My punishment doesn’t stop. No matter how many positive changes I’ve implemented—I stayed in on Thirsty Thursday, refused Liza’s invite to her boyfriend’s house party, and studied one extra hour per night—my debt has not been repaid. Unfair, isn’t it, how one decision, one awful, stupid decision, could alter your path forever?

My period—the same period that I’ve gotten on the third of every month like clockwork since I was twelve—is five days late. It’s hard to explain, but I already know, before any over-the-counter test or doctor confirmation, I know what the result will be. I feel it.

Still, I find myself walking the seven blocks to the nearest pharmacy, crumpled twenty dollar bill stuffed in the pocket of my down coat, to purchase a tiny piece of plastic that will permanently alter the course of my life.

My hair hangs in stringy ropes against my face, serving to cover my downcast eyes as I hand the package to the clerk. I catch the flash of sympathy in her eyes as she speaks, “Eleven forty-nine.”

I avoid her gaze as every doubt and insecurity washes through my veins.

Does she think I’m irresponsible? Does she think I’m just another statistic? Am I?

My fingers shake as she hands me my change, and I stuff the bills back into my coat. Glancing at my phone, I check the time again to be sure that Liza’s still in class, and then hurry back to our dorm to take the most important test of my life.

* * *

The test is positive. The pale pink plus sign darkens with each passing minute. Remorse, wicked and cruel, sits low in my belly. After I empty the contents of my stomach, I dry heave two more times, but I’ve got nothing left to give. I’m a hollow shell.

What am I going to do? This will devastate my parents. What will my younger sister think? Is she really going to be an aunt at seven years old? Am I ready to be a mother at nineteen?

Let’s not forget about Jason, the “let’s go for round two” guy I hooked up with while I was blackout drunk. There’s definitely no future between us. I haven’t seen him since the morning I stormed out of his dorm, and I’ve no way of getting in touch with him. I don’t even want to think about what he’ll say or do when he finds out. If he finds out.

And me? How do I feel? Alone. Scared. Fucking terrified. As much as I don’t want to admit this, as selfish as it is, as terrible of a person I might be, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m not ready to be a mother.

Options swirl in my brain, a soupy mixture of words and phrases combined with an odd image remembered from my eleventh grade health class of a short girl with wide eyes, one hand resting on her belly.

I’m at a crossroads; there are no easy paths from here. No right choice. And the worst part is I’m all on my own.

The decision.

I can barely bring myself to think the word, let alone say it. Can I…?

When is it justified, if ever? And is it ever better to end something, a life, before it begins?

So many thoughts race through my head; my mind focused yet unfocused, because it’s just too much to process. What will this child’s life be like? What quality of life will this baby have? Will there be endless custody battles? Court dates? Child support?

Adoption. The word whispers through my despair, a small streak of silver lining the dark cloud that has enveloped me and swallowed me whole.

Will I still be able to attend school? Everyone will know. Am I strong enough, brave enough, to carry this baby to term, only to give him or her away to another family? No. I can’t. I’m not selfless enough.

I’m a monster.

I jump when my phone buzzes loudly.

Jesse.

Knowing I won’t be able to talk to him without breaking down, I make a split second decision to decline the call. My thumb presses the button, and I sink back down onto my comforter.

I’m not ready to talk to him. He’ll know something’s wrong. He always knows. I can’t bear for him to know the truth about me, about what I’ve done, about what I plan to do. At least, not yet.

My mind races, lungs constrict as one singular question circles round and round my mind: Can I do it?

Yes. The devil on my left shoulder whispers. One call and this all goes away. No one ever has to know.

Don’t be crazy, Riley. The angel whispers back from the other. You have options. Your family will support you. Think this through.

But deep down I already know my decision. With shaky hands, my fingers search for the contact info on the clinic’s website, then press the keys, pushing each button with a sense of raw finality.

The line rings once. Twice. Three times.

My stomach is a knot, fingernails bitten raw, and I’m about to hang up when a tired woman’s voice answers. “Good afternoon. Thank you for calling New Horizons, a Center for Women. How may I direct your call?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, and my fist grips the phone tighter. I send up a desperate prayer, begging God for forgiveness, before I speak. “I’d like to make an appointment.”