“Swayze, do you need to go potty before we leave?” Mom asks, coming out of the office where I took my tests.
The receptionist holds out a box of tissues. Without moving her finger, because it might be stuck, Nevaeh mimics my nod. How am I supposed to know what it feels like up there? After inspecting her size-smaller than me-and her yellow hair in a hundred different lengths that looks like something my mom calls a DIY, I give the receptionist a small nod. With over ten thousand baby names in the average name book, how does one settle on such horrible names?īackwards Heaven glances over at me as if I have the answer to the receptionist’s question.
My parents are not the weirdest parents in the world after all. “Nevaeh, do you need a tissue?” she asks. The receptionist keeps glancing at us through her owlish glasses, tapping the end of her pen on her chin. Mom worries about tampons and toxic shock syndrome.
One of the wings to my pad is stuck to my pubic hair. It has nothing to do with her disgusting habit. It’s Heaven spelled backwards and the name of the girl to my right with her finger five stories up her nose.
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