“You’ve been spoiled. Most working moms don’t get to wear their babies to work. You can’t wear her to a birth. So just go before the baby arrives without you.”
Reese had been so spoiled that way. She looked like a woman from Ghana wearing Aiden and now Claire to work … magically tied to her with some long piece of material. And that worked for clinic days when no one was in labor.
After she kissed Claire, she hovered over my face, surrendering enough of her pouty demeanor to offer me a tiny grin because she knew I was right.
“She won’t take a pacifier, so don’t even try.”
“I know.” I smiled. “She’s like her dad … only the real deal will satisfy her.”
I managed to squeeze a bigger smile from her as she rolled her eyes.
“Are you going to kiss me?”
She slowly rubbed her lips together, teasing me as usual. “I’m thinking about it.”
The End
Preview of Transcend
Chapter One
Nevaeh. It’s Heaven spelled backwards and the name of the girl to my right with her finger five stories up her nose. I grimace while readjusting in my chair. It has nothing to do with her disgusting habit. One of the wings to my pad is stuck to my pubic hair. Mom worries about tampons and toxic shock syndrome. It can’t be more painful than this.
The receptionist keeps glancing at us through her owlish glasses, tapping the end of her pen on her chin. “Nevaeh, do you need a tissue?” she asks.
My parents are not the weirdest parents in the world after all. Lucky me.
Roy.
Doris.
Cherish.
Wayne.
With over ten thousand baby names in the average name book, how does one settle on such horrible names?
Backwards Heaven glances over at me as if I have the answer to the receptionist’s question. I’m not the tip of her finger. 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.
Without moving her finger, because it might be stuck, Nevaeh mimics my nod. The receptionist holds out a box of tissues. They both stare at me. When did I get put on booger duty?
“Swayze, do you need to go potty before we leave?” Mom asks, coming out of the office where I took my tests.
Swayze. That’s me. Worst name ever—until five minutes ago when Nevaeh introduced herself and offered me a gluten-free, peanut-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, taste-free snack from her BPA-free backpack. My uncle thinks the millennials are going to ruin the world because they have no common sense, and all of their knowledge comes from the internet. He may be right, only time will tell, but then what’s my parents’ excuse? Or Nevaeh’s parents’ excuse? Common sense says you give your child a good solid name. Kids don’t want to be unique. It’s true. We just want to fit in.
I grab the box of tissues and toss it on my empty chair, turning before Nevaeh’s finger slides out. Some things I don’t need to know, like why it smells like cherry vomit in the waiting room, why there is a water dispenser but no cups, and what’s up Nevaeh’s right nostril.
“Restroom,” I mumble, tracing the toe of my shoe over the red and white geometric patterns of the carpet.
“We can’t hear you when you talk to your feet, Swayze,” Dad says like he’s said it a million times. Maybe he has.
I lift my head up. “No, I don’t need to use the restroom! Or potty. Do I still look four to you?”