My American Dream

All my life, I have dreamt of having a daughter. She would be beautiful, with bright, rosy cheeks, and a smile that would warm my day. I would be in my mid-20’s, happily married, with a college degree and a nice home in a good neighborhood: my American dream. My husband, an intelligent man, a hard worker; he would be loving and appreciative; raising our daughter would be a team effort, our team, Olympic class. My prayers and predictions however, were unusually wrong.
I was 15 years old when I met Aaron. I was in the school gymnasium, playing basketball; the coach said my jump shot needed some work. He was running sprints for football or something. After sinking four shots in a row, the ball bounced hard off the rim and skipped across the dazzling, hardwood floor, and as fate would have it, it dribbled into his path, catching him in stride, causing him to trip, ending in a violent crunch into the wall. “Oh my God, are you okay?” I screamed as I jogged over to him.
“I’m fine,” he replied as he pulled himself from the floor. There was a cut above his eye and a trickle of blood protruding from his mouth.
“Here, let me help you.” I wouldn’t typically nurture a boy right off the bat, but this time I felt there were special circumstances. I had, after all, nearly mashed his entire face.
“I’m fine.” He took off his shirt and wiped the blood from his mouth, then dabbed a few times at the cut above his eye. Him being a football player, I thought he would be more muscular, but he was not. He was tiny. He was nothing, really. But he was cute.
“I’m sorry,” I said
“It’s really okay.” He looked at me, with no emotion at first, but after seeing how badly I’d felt, he smiled. “I’m the smallest guy on the team. Coach says I can really take a beating.”
I smiled back, “It’s a good thing you’re not a crybaby.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.” I reached out and gave him a little push. He pushed back, laughed, and walked over to his duffel bag. I followed, “I’m Christi by the way.”
“Hi Christi, I’m Aaron. It was nice to meet you, but I gotta go.”
“Okay,” I said in a deflated tone. I hoped I didn’t make him mad and caused him to leave. My mother might actually approve of this one. “Bye.” I walked to my basket ball, which now rested in the middle of the floor. I picked it up and began to work on my jump shot once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him walk towards the door. Just as he reached the rubber matting that carpeted the entranceway, he turned and walked to me.
"Text me sometime,” he said as he placed a slip of paper in my hand. I was relieved at this gesture, as I kind of wanted him to like me. Since I now figured he did, I definitely had to text him. It was on that very day that I made my mother buy me a cell phone.
I wanted to do the thing boys always do on television, wait three days before initiating contact, but that wasn’t happening. Really, I knew nothing of Aaron, but I wanted to know more. He was a little weird, and I was curious. Really curious. “Why do you need a cell phone?” my mother asked me as I dragged her to the Mill Creek mall, “are you selling drugs?”
“No mother. I’m not selling drugs.”
“Then why do you need a cell phone?”
I’m not sure why my mother thinks that only drug dealers have cell phones, but it is ridiculous, and, in my opinion, a waste of fantasy.
“My friends have cell phones mom. They like to text.” “Text? What is that?”
“It’s like writing notes to one another, except faster and more efficient. Just buy me the phone, I’ll show you.”
“Fine.”
As soon as I got into the car, I pulled out the slip of paper and texted Aaron. “Hi, how are you?” I asked.
At first, he said nothing, and that made me a bit paranoid. “He probably gave me a fake number,” I thought, then: “Well, my face hurts because somebody made me trip over a basketball ;).”
“Don’t do that. Ur gonna make me feel bad :(.” I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but sometimes a girl needs to exaggerate things a bit, in an attempt to be cute.
“No sad faces hun, smiles are better =D.” He was right, smiles are better. “:)”
“See, didn’t that feel good?”
“It did.”
His words were completely corny, and I knew it, but at least he was trying unlike the other pathetic boys, practically demanding hand jobs on the afternoon bus ride. At least he was sweet. “When are we gonna hang out?” he asked. I felt a warmth crawl over my body.
“Pick me up.” Aaron did pick me up, that night and every night after for nearly four months. My mother would yell at me for leaving the house so much, especially to hang out with a boy, and sometimes she would confront him about his faith and his intentions. Somehow, he always passed the test. At first, it was a shy relationship, then, over time, it became more involved. On my sixteenth birthday, Aaron picked me up yet again, and took me to a place that was important to him (We told mother we were going out to eat), somewhere that was private and beautiful, somewhere perfect. To my disappointment, he took me to the football field. Sure, it was lit up nicely, with a table on the 50-yard line, but that was typical; it reminded me of another teen movie (A generality, not to be confused with Not Another Teen Movie). Despite this corny gesture (Much like the ones he performs daily), the night ended in me becoming a woman.
By this time, we had become quite the item in school. Aaron was the smallest player on the football team, but he was scary talented. If a ball were thrown in his direction, he was coming down with it every time. He was somewhat of a king among his teammates, and now, they viewed me as his queen.
Even before Aaron, I was popular in school. I was on the girls’ basketball team, and was planning a campaign for vice president of my class. I was pretty, I guess, although I was somewhat self-conscious of my nose. It wasn’t big or anything; I just didn’t like it. Aaron says I have a gorgeous nose, so nowadays, I just go with that.
The two of us together was affinity. He didn’t mind that my mother was an overprotective, strict Catholic woman or that I often cried about having a dead father; I didn’t mind that he spent way too much money on RC cars or that he eventually became stale in bed. We dealt with one another’s insecurities, therapeutically making it through each slight malfunction. At that point, after those four months, we had a reasonably perfect relationship. It was this belief that led me to make mistakes.
Six months into our relationship, Aaron decided he no longer wanted to wear condoms. “I only want you,” he would say when I mentioned the risk of diseases. He continued, “It’ll be fine.” When I became a woman (as a result of puberty) I was diagnosed with cysts on my ovaries. To keep them from bursting, I was put on birth control. I didn’t give him any more trouble about it. To tell you the truth, he was kind of better at it this way, and I wasn’t going to complain about that. With the new and improved sex, a new and improved sex life followed closely behind.
Aaron and I had sex constantly, or, at least, whenever we could. Some days we would be able to sneak it in before my mother came home from work, or otherwise, in the woods on logs, or once, in a giant pile of gravel in a vacant field. It was a rush. It was good. On May, 6th, however, things changed. That morning Aaron called me. “Hi baby,” he said as I picked up the phone.
“Hi.” I said back
“Are you going to school today?”
“I think I might stay home. I’m not really feeling well.”
“You should come to my house. My parents are leaving soon. You know what that means?”
“No, really. I threw up twice already, once at 3 in the morning and again when I woke up. I think I have the flu somehow.”
“No, that can’t be right. It’s too nice out.” “Well, there’s something wrong. I need to go to the doctor’s.”
“For real?”
“Yes for real. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, I love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
As I told Aaron, I went to the doctor’s, so my mom let me take her car. The doctor’s office was only two blocks away, so it would usually be an easy walk. On this day however, my stomach wasn’t up for it. Although I didn’t have a license, my mother let me take the car. If necessary, she would pick up my prescription when she went to the grocery store later that night.
I got there and the doctor administered the typical flu tests. He then asked for a urine sample, something that he said was required for a girl my age. Twenty minutes later, he walked back into the room with an odd look on his face. “Bad news,” I thought as he looked me over. He sat next to me and took my hand, something that he has never done before. “Am I dying?” I blurted out “
No, not in the least.” He said.
“Well, is everything okay?”
“Not quite, my dear. I have to ask you some questions.”
“Sure,” I said back. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but it didn’t sound good. “How are things at home; how are your relationships?”
“Just fine , I guess. My mother is on my back a lot, but you’ll have that.”
“Yes, at your age that’s typical.” He pushed out the slightest smile before he continued, “I assure you, it’s for good reason.” As he said this, the smile faded. “How are things at school?”
“They’re okay. I always work ahead.” “That’s good. Keep it up. Hard work always pays off.”
“Yes, that’s what mother always tells me.” “She’s a smart woman. Always has been, if my memory stands true.”
“Mhmm,” I replied in a nervous sort of manner. I didn’t know what else to say. What was he getting at?
“How are the boys?”
“They’re fine. I have boyfriend.” I tried to look confident, as if I could take whatever he threw at me.
“Ahhh.” This is when it got a little more PG-13. “So, I assume that’s how you lost your virginity?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. My cheeks drowned in a sea of red. I looked at the ground and tapped my foot heavily against the floor. I felt him looking at me, felt him waiting for some kind of response. Thirty seconds passed; the confidence I tried so hard to build was worn. Finally, after nearly a minute of silence, I spoke, only to end the awkward moment that I was in. “Why do you ask?” “It’s just that the test results told me that you are no longer a virgin. Has this boyfriend of yours been using contraception?”
“Umm...” Once again, I didn’t know what to say. The red was now turning to a deep shade of purple. My hand clenched the arm of the chair, splinters penetrating my skin. Droplets of blood sprinkled onto the floor, like candy from a battered piñata. With my head still down, I raised my eyes to his. There was no smile. “We used to.” “But not anymore?”
“I’m on birth-control.”
“ So, no other precautions?”
“Nope.” I felt stupid now, telling him everything. My eyes lowered to the floor once again. My heartbeat quickened, my breathing speed increased.
“And how often has this been going on?” “About a month,” I said.
“Well, I think I have some news that you likely won’t want to hear.” My eyes stayed fastened to the floor, now focused on the bolt in the middle of the vent. I felt a tear stumble from the corner of my eye, roll down the bridge of my nose, then watched it plummet onto the bright white floors. My body took a sudden state of numbness, my foot stopped tapping; I looked up at him, feeling, knowing what he was going to say. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to hear it at all.
“Am I...” I couldn’t finish the sentence, dreading what the answer would be. This couldn’t be happening... This couldn’t be real. But of course it could. Aaron didn’t want to wear the condoms. I knew I should have made him, knew I should have at least tried, but I didn’t because I was selfish, because it felt good. “
"Yes, you are." He put his hand on my shoulder and looked soothingly into my eyes. I looked back as if I were facing death.
“My mother is going to kill me.” A slight, reassuring grin appeared on his face.
“Don’t think like that. It’s going to be okay.”
He said it was going to be okay, and in many cases, it could be okay. But not for me with my crazy mother, my dead father, or (Now I realize this) my immature boyfriend that spends too much money on fucking RC cars. Me, with my big plans in high-school politics and my athletic prowess on the basketball court. I have everything to lose, and now it is lost. My perfect grades mean nothing; I’ll never graduate now. I, who, just 15 hours ago, before some illness, some creeping, worsening sickness that I now know is a...
And to tell you the truth, Aaron is a dickhead lately. He used to be sweet, but now he’s nothing but an arrogant bastard, bragging about his sexual conquests, bragging to my friends about the cheerleader he supposedly nailed last week. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to mess up what I had; but what did I have but a boyfriend that covers up his cheating with a pathetic, idiotic obsession, with RC cars? He has a job, but no money. He has a brain, with no sense. His mere presence sickens me, and he’s the...
I’m Christi, and I had always dreamt of having a daughter. Now, in a pivotal period in my life, in my development as a person, an athlete, or an intellectual, anything I wanted, really, I’m pregnant. I’m sixteen years old, and having serious doubts about my relationship; looks of kindness and looks of terror all around me, all the time: my mother, his mother, the doctor, teachers, students, my dead father. Each look sent to me a message of “she’s really screwed,” or “you’re a fuck-up.” They were right, I was screwed. There was nothing I could do about it. Then, weeks later, when it all sank in and things were as normal as they could be, I went to the doctor’s office to find out that I was having a son.

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