Page 116 of Dirty Like Seth
I checked the expiry dates on the boxes, even though I’d already done that. The tests were not expired. I’d followed the instructions. The pink lines stared me in theface.
This time, I did throwup.
Then I tossed the sticks in the garbage and went on with myday.
* * *
Iwasthe last one to arrive at thechurch.
Brody had told us all to expect this day; that Liv and the producers were planning on filming a day of interviews and follow-up with the band, discussing where we were at and making some semi-final decisions about what was going on here. The network seemed to be getting impatient, pushing for us to close the deal on aguitarist.
Meanwhile, Zane, Dylan and I knew we had a different agenda inmind.
When we’d discussed it at the studio, Zane had seemed completely unvexed by the idea of having this discussion—the discussion about Seth—today, on-camera. Dylan had suggested that was a bad idea, and Seth had agreed. Myself, I hadn’t yet decided if the cameras would work in our favor ornot.
But either way, by the time I arrived at the church, following the forty-minute drive to get here… I couldn’t deal with any ofit.
I walked into the beautiful old church, Dirty’s jam space, our sacred rehearsal space, now crawling with film crew, and I almost fellapart.
I could not do this. Not with those pink lines floating in myhead.
I felt borderline hysterical and wondered if there was some kind of hormonal surge at work. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cryfirst.
Instead, I went straight over to the first person in my path, who happened to be Jesse, and said, “We can’t filmthis.”
He turned to me, and the look he gave me pretty much reflected back whatever crazy, wound-up vibe I was giving out. He grabbed my arm, like he thought I might fall over if he didn’t, and said, “Okay. What’swrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. We need to talk toyou.”
His dark eyebrows twisted together. “Whodoes?”
“Zane,” I said. “Where’s Zane?” I started looking around, but the room was a blur of faces I couldn’t make senseof.
It occurred to me, as Jesse suddenly steered me over to a pew and sat me on my ass, that I was very possibly having a panicattack.
I was aware, dimly, of Maggie kneeling in front of me and telling me to put my head down. I did that. I folded over my knees, swallowing back a rush of nausea. I literally bit it back. I squeezed my eyes shut. For a terrifying second, I thought I was gonna projectile all overthem.
I was aware, too, of a bunch of people being cleared out of the room. I heard the big doors at the main entrance shutting and someone throwing the bolt. It was quiet, deathly quiet when my head cleared. I realized the room had been spinning a little, and I opened myeyes.
I was still folded over my knees, staring at my sandals. They were gold. My toenail polish was sparkly turquoise. Next to my feet, I saw Jesse’s Converse, black with white soles and laces. They were clean and new. He’d never worn Chucks before. Not until he metKatie.
I just stared at hisshoes.
I heard them talking over me. Zane and Dylan, explaining what we’d beendoing.
Making music with Seth. The songs he and I hadwritten.
The songs we’d beenrecording.
I heard Maggie, and she seemed to be defendingus.
I heard Brody and I heard Jesse, but I was so detached from what was going on in the room, it didn’t even bother me that they clearly weren’t taking things well. At least, it didn’t bother me more than anything else I was feeling. My guts were roiling; I kept getting this salty rush of saliva in my mouth and swallowing it back, as I breathed in and out, slowly, through my nose, in an even, carefulrhythm.
I wasnotgoing to throwup.
It was just toocliche.
Throwing up at home this morning—that was just nerves. A stress reaction to the results of the pregnancytests.
