Thirty-four weeks into her pregnancy, Grace felt like a planet with stretch marks and swollen ankles. Dirty looks and snide insults uttered in hushed tones had been replaced with outright rubbernecking and really loud cheap shots: “Nice abs, Warren!” and “Beep! Beep! Beep!” like the sound of a truck backing up. Nobody thought it was bullying because getting pregnant wasn’t like having a stutter or a lazy eye — getting knocked up had been Grace’s own fault. She had gotten herself into this fix, and now she had to stand there and take it. When she walked down the hall, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, everyone wanting to get a good look but no one wanting to touch her, like they thought that pregnancy was contagious. Knocking frantically on Mrs. Evans’s office door, Grace tried to keep herself from hyperventilating. Her heart was racing after navigating the hallway of condemnation. Not that the taunting had been any different yesterday or the week before, but the straw had broken the camel’s back, and she couldn’t take it for another minute.
