See, this abortion is both a big issue and a nonissue for me. Do I regret it? Hell no. Do I feel remorse about it? Fuck yeah. And I blame Turner. I blame him for leaving me alone with a decision I wasn't ready to make at all, let alone by myself. I blame him for seducing me, for preying on my infatuation with him. And the whole condom thing? Yeah, maybe I should of checked, but I was losing my V card to a rock star, and I was not quite seventeen, and he, he was the one that should have taken care of that.
I crush my empty beer can in one hand and toss it into the trash. Seconds later, Blair rescues it and moves it to the recycling bin. I ignore her. I ignore everyone, even America when she starts to bitch about practice and how lax we've all been. Fuck, she should just be glad I'm even functioning at all. Last year, I just laid in bed and watched Indecency music videos. Yup, I'm a glutton for punishment.
I crack the top of my next drink and try not to imagine what it would be like to have a six year old right now. I figure that it'd be just like it is now: a perfect blend of heaven and hell. Life likes to be balanced, you know? Things can't all be rosy and cheerful. I smoke my cigarette and pace back down to the end of the bus, pausing to glance out the windows on either side.
As the highway flashes by in stretches of pavement and metal, I think about how I felt when I pissed on that goddamn stick way back when. Adoption was never an option for me. Call me selfish, but it was my way or the highway. Maybe that's because I know firsthand what it's like to be adopted – or not. If I put someone in this world who had to experience even half the shit I did, I'd never forgive myself. So yeah, I guess I know where Turner's coming from. I wonder then, how he'll feel when he finds out. I want to believe that that arrogant, cocky, son of a bitch will be happy, glad he's free of baggage, but I know otherwise. Turner wanted that kid. Why? I have no fucking clue. To put together a perfect fantasy family? To soothe his own insecurities and shortcomings?
“He should just go knock up one of his groupie bitches,” I whisper under my breath, pressing my forehead to the glass of the window and letting my lashes kiss my reflection. I don't think what I did was wrong: I was seventeen, pregnant, homeless. And my hands were covered in blood, both literally and figuratively.
I killed my foster parents. Both of them. While they were sleeping. Some mother I'd have made.
I think that's what makes this day hurt so much. I lost a possibility, a chance at something different, because I was too damaged to even give it a shot. My birth parents, whoever the shit they were, fucked me; my adoptive parents screwed me; the foster system destroyed me. And Turner? He was just icing on the friggin' cake, baby.
I remind myself that that's why I'm here, why I'm doing this. I came on this tour because I wanted to make a life for myself. I didn't let Turner's presence scare me away then; I won't let it bother me now. I need to do what's right for me, what'll make me feel better, and right now, I just want this secret to go away. I don't want to carry it any longer, and I don't want March 15th to mean a damn thing other than the day I finally broke free of one set of chains.
I check my watch and smile.
Just enough time left to pretty up.
After the police thing with Naomi, I'm even more interested in her. Even coming back to the bus to find that Ronnie and Treyjan had invited a girl into my bed hadn't done it for me. We'd fooled around for a bit, but I didn't fuck her. Told her I was tired and she stormed out after a massive sobbing fit that woke everybody on the damn bus. Fine. Her loss.
I slide some gel through the back of my hair, letting it stick out in all directions – messy, unassuming. But carefully planned. Perfect. Eyeliner goes around my eyes, not enough to look like some kind of emo fuck, but just enough that my eyes are haunted, far away. I change out the stud in my tongue, switch out the piercings on either side of my lip for rings, and slip red plugs into my earlobes.
“Primping for Miss Naomi Knox?” Treyjan asks, leaning around the edge of the door frame and flicking his tongue out at me. His brown hair is sticking straight up and he's got a tie around his neck, but no shirt. Typical Trey. I grin at myself in the mirror and give him a look over my shoulder.
“I might be. What's it to you? You interested?” Treyjan shrugs his shoulder and starts digging around in his jeans pockets for a smoke.
“I wasn't until I saw her running naked across the parking lot the other night. Damn, girl's got a body.” I try to ignore the fact that my hands curl at my sides and the air gets a hell of a lot thicker. I smirk and run my fingers through my hair once last time, just to make sure it's perfect.
“Yeah, we had a bit of a thing,” I tell him, refusing to elaborate. If he knows Naomi and I didn't have sex that night, he doesn't let on.