My Life After Now - By Jessica Verdi Page 0,19

except the other people in the room and the clock.

In the far corner, a frazzled woman in a bad wig was trying to keep her two rugrats occupied. A few chairs over from her was a couple who looked like they frequented the free clinic—the rings of black makeup smudged under her eyes hinted that she hadn’t washed her face in at least a week, and they both had track marks up their arms. They were draped over each other like they were each other’s life force. Over in the far corner was the oldest person in the room by a mile. He had wispy white tufts of hair on his head, he was wearing enormous eyeglasses that he’d probably had since about 1982, and his hands were wrinkled and worn. Definitely not the type of person I would have expected to see in a place like this. And next to me, a skinny pale guy who looked only a couple of years older than I was slouched low in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, the hood of his purple hoodie pulled down over his eyes. His breathing was rhythmic. Was he actually sleeping?

I stuffed my iPod earbuds in my ears. I needed a distraction. The music filled my head, and I began to stage a full-on production of A Chorus Line in my head. It was something I did on long train rides or when my chronic insomnia was holding me prisoner at night. But the moment the opening song’s lyrics kicked in, I suddenly couldn’t turn it off fast enough. The song was called “I Hope I Get It,” of all things. Yeah, not exactly the sentiment I needed in my head right now.

I switched to the more tone-appropriate Les Misérables and glanced up at the numbers on the display for the tenth time in the last minute. They remained stubborn, torturing me, mocking me each time I met their stare. Still serving numbers sixty through sixty-four. I shot them a look of contempt and wrenched my eyes away again—only to realize with horror that the black ink on the slip of paper clutched in my hand had grown blurred and spidery in my sweaty palm. I frantically shook it out, striving to keep it legible. It wasn’t much, but right now this tiny piece of paper held the only information in the world that mattered.

Name: Lucy M.

Age: 16

Number: 68

I smoothed it out and set it on my knee to dry. If I continued clutching onto it in my sweaty hands, it would soon be completely illegible, and Marie had warned me that I wouldn’t be given my results without presenting the paper to the social worker. There was no way in hell I was going to go through all the waiting and questioning and testing again, just so I could get another ticket.

At long last, the digital sign changed. Now serving numbers sixty-five through sixty-eight.

My number was up.

11

This is the Moment

A clinic employee had us line up in a little hallway, in order by number. First in line was the old man, followed by the young guy, the lady and her kids, and me.

A frizzy-haired woman in an out-of-style business suit came out of an office and called the first man inside. They were behind the closed door for less than three minutes, and then he left, relief inscribed across his face. The scene repeated with the young guy. As he left, he grabbed a handful of free condoms from a bin and stuffed them in his pockets. The woman was called in next.

“Could you watch them, please?’

It took me a minute to realize she was talking to me.

“Huh?” I said.

“Could you just keep an eye on my kids while I go in?”

I glanced at the two little boys. One was about four years old and running up and down the hallway, arms out like an airplane, and the other was about two and actively trying to bust out of his stroller. This was so not what I needed right now.

“Uh…” I said, frantically trying to come up with a reason why I couldn’t watch this woman’s kids, but my brain wasn’t working right. “Okay, sure.”

“Great,” she said, and disappeared into the office.

As soon as they realized they’d been left alone with a stranger, the kids stopped their fidgeting and stared, wide-eyed, up at me.

“Um, hi,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “I’m Lucy. What are your names?”

No answer.

“Uh…what’s your favorite color?” I didn’t