I got pregnant in tenth grade, and my mother took me to school so everyone could watch me fall. But when the baby’s father denied even knowing me, the envelope the principal was holding began to tremble in her hands. I was fifteen years old, wearing my blue uniform and worn-out shoes, with a positive test hidden inside my math notebook. I had found it at six in the morning, right before my mom screamed that we were already running late. I didn’t eat breakfast that day. That was the day I stopped being a child.
The phone slipped from my hands. My dad picked it up before it hit the floor. He read the message. Once. Twice. Then he looked up at my mom. —“What has Patricia been giving my daughter?” My mom opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The principal stood up. —“Valerie, I need you to come…