Young Writers Society

Okay.

He breathes in. Breathes out. Tunes his heartbeat with the music.

Okay.

The dance floor is crowded, but he sees her right away. She wears a tight pink dress which conforms to the baby bump forming at her stomach. Hell no. This one isn’t his baby, like the last one was. Did she rape another fucking sophomore? Does this one belong to her legit boyfriend? Who’s going to tell her to fucking stop? Oh wait, that’s what he came here to do.

Okay.

The music blares louder than his ears can process. He looks to the carrier that he’s holding, but it seems as if the noise-canceling headphones he placed over the baby’s ears are holding up decently. He commends himself on being such a good parent. Unlike her. At least he had the good sense to be there for a child that he found on his doorstep nine months after. Fucking yes. He’s a good father. Even at sixteen, he’s a fucking good father.

Okay.

This is his moment. He watches her sway to the music with her friends. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in thick blonde waves. Each tip curls perfectly. Her eyes are a shocking kind of green—he doesn’t even have to see them again. They’re too memorable. At one point, he might have thought she was sexy. Now, he doubts he’ll ever find anyone attractive again. She keeps a protective hand supporting the base of her abdomen as she dances, keeping the little one trapped inside of her safe. He sneaks a glance at his baby in the carrier. Did she care for this child when it was inside of her?

No. Of course she didn’t. And she isn’t caring for that one either. He watches her grab a beer from one of her friends. They’re not supposed to have beer, considering everyone at the party is underage, but no one seems to mind so no one says anything. She downs the beer swiftly and reaches for another. Nobody stops her.

Fuck it.

He steps out onto the linoleum, knowing very well what an idiot he looks like. The bags under his eyes are so big they could be suitcases. His clothing is covered in baby food, milk, and spit-up. Even his freckles, which he’s always been told are the most vibrant thing about him, seem to have faded into the awful white pallor of his skin tone. It’s not like he’s going to see many of these people after tonight. All he has to do is get the money and get the fuck out.

Fate has other plans. “Parker, it’s been a while!”

Parker stops walking, but cannot detach his eyes from where the mother of his baby drinks and dances. “Hey.”

“How’ve you been?” asks the boy. Parker can’t remember his name, nor does he wish to. At this point, people from around here, from his previous life, are just static. White noise.

“Good,” he replies anyway.

“So Macklevelle is a good school?”

“Yeah, it’s really nice.”

“Accommodating, too?” Parker turns his head just quickly enough to see the boy nod to the carrier in his hands.

“Yeah,” he says. “They don’t give a shit about Ilse. Or any part of my personal life. I have a friend who watches her during the day.”

“That’s great, man.”

Parker contemplates whether or not it’s acceptable to walk away. He begins to take a step, but the boy speaks again.

“Your baby mama is here, isn’t she? Wasn’t it… Shay?” They both swivel to look at the pregnant girl in the pink dress. “That little bitch. Fuck her, right? Leaving you all alone with a fucking baby. And all because of a damn hook-up.”

“Yeah, it sucked.” Because what else was he supposed to say to that? That this boy didn’t know the half of it? That Parker himself never gave consent? No, emotions are best saved for people who matter. Not background characters. Since he can think of nothing else, he continues, “She’s pregnant again.” It’s not a question, but not a statement—it’s somewhere in between.

“Yeah,” says the boy. “She’s got a sugar daddy these days. He’s gonna keep her in the money. Had to have the baby to tie him down, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“But whatever. It’s her fucking body she’s messing up.” The boy grabs a beer off a nearby counter. “What are you doing back here, man? Is it her?”

Parker doesn’t immediately answer. His brain cannot generate anything satisfactory to explain himself. Should he say that he needs money? Should he say he’s here for Shay to pay her bill on this life she helped create? Honestly, it’d be easier to lie, but he can’t think of anything. The boy doesn’t seem to mind. He waits. Doesn’t even check his watch.

Finally, Parker manages to stutter out an answer. “I missed being around here.” The instant the lie passes his lips, he knows how unconvincing it sounds. Maybe if he smiles, the boy won’t notice.

“So you brought the baby with you?”

Fuck.

“I didn’t plan on coming to a party. I was just showing Ilse my old house. Down the street, you know. But then I saw this, and someone invited me in…” Even less convincing than the first, but he rolls with it. “Christmas parties, I miss them.”

“Technically, it’s more of an after-Christmas, pre-New Year’s party. Anyway, I’m glad you came. It’s nice catching up with you.”

Parker watches as the boy drifts off to talk to a girl in purple eyeliner. He should probably know her, too. Whatever.

If it’s possible, the music gets even louder as it transitions to the next song. Parker’s never been good around loud noises. There was that time in fifth grade, where they watched the drummers, and he had this huge breakdown… back when he was allowed to have breakdowns, because there weren’t smaller people relying on him to hold it together. Somebody steps on Parker’s foot. Someone else spills a mystery drink across his jacket. A drunken girl stumbles and rubs her face across his shirt, leaving a smudge of bright red lipstick.

The carrier shifts in his arms. Parker maneuvers to the stairs so he can set it down and get Ilse out. She gets restless when it’s loud. Like him. Huh. The straps are so damn complicated. It takes him at least five minutes, five minutes he should be spending looking for Shay and getting well deserved cash.

By the time Ilse is finally out, she’s mighty pissed.

“That makes two of us,” he whispers in her ear. A crying baby is a perfect excuse to leave, isn’t it? He can come back tomorrow and get the money from Shay while she’s in her own house. Oh right, she lives with the sugar daddy now, doesn’t she?

No.

This needs to happen now. Not later.

He feels like he’s going to throw up.

Back onto the dance floor. This time, with a baby. And then, away from the dance floor. To the kitchen. Water. Maybe Ilse will calm down if she gets water. Or milk, or whatever the fuck this fridge has in it. Maybe he’ll luck out, and whoever lives in this house has some need to keep baby food in the pantry. Parker needs to calm down this baby so he can talk to…

“You!” It’s fucking Shay. In her fucking pink dress with some random opulent man’s fucking child inside her. Fuck. He blinks, and the flashbacks begin to play against the backs of his eyelids. PTSD, he knows he has it. He can’t let it take control now.

Okay.

He’s been waiting for this. So why can’t he think of a damn thing to say?

“You!” he yells back. “I came to talk to you.”

“I don’t wanna talk. Get the fuck out of here.”

“No, I came to talk.”

Ilse quiets down. She must sense the tension between her parents. Parker wonders if she recognizes Shay.

“You weren’t invited. This is a party.”

“I know what a party looks like. I came because of the baby.”

“It’s your baby.”

“It’s our baby.”

They stand at a faceoff. Ilse’s diaper needs changing, Parker can feel it. He has extra diapers in his backpack, but that’s by the bushes outside. He curses himself for not bringing it in. Doesn’t matter. He just has to get this matter worked out quickly.

“Please, Shay,” he says. “Please, she’s our kid.” It’s best to leave the rape out of the equation. She’ll never help out if he tells the world the truth. Besides, he doubts anyone at the party believes that boys must give consent as well.

“Not my kid anymore.”

“She doesn’t stop being your fucking kid just because you don’t care.”

The other people at the party seem to notice the weight of the situation. “Maybe we should leave you too alone…” They retreat from the kitchen carrying a couple of six-packs and making awkward finger guns. Parker wants nothing more than to leave with them.

Shay hoists herself up onto the counter with difficulty. Parker would sit too, but he needs to keep Ilse in a state of perpetual motion. Her happiness is the most important thing. He can tell that Shay is surveying his outfit, silently judging him on his choice of pants. They’re skinny, but only because he’s skinny. And his shirt… he doesn’t even have the time to watch Doctor Who anymore. Why is he a fucking billboard for it?

Focus, Parker.

The music isn’t as pounding once the door to the kitchen is closed. It’s still loud as hell, but the layer between really takes to edge off. He smooths his hair away from his forehead with his free hand. Nothing in the universe can make him meet Shay’s eyes.

“You said you wanted to talk with me.” Shay lights a cigarette from her pocket. Parker blinks several times to recover. That’s how she got him into her room for the first time. By luring him with a cigarette. He hasn’t smoked since. “It wasn’t enough for you to completely bail on me after we banged. No, you have to come on back and rub salt in the wound.”

“Sorry.” This whole night turned out better in his head. He was so empowered in his imagination.

“Yeah, well fucking speak. This is a party. I want to party.”

“Partying could be bad for your second kid.”

“Like I give a shit was you think.”

Parker swallows. “I need some support. For raising this kid.”

“You asked for it. We had sex. Babies are made through sex.”

“But I didn’t ask for sex.”

Shay exhales smoke. She doesn’t even seem to care that it could be bad for the already breathing baby which Parker holds. “You know you wanted it. I don’t have time for this. Why are you really back here? Do you want to kiss me again? Slow down, motherfucker. I belong to someone else.”

“You don’t. You belong to yourself.” Shay just rolls her eyes, so Parker continues. “I just need some money. Something, so I can keep Ilse alive. You know what happened that night. You know. So you also know that I’m being a fucking good parent by raising her. She’s my kid, and I’m not going to make her suffer for your mistakes. But you have to help me out here.”

“Ilse?” Shay asks. “You named the baby Ilse? Is that German?”

“I didn’t come tonight because I wanted to see you. I came for Ilse. Do it for Ilse.”

“You’re making it seem like I have an emotional connection with that thing.” Shay laughs. “I don’t, believe me. Why can’t we pretend we never fucked and I can get on with my life.”

“How am I supposed to get on with my life?” Parker tries not to raise his voice enough that Ilse will be bothered, but she stirs anyway.

“You know what? I’m done talking to you.” Shay hops off the counter and heads for the door.

“You can’t be done. We just started.” Wow, he sounds a lot braver than he feels.

“It’s your own fucking fault,” Shay exclaims throwing open the door. “You raped me, you asshole. I never want to see your fucking face ever again.”

Fuck. She said that. She fucking said that. Parker bounces the baby to be sure she isn’t scared by the noise. “That’s not how it was and you know it. Look, I don’t need you to take the baby. I wouldn’t trust you to care for her anyway. I just need child support or some shit from your fancy rich-person pockets that pay for fancy rich-person maternity dresses. You know my family doesn’t have a ton at our disposal.”

“You really want to talk about money?” Shay raises her voice, so that the entire party can hear. “I said no, and you said yes, and then you told me not to scream and we were going to do this whether I liked it or not. Guess what? Karma’s a bitch. That’s your fucking baby, not mine, and I swear if you come around here one more time I will personally call the cops and have you arrested. Go to hell, Parker Cole.”

Partygoers surround him. Parker spots the boy whom he was talking to earlier, but the boy refuses to meet his eyes. Just as well. Crowds scare Ilse. He’s not getting any money, so he might as well get the hell out of there.

At least no one can beat him up while he’s holding a baby.

On the way out, the music seems threatening. He knows it’s just crappy electro-pop, but the bass triggers a throbbing in his head that feels a whole lot like death. Shay’s posse is ready to chase him into the next country. He needs to run. Parker is out the door in less than half the time it took him to get in.

“Hey, Ilse,” Parker whispers in his child’s ear. “Hey, baby. Don’t remember your mother, okay? It’s just the two of us from now on. Nobody else. I love you.” Ilse coos in response, reaching her little fingers to grab one of Parker’s curls.

Go to hell, Parker Cole.

“Apparently, I’m already there.”