Make It Like It Was
by J. R. Miller
I.
You didn’t want to stop, not this time. You thought, “Just this once.” You thought, “It’ll be okay.” When it was over, you lay in a tangle of arms and legs and the fear crept in. As the days passed, your fear became panic. When she told you over the phone that she was late, you threw up in the trashcan by your bed. She tried to convince you not to worry. She said, “I’ve been late before.” But you could tell she was a little scared, too. “What if?” you asked. She didn’t answer. You started to think about all the money you’d need for rent, because you knew you couldn’t live in your dad’s house forever. And you’d need money for food, for diapers, for a crib. You would need a new job, one that paid better than minimum wage. Or.
You looked in the Yellow Pages for a place—a clinic—that might help. You ripped the page out of the book and tucked it in your wallet, just in case. You stopped sleeping at night, you sat in your bedroom, smoking and watching TV with no sound—for nearly a week—until she finally bled.
II.
We—me and Aaron—could always find trouble and that day the trouble was big. After we shot up his basement with a BB gun, we wanted to shoot more. So we took his gun to the woods. The thing is, we didn’t clean up our mess.
The next morning, Aaron’s mom went downstairs to get the laundry. She found the black record splinters of AC/DC, of The Doors, of The Rolling Stones cast about like confetti. She found war-wounded chunks of trophy men and trophy women. And she found her solid glass car statue more than shattered—the shards of glass covering the floor in an icy fallout.
I heard Aaron’s dad yelling before I reached the door. “What the fuck were you thinking?” The window rattled as his voice thundered. “You are going to pay for this shit. Every goddamn cent of it. Do you hear me?”
I froze on the porch. I wanted to knock on the door—try to save Aaron—but I was afraid.
“I’ve had it,” he yelled. “For the last eleven goddamn years I’ve been paying the price for you. And I am done.”
I jumped off the porch and rode my bike home.
III.
Sarah’s mom cried a lot. Sarah’s mom drank a lot. Sarah’s mom said mean things to Sarah—a lot. Crying, she said, “Men are bastards and don’t you forget it.” Drunk, she said, “He blamed me . . . he wouldn’t even give me money for an abortion.” Drunk and crying, she said, “That man ru-ined my life.”