"I don’t feel good. Can I go to the nurse’s office?" "Yes," said my teacher. I slowly walked to the nurse’s office, holding the hallway pass, an old piece of wood with the word "Pass" and our homeroom number "102," carved into it. The hallway was hushed and chilly. I knocked on the school nurse’s door. "Come in," she said. She offered me a seat. "I’m not feeling well." I said. She pulled a form from her draw then asked me a series of questions. "Did you eat breakfast this morning?" "No." "Did you eat anything last night that might have upset your stomach?" "No." "What do you think is wrong?" "I think I’m pregnant." I lied. I had never had sex. But I liked talking to her. The only time anyone gave me attention was when I was misbehaving. So I misbehaved a lot. I was thirteen. So she asked me what I understood about the birds and the bees. After which she said, "I’m going to have to call your mother." This was going too far, I thought. But I couldn’t tell the nurse I was lying. She might not want to talk to me anymore. I was worried as I walked home. It was the one time I wished my mother wasn’t home. My mother opened the door. She said, "I’m gonna take you to the hospital to get a pregnancy test." That was all she said. She didn’t even ask me who I had had sex with. The next day we sat in the hospital waiting room. My mother still hadn’t talked to me. The doctor called my name, "Talia Wright." I went into the exam room by myself. My mother stayed in the waiting area. The doctor talked with me. I answered all his questions. I was in a daze. I didn’t understand why my mother didn’t care.