The First Time I Lied

# Chapter 1: The Test

The pregnancy test sits on the edge of my bathroom sink, a small plastic oracle waiting to deliver its judgment. Two minutes, the box had said. Two minutes until my entire future either stays on course or veers wildly into territory I'm not prepared to navigate.

I check my phone again: one minute and twenty seconds left.

The bathroom in my off-campus apartment is small, barely enough room to pace, but I do it anyway—three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. The linoleum is cold beneath my bare feet. January in New England doesn't mess around, and the ancient heating system in this building seems to have given up on the bathroom entirely.

One minute left.

My mind races through calculations I've already made a dozen times. My last period was... when? Before winter break, definitely. Before finals. Before Daniel left for his semester abroad in Italy. Before that last night together—the "one last time" that wasn't supposed to have consequences beyond the emotional ones I'd already accepted.

Forty-five seconds.

I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I look terrible—hair piled in a messy bun, dark circles under my eyes from the nights of sleep I've lost to worry. I'm wearing Daniel's old Northwestern journalism camp t-shirt, the one he left behind when he packed for Italy. I hadn't planned to sleep in it; it had just somehow migrated from the "return to him eventually" pile to my regular rotation. Now it feels like a cruel joke, the faded print reading "The Future of Journalism" stretched across my possibly pregnant stomach.

Thirty seconds.

A knock on the bathroom door makes me jump.

"Eliza? Are you almost done in there? I have class in thirty minutes."

My roommate Jessica. I'd forgotten she was even home.

"Just a minute," I call back, trying to keep my voice steady. "Sorry!"

"No worries," she says, footsteps retreating down the hall.

The timer on my phone hits zero, a gentle chime that sounds nothing like the life-altering moment it represents. I take a deep breath and look down at the test.

There's a line. It's faint—so faint I have to squint—but it's there.

Or is it?

I pick up the test, tilting it toward the light from the small window. The instructions said any line, no matter how faint, means pregnant. But this is barely a line at all. More like the ghost of a line. The suggestion of a line.

"Shit," I whisper, setting it down and grabbing the second test from the box. I paid for the two-pack specifically for this scenario. Inconclusive results happen all the time, according to my frantic late-night Googling.

I take the second test with hands that won't stop shaking, then set another two-minute timer. This time I sit on the edge of the bathtub, head in my hands, trying to breathe normally.

If I am pregnant, everything changes. My carefully plotted senior year—the internship applications, the senior project that's supposed to open doors at major publications, graduation in May—all of it gets complicated at best, derailed at worst. And Daniel... Daniel is in Florence for the semester, pursuing his photography passion, completely unaware that our final goodbye might have created something permanent.

The second timer chimes. I look at the new test.

Another ambiguous line. Slightly darker than the first, but still not the definitive result the box promised.

"Eliza, seriously, I need to shower!" Jessica's voice comes through the door again, more insistent this time.

"Coming!" I call back.

I wrap both tests in toilet paper and bury them deep in the trash can, covering them with more paper. I flush the toilet for effect, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face. In the mirror, I practice a neutral expression—not the face of someone who might be carrying a life-changing secret.

When I open the door, Jessica is waiting in the hallway, towel and shower caddy in hand. She looks me up and down.

"You okay? You look kind of pale."

"Just feeling a little sick," I say, the first lie slipping out easily. "Probably something I ate last night."

"That dining hall stir-fry," she nods knowingly. "Always suspicious. Hope you feel better!"

She disappears into the bathroom, and I retreat to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I sink onto my bed, mind racing. The tests were inconclusive. I need to see a doctor, get a blood test. But the campus health center requires appointments for anything beyond urgent care, and they're always booked solid this time of year when winter colds and flu run rampant through the dorms.

I grab my laptop and navigate to the health center's website. The earliest available appointment is three weeks away. Three weeks of not knowing for certain. Three weeks of pretending everything is normal.

My phone buzzes with a text. It's my mother.

*Don't forget—family dinner this weekend! Dad's sister will be there with her new baby. Can't wait to see you! Love you!*

I stare at the message, my stomach churning. The thought of sitting through a family dinner, making small talk while Aunt Cathy passes around her new baby, all while wondering if I might be pregnant myself... I can't do it. I just can't.

I type out a response:

*So sorry, Mom. Just found out I have a major assignment due for Professor Winters that I need to work on all weekend. Can't leave campus. Rain check?*

The lie comes easily, Professor Winters being my journalism mentor and the perfect excuse. My mother knows how important my relationship with her is for future recommendations.

My phone rings almost immediately. Mom's face appears on the screen, her contact photo showing her at my brother Noah's high school graduation last year, both of them smiling widely. I take a deep breath and answer.

"Hey, Mom."

"Eliza, honey! What's this about an assignment? You've known about this dinner for weeks."

I can hear the disappointment in her voice, picture her standing in the kitchen of my childhood home, probably already planning the menu.

"I know, I'm really sorry," I say, infusing my voice with just the right amount of regret and stress. "Professor Winters just announced this special opportunity for the department showcase. It's a big deal for my portfolio, and the deadline is really tight."

"Can't you work on it after the dinner? It's just one day, sweetheart."

I close my eyes, guilt washing over me. But the thought of facing my family right now, with this uncertainty hanging over me, is impossible.

"The journalism lab has special software I need, Mom. And it's only available on weekends when classes aren't using it. I really can't miss this opportunity. You know how competitive these journalism internships are."

There's a pause, and I can almost hear her internal debate—disappointment versus pride in my dedication.

"Well," she finally says, "I suppose your education has to come first. Your father will be disappointed, though. He was looking forward to seeing you."

The guilt twists deeper. "I know. I'm sorry. Tell him I'll make it up to him."

"And you'll miss seeing the baby," she adds. "Cathy says he's growing so fast."

The irony isn't lost on me. I press a hand to my still-flat stomach, wondering.

"I'll see him next time," I say, my voice tight. "Give everyone my love."

After promising to call next week and making vague plans for a future visit, I finally end the call. I sit on my bed, phone in hand, staring at nothing. I don't even know why i lied.

But I can't tell them—or anyone—about this until I know for sure. I can't bear to see the disappointment in their eyes, the recalculation of my potential. My mother had me young, put her own journalism dreams on hold. She's been living vicariously through my career path since I wrote my first story for the middle school paper.

I open my calendar app and mark the date of my doctor's appointment: February 8th, three weeks away. Until then, I need to act normal. Attend classes, work on assignments, apply for internships, maintain friendships. Pretend that everything is proceeding according to plan, that my future isn't potentially being rewritten by a faint line on a plastic stick.

I change out of Daniel's t-shirt, suddenly unable to bear the feel of it against my skin. As I pull on a sweater, my phone buzzes with another text. It's from Mia, my best friend since freshman year:

*Coffee at 2? Need to vent about Professor Harmon's midterm assignment from hell.*

I stare at the message, tempted to make an excuse. But hiding from Mia will only raise questions I'm not ready to answer. She knows me too well.

*Sure. See you at The Grind.*

I send the response, then open a new note on my phone. At the top, I type: "The Story." Below it, I begin listing the lies I've already told and to whom. If I'm going to keep this secret for three weeks, I'll need to keep my stories straight.

As I get ready to face the day, I catch myself resting a hand on my abdomen again. There might be nothing there—just stress and an irregular cycle playing tricks on me. Or there might be everything there, a tiny collection of cells already changing the course of my life.

Either way, I've already started down a path of deception that feels both necessary and dangerous. The first lie was easy. I wonder how many more I'll tell before this is over.

---

The campus coffee shop is crowded when I arrive, students huddled over laptops and textbooks, the buzz of conversation and espresso machines creating a comforting white noise. I spot Mia at our usual table by the window, two cups already in front of her.

"You're a lifesaver," I say, sliding into the chair across from her and reaching for the cup with my name scrawled on it. "How did you beat me here? Didn't you have that meeting with your advisor?"

"Canceled," Mia says, pushing her sleek black hair behind her ear. "Which gave me time to secure prime real estate and caffeination." She gestures around at the packed shop. "You're welcome."

I take a sip of the coffee and nearly choke. It's black, no cream or sugar. Mia always remembers how I take my coffee.

"Something wrong?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

"No, just—went down the wrong way," I lie, taking another sip and trying not to grimace. The bitter taste turns my already unsettled stomach. Is this a pregnancy symptom? Suddenly hating coffee? Or just nerves?

"So," Mia leans forward, "Professor Harmon is trying to kill us all. Fifteen-page comparative analysis due the same week as the econ midterm? I'm convinced he coordinates with other professors specifically to create maximum student suffering."

I nod, trying to focus on her words instead of the nausea rising in my throat. "That's brutal. When's it due?"

"February 10th. Which means I'll be living in the library that entire week." She takes a drink of her own coffee—some complicated concoction topped with whipped cream—and studies me over the rim of her cup. "You look like hell, by the way."

Direct as always. It's what I love about Mia, except in moments like this when I'm trying to hide something.

"Thanks," I say dryly. "Just tired. Working on internship applications."

"Anything promising?"

"The Boston Globe position looks good. And there's that NPR fellowship Professor Winters mentioned."

"You'll get one of them," Mia says with the absolute confidence of someone who's never seen me fail at anything academic. "Probably all of them, and then you'll have to make Sophie's choice between prestigious journalism opportunities while the rest of us beg for entry-level positions that actually pay rent."

I force a laugh, but inside I'm calculating. If I am pregnant, would I even be able to take an internship this summer? Would I be showing by then? Would morning sickness interfere with work? Would anyone want to hire a pregnant intern?

"Earth to Eliza," Mia says, waving a hand in front of my face. "Where did you go just now?"

"Sorry," I say, blinking back to the present. "Just thinking about application deadlines."

Mia narrows her eyes slightly. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem... off."

This is the moment—the perfect opening to tell my best friend what's happening. Mia would know what to do. Mia always knows what to do.

But the words stick in my throat. Saying it out loud would make it real, and I'm not ready for that. Not until I know for sure.

"I'm fine," I say, summoning a more convincing smile. "Just stressed about senior year stuff. You know how it is—the future looming and all that."

"Tell me about it," she sighs, apparently accepting my explanation. "My parents keep asking about my 'career strategy' like I'm supposed to have the next forty years mapped out."

The conversation shifts to safer territory—Mia's overbearing parents, our mutual friend Taylor's disastrous date last weekend, the upcoming department mixer. I manage to participate enough to avoid suspicion, though I barely taste the coffee I force myself to drink.

When we finally part ways an hour later, Mia gives me a quick hug. "Get some sleep, seriously. You look like you're about to collapse."

"I will," I promise, another small lie to add to my growing collection.

Back in my apartment, I find it empty—Jessica has left for her afternoon classes. I head straight to the bathroom, locking the door behind me even though I'm alone. I dig through the trash until I find the wrapped tests, needing to look at them again.

The lines are still faint, still ambiguous. Still terrifying.

I wrap them back up and bury them deeper in the trash, then wash my hands thoroughly. In my bedroom, I open my laptop and create a new document, password protected, titled "Research." Then I begin typing search terms:

"Early pregnancy symptoms"
"How accurate are home pregnancy tests"
"Options for unplanned pregnancy"
"How to tell the father about unplanned pregnancy"

Each search leads to dozens more, a rabbit hole of information and anecdotes and advice. Some of it reassuring, most of it overwhelming. By the time I look up, two hours have passed, and I've learned both too much and not enough.

My phone buzzes with a text from my brother Noah:

*Mom said you're bailing on dinner. Weak excuse, sis. What's really going on?*

Noah is only eighteen, a freshman at Boston University, but he's always been perceptive. Too perceptive.

*Nothing's going on. Really do have a big assignment.*

His response comes quickly:

*Bullshit. But whatever. I'll cover for you.*

I stare at his message, guilt and gratitude mingling. Noah and I have always had each other's backs, especially navigating our parents' expectations after their divorce and subsequent remarriages. But this is something I can't share even with him. Not yet.

*Thanks. I owe you.*

*Yes, you do. Big time.*

I close my laptop, suddenly exhausted despite it being only late afternoon. The weight of uncertainty and deception is already taking its toll, and this is just the beginning. Three weeks until I know for sure. Three weeks of pretending everything is normal while my mind constantly circles back to that faint line and all it might mean.

As I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I rest my hand on my stomach again—a gesture that's already becoming a habit. "Please," I whisper, though I'm not sure if I'm praying for a positive or negative result. I just want to know, to end this limbo of fear and uncertainty.

But certainty is three weeks away, and I've already started building a wall of lies that feels simultaneously like protection and a trap. The first lie was to my mother. How many more will follow? And what happens when the truth—whatever it is—finally emerges?

I close my eyes, trying to quiet my racing thoughts. For now, all I can do is wait, and lie, and hope that when the truth comes, I'll still recognize myself in its reflection.