, but not better than me. Alondra Martin lets some girl who’s built like a refrigerator dribble the ball right out of her hands.
“Martin! Next time, why don’t you just hand it to her?” Coach throws her hands up, then calls a time-out.
Even though I’m keeping this seat warm, I hustle over to the huddle anyways, just in case Coach comes to her senses and decides to put me in the game.
“Listen up, Lady Eagles, you need to get your freakin’ heads in the game. Why are you letting them take the ball? You’re practically giving them points,” she says with her lips tight.
“Coach, them girls is big as hell,” DeAsia Brown mutters with her hand on her hips. Rosemarie passes out cups of Gatorade, while Coach continues to go in on them.
“Then the harder they fall,” Coach snaps. “Stop worrying about how big they are and remember the plays we’ve been practicing. Put your guard up. Number 23 is their star player, and she is aggressive. Now, quit being scared and let her catch some fouls.”
Everyone gives each other side eyes. Coach is trying to send our team to the ER.
“Man, when is Kelly getting some game time?” Shakeema Reynolds asks.
“When I say so,” Coach huffs, making everyone’s necks jerk back.
She orders everyone except for me and Alondra to get back on the court. Coach replaces Alondra with Jessica Novack, who’s okay on the court, but I think she only made the team cause she’s like six-three. The clock starts, with four minutes and thirty-six seconds left until the end of the quarter. I want to play so bad. I look over to my left and see the coach chatting with a woman who has to be the recruiter from Howard—her navy-and-crimson top with the Howard logo on the front kind of gives it away. Coach points my way, making it obvious that I’m benched. The woman nods, then writes something on a clipboard before focusing on the players who are on the court. It’s really dope to see another young, successful Black woman doing her thing.
I sink in my chair, embarrassed that my team is now losing by fourteen points. A minute before the end of the quarter, Coach Steph stands in front of me with her hands pinned on her hips.
“I’m putting you in, Lancaster.”
When I touch the court, it’s like magic. It’s like something mystical happens and my entire world changes. The adrenaline and anxiousness I feel on the court is not like the kind I have on the sidelines—this feeling gives me a natural euphoria that I live to experience every time my hands meet with Spalding. I call a play, and the girls take their positions. It’s like our team got its mojo back, cause we damn sure need it. We’re not in the lead yet, but we’ve scored a few points, so we’re no longer sinking like the Titanic.
With two minutes on the clock and four points needed to win, I’m praying to the hoop gods that we bag this one. As I dribble up the court, I quickly pass the ball to Jessica, who is wide open. She takes a shot, but the ball barely hits the rim before bouncing back on the squeaky floor. Luckily, Shakeema rebounds it, passes it to me, and I go for a three. It’s like we’re in slow motion the way the ball rolls in the air toward the hoop. It slowly spins around the rim, before dropping through—we’re tied. The crowd roars as the scoreboard changes. We got a minute and fifteen seconds to win this game. Offense starts to head toward the other side of the court, and of course, one of their players tries to shoot a three like me, but it’s a straight miss. As soon as the ball tips over, it lands into my hands. Forty-five seconds. Coach calls a time-out. Basically, she wants us to win this game, or we’ll be running so many laps next week, people will think we’re auditioning for NASCAR. That was her exact words too. After we yell “Lady Eagles,” I scan the gym for the recruiter. She’s posted right next to Coach Steph, analyzing my every move.
I weave the ball through two girls, who do their best to block me. I’ve got two options. Go for another three or pass the ball to Jessica, who’s more open than the Pacific Ocean. C’mon, Kelly. Make a choice. Don’t let your team down.
“Let’s go, Lancaster! Take it home for the win!” Coach Steph yells.
I seriously feel like my heart is pounding harder than I’m pounding this ball on the court, and my stomach is starting to get hecka queasy, but I can’t stop now.
Ten seconds left on the clock.
I take a chance.
Maybe one that I’ll regret. Maybe not.
I let the ball fly over number 23’s head. Jessica catches it and goes for a layup. The ball circles around the rim like it’s scared to fall through the hoop. I could’ve gone for the win myself, but homegirl was wide open.
Buzzzzzzzzzzz!
Game over.
Lady Panthers: 55.
Lady Eagles: 57.
* * *
The locker room is lit, and all praises are going to moi, of course. Coach Steph stands in the doorway of her office, looking directly at me.
“I got somebody who wants to meet you, Lancaster.” She waves me over.
I shoot up and go straight to her office. All eyes are on me as I weave around the lockers with Coach. A few of my teammates give me smiles, with hopeful looks in their eyes. The recruiter is standing next to Coach’s desk with her hand extended.
“Nice to meet you, Kelly. I’m Coach Mya Van Ness. I heard your heart is set on being a Bison. Coach Stephanie has said some good things about you, and that means a lot coming from this grouch,” she says with a laugh.
Coach Steph’s cheeks blush.
Her voice isn’t as deep as Coach’s, but I can tell by her crisp tone that she means business. I laugh to myself, looking down, and notice she has on some fresh red-and-black Jordan 1s. Ayeee! Okay, she’s got swag and coaches my favorite college team? This must be destiny.
“Nice to meet you. Coach Steph has been a true mentor, so thank you and yes, I’m hoping to play for Howard. It’s my first choice.”
My nervousness is creeping all through my veins and inside my stomach. I feel like I need to go to the bathroom, but I don’t want to be rude. I probably should sit my ass down since I’m feeling exhausted as hell, but I don’t want Coach Van Ness to think I don’t have stamina.
“What’s your second choice?” she asks.
“Oh… umm… I’ve kinda always had my heart set on Howard, but I also plan to apply to a few other colleges,” I say, while rubbing my sweaty palms against the sides of my shorts. I’m starting to feel a little dizzy.
Coach Steph furrows her eyebrows at me. “Lancaster, are you okay? You look a little flushed.” She tosses me a water bottle from behind her desk. I take a few gulps, then brush things off with a smile.
“I’m good. Just leftover adrenaline from the win tonight.” I try to laugh it off.
Coach Van Ness exchanges a look with Coach, then leans against her desk with one shoe crossed in front of the other.
“I’ve watched a few YouTube videos of your past games, and you’re pretty nice on the court. I could tell you were nervous tonight, but still quite impressive. I admire your leadership on the court,” Coach Van Ness says.
Coach Steph nods in agreement.
I fix my mouth to say thank you, but I feel a wave of nausea come over me suddenly. Beads of sweat start forming on my forehead, and I feel like I can’t control whatever it is inside of me that’s determined to ruin this moment.
I brace myself, flattening my palm against the cold brick wall.
Coach Steph rises from her chair, walking toward me.
“Kelly, are you okay?” Coach Van Ness asks.
The room starts spinning and before I know it, I’m blowing chunks all over my Js. I’m throwing up worse than E when she was lighting up my bathroom this morning.
I’ve been feeling fine all day, and I barely finished my leftover ramen before the game, so why am I throwing it up? It has to be nerves. Just all the emotions of winning tonight’s game and meeting the head coach from Howard.
A few of my teammates rush in to make sure I’m okay. Shakeema hands me a bottle of water.
“Here, girl. You gone be okay?” Shakeema tilts her head.
I grab the water and take a sip, mentally doing the math. The only other thing I can think of is… but that can’t be possible. The last time I had my period was right before winter break, which was more than five weeks ago… which means I’m a week late. And I am never late. But I’m on the pill, so it has to be something else.
Another one of the girls hands me a towel, and I wipe vomit from the edges of my mouth as tears start flowing down my cheeks. The more I think about it, the more I’m starting to think that my biggest fear might be coming true. I honestly couldn’t imagine today getting any worse, but this just put the icing on the cake.
“I think she’s just played a little too hard tonight. You remember how burned out we’d be from intense games back in the day,” I hear Coach Steph say to Coach Van Ness.
But I don’t hear Coach Van Ness’s response. I hear Shakeema telling the other girls to give me some space. I hear my stomach growling at me. I hear my heart pounding. I hear my subconscious telling me that this wasn’t supposed to happen.
Coach Van Ness tells me she hopes I feel better and that I should get some rest tonight. She’s looking at me like how I looked at E, when she was kneeling against the toilet gripping the bowl this morning: disgusted and confused. I run out of Coach’s office and lock myself in a stall in the nearby bathroom, bawling uncontrollably into my jersey.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Erykah
30 Weeks
I’m surprised that I made it through the day. My urge to throw up everything has calmed down a bit, but my large belly barely allows me to sit comfortably in any of my classes, and I’m so tired of everyone treating me like I’m a part of the circus. I can’t even walk through the halls without somebody whispering about my pregnancy. I’m so sick of the girls in my PE class asking me a million questions about what it’s like to be pregnant, knowing damn well they are not about to have a baby. At this point, I should start a YouTube channel. I’d probably get tons of followers, but I don’t want to be famous for being sixteen and pregnant. I want to be famous for something I achieve one day.
I’ve even noticed how some of my so-called friends don’t invite me to hang out anymore. I guess they just assume that because I’m pregnant, I can’t do anything. Sometimes I think it’s because they’re embarrassed to be seen around me or that their parents might feel some type of way. This is part of the reason I just want to take a break from school—and everybody—for a little while.
All of my teachers have been extra nice, which sometimes makes me feel strange because things I would normally get called out for, I don’t. The other day I was fifteen minutes late to Dr. Holiday’s class, but she didn’t even question it, just got me caught up with what everyone else was doing. And Mr. Morgan has been way more chill too. (It could be because he doesn’t want me to throw up all over his ass again.) He doesn’t ask me to do problems on the board anymore, and he even let me retake a quiz I bombed a few weeks ago. I’m really proud of myself that I’ve been maintaining my GPA and still managed to make the honor roll last semester. My counselor said that I’m on track to graduate with honors, as long as I don’t drop any of my AP courses. That was one of the things Momma didn’t like about me switching to online school, because I wouldn’t be able to take AP classes or none of the advanced stuff. Graduating with honors has always been a goal of mine. It’s just something about walking across the stage in all white that just hits different. Plus, it’ll be dope to show my mini-me what we were able to accomplish together.
