The mystery/crisis/apocalypse reached critical mass one morning last spring. My bus turned onto the road leading to the school, and there was a city cop directing traffic with one of those Slow/Stop signs you flip when part of the road’s blocked and cars coming from both directions gotta use the same lane. Usually it’s because of road work, or a breakdown, or a storm knocking down a tree. That day it was news crews from Richmond.

All of the major networks sent blimp-like vans parked half on the road, half on the shoulder, with satellite arms stretched high. Reporters in suits held their big lollipop mics before bulky cameras wielded by bulkier cameramen.

We nearly tipped the bus when everyone rushed the side closest to the cameras to see what was up. Of course, we got no direct info. During homeroom, Terrier announced that we should not let the media disrupt our school day, and though he couldn’t make us avoid the reporters once we were off school grounds, we should consult our parents before wah-wanh-wah-wah . . .

It took all of five seconds for people to get the scoop on their phones. When we did, it was a letdown, because it wasn’t news to us.

The word was a bunch of girls made a strange, strange pact to get pregnant because of their music, or something they saw on TV, or video games. The word was some epic unknown threat had come to Green Creek and corrupted the minds of the youth in one of Virginia’s most peaceful towns. What else might the kids be plotting? The horror! Dun-Dun-Dunnnnh!

That word was trash. I’d never heard a song, or seen a movie, that made me make a baby. And, what senior’s conspiring on anything with a freshman?

If they wanted the truth, they should’ve asked Freya. That was the name of the out-of-nowhere freak blizzard that blanketed our part of the state in snow last October. School got shut down for a week. But parents still had to go to work. A lot of boredom set in. It was that simple.

When Cressie was still at home, we tripped out about how wild the stories got. How it became about everything but time and opportunity.

My sister said, “Sometimes I think simple hurts worse. So people make stuff complicated because there’s more ways to toss around blame.”

The news, and on some level, I think, our town, liked the pact angle most, though. Enough to run with it for the better part of a week, throwing “alleged” in front of it, until they managed to get class clown Kent Oster on camera.

Reporter: “Young man, do you know anything about the alleged pregnancy pact that took place at your school?”

Kent: “Pact? Oh, you mean The Baby-Getters Club?”

That’s how Green Creek became the home of The Baby-Getters Club.

We weren’t great in sports. Our academic ratings were middling. Graduation rate was only slightly above average. But, where Green Creek reigned was highest per capita teen pregnancy rate in the state of Virginia. So, we were the best at something. Go team!