The Principles of Love by Emily Franklin

Author:Emily Franklin [Unknown]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

nce when I was about ten we had to watch this educational film at school that was supposed to enlighten all of the fourth Oand fifth graders on the dangers of smoking.Old ladies with raspy voices spoke about their emphysema and teenagers talked about having sick parents or not being able to play football because of their decreased lung capacity. Since my dad lost his own mother to lung can-cer, I was well versed in the no-nicotine laws of the Bukowski house, but I watched the movie wondering why they’d chosen what looked to be some tropical resort for filming it.The backdrop of palm trees and tiki huts made the serious subject matter seem surreal. I’m pretty sure there were even cocktails being sipped in the background—pineapple rum blendeds with giraffe-necked straws.Too surreal to make a point.

This vaguely mimics the feeling I have right now, in my tower bedroom with Lila Lawrence, who leans against the wall, sitting right under my black-and-white print of the Paris café I latted at this summer, and to the left of the signed framed sheet music from Joni Mitchell’s “Carey”—a gift from Aunt Mable. When Lila tells me she thinks she’s pregnant, she’s like a small, balled-up version of herself surrounded by my room props. No tropical drinks, just books and the hum of my computer, and the empty-tabled image of the deserted café above her.

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E M I LY F R A N K L I N

“I mean,” she says, sweeping a stray hair back and tucking it into the elastic, “I’m on the pill, and this is just not normal.”

“Is that why you were late coming back to school?” I ask, and regret my word choice. Note to self: For now, avoid words such as late, missed, and period.

“I just kept thinking that if I stayed home and chilled out, you know, relaxed—they say stress can make you late—then I’d wake up and find . . .” She puts her face into her palms, and I can tell by the way her shoulders shake that she’s crying.

“Lila . . .”

“No—you don’t have to say anything,” she says. “I know you’re probably like, ‘How could she be so fucking stupid and get herself in this position in the first place?’ ”

I sit next to her on the floor. “No, not at all. I don’t think you’re dumb.” I mean, mistakes happen—and maybe we’d all like to think we’re above it—me with my little driving excursions for example, but the twists and pitfalls of life have a way of pointing out your derelict mishaps.Your absentmindedness—or your sexual laissez-faire attitude.

“I’m totally being punished,” she says. “That’s how I feel.”

I so want to ask if she means by the God of her choosing or by her own body or by Robinson—and hey, does he even know? I think about the fact that an hour ago I was covered by his jacket, windblown, and dreaming of kisses, and feel like I’m going to puke.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, meaning more than Lila can know at this point.

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