I stared at the sea of faces on the front of the pamphlet. It was pale to dark, left to right, diversity accounted for with white, Latina, Asian and black girls. All smiled. All were transposed over a black silhouette of a girl’s body with a baby bump. Words like “friendship” and “support” and “resources” were in big pink block letters. It was inspiration porn, preggo-style.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I pushed the pamphlet back her way.

She frowned. “It’s worth considering, Sara. The reality is, you’re in a high-risk demographic, and I know your classmates finding out will challenge you for at least the foreseeable future. The teens in this program will know what you’re going through. The counselors talk to girls like you every day—”

Bitterness flooded my mouth. It was like she’d grabbed my jaw, unhinged it and poured lemon juice straight into my face hole. “Oh, really? Girls like me? I have an almost perfect GPA. Are my SAT scores the best in the school, or top two or three? I had five Ivy League schools on my wish list and a good chance of getting into a couple of them. So are they really like me? Really? Because I’m betting there are some distinct differences that matter.”

Mrs. Wong hesitated a moment before speaking. “Sara.”

“Yes?”

“I mean no disrespect, of course, but—” she sighed and shook her head “—this class isn’t about GPAs or Ivy League or anything to do with your privileges. You’re all young people who are very likely not prepared—emotionally or financially—to bring a child into the world. You need to make a plan. Maybe focus less on what makes you different from the other pregnant students and look at what makes you similar.”

Privileges.

She actually said that.

...and she’s not wrong. I’m no better than anyone else.

The tears I’d promised myself I wouldn’t shed rained hot against my cool cheeks. It was too much—Leaf’s betrayal, Aaron and Jack the stranger, my own stupid choices. And now? Mrs. Wong pointing out in a very polite, roundabout way that I sounded like a spoiled, self-inflated brat. I jerked my head away so I didn’t have to look at my counselor’s pity face. She said nothing, just slid a box of Kleenex my way.

“I’ll talk to your mother. We’ll make a plan, the three of us. I want to help in any way I can,” she finally settled on. She pulled the pamphlet away and tucked it into her desk drawer without another word.

“What is wrong? You look like someone punched you. They didn’t, did they? If they did, you punch back.”