How to Ruin My Teenage Life by Simone Elkeles Page A

forward. I swear, my mom used to have a body an aerobics instructor would be jealous of. Now … well, let’s just say she’s changed a lot .
    I follow her into the store, silently hoping the salesperson doesn’t mistake me for the customer.
    â€œCan I help you ladies?” the short and perky salesperson asks, looking from my mom to me and back.
    My mom touches her stomach again. “Well, I’m about three months along now and am outgrowing my clothes already.”
    The lady claps her hands together. “Are we looking for casual or business attire … or do you need something for a specific occasion?”
    I’d like to cut the word “we” from the woman’s vocabulary.
    â€œCasual. And business.”
    While the lady shows my mom around the store, I follow in silence. To be honest, though, some of the clothes aren’t too bad. And before long my mom is trying the stuff on, making me go with her into the dressing room.
    On the bench I catch sight of something weird. It’s like a cream-colored pouch with strings coming out of it. “I think someone left something in here,” I tell the saleslady, pointing to the strange object.
    â€œNo, there’s one in every dressing room. It’s to strap to your stomach to make you look five to six months pregnant.”
    I can’t help the giggle that escapes my mouth. My mom shushes me, then closes the dressing room door.
    â€œCan I try it on?” I ask.
    Before my mom can stop me, I pick up my shirt, tie the pouch around my waist, and pull my shirt back down.
    â€œThat’s not really the image I want of my seventeen-year-old daughter,” Mom says, eyeing me rub my tummy like she does.
    I wonder what it would be like to be pregnant. A baby growing inside your body until it can survive on its own. Turning sideways, I check myself out in the mirror. Do I want kids? I mean, I feel sorry for my parents that they have to deal with me. Sometimes I think I’m not normal, that I’m long overdue for a psychotherapist to straighten me out. Then at other times I feel like everyone else is a mashed-potato nutcase and I’m the only sane one.
    Maybe Mom’s banking on this new kid to be the normal one, the one who’s freak-out resistant.
    I stare at my mom’s stomach as she tries on a black and white suit with a stretchy panel in the front of the pants. It makes me realize what a big deal this must be for her. She’s not just getting big; she’s creating another human being, one she’ll be responsible for forever.
    â€œYou can touch my stomach if you want,” she says.
    I do, but I don’t. I remember I used to lay my head on her stomach and laugh as I heard gurgling noises coming from it. Now there’s a baby growing inside there ...
    I guess she senses my hesitation, because she takes my hand and places it on her bulging tummy. “Can you feel it moving?” I ask.
    â€œNot yet.”
    I gaze at my hand on her belly, close to my half brother or sister. As much as I know it’s weird for my mom to have a kid, I’m feeling unusually protective of it right now. I pull my hand away; this is getting a little too weird for me.
    She tries on a big white shirt with an arrow pointing down saying Future Physician . “What do you think?” she asks, holding her arms out wide to give me the full view.
    â€œI think it’s weak sauce.”
    â€œWeak sauce?” she says, scrunching up her face in confusion. “New slang I don’t know about?”
    â€œYou know … same as lame. It’s all about the sauce. If it’s bad sauce, nobody likes it.”
    â€œIs this one lame sauce?”
    I don’t correct her and tell her it’s weak sauce, not lame sauce.
    Now she’s holding out one that says Almost done .
    â€œYou can get it, but I’m not going out with you in public if you’re wearing it. Don’t they have one saying