he held the snowboard’s end in one hand as he hung up the phone. she was pregnant. there was no doubt in his mind. how she’d begged him to come to the clinic with her. and he’d told her yes without a rationalizing thought. it was his baby, his responsibility. he could not escape the reality of the situation — he had become a statistic.

he buried his perspiring face in his moist, shaky hands and attempted to muster up even a slight ounce of serenity. how could this be happening to him? he was two seconds away from jumping on a bus with his pals and taking off for a carefree snowboarding weekend up at the mountain. he’d told them that he’d have nothing stand in his way. but then came her call.

it was just one impulsive night. just that one act of laziness and refusing to pull the trojan from his jacket that had been haphazardly cast onto the carpeted floor of his bedroom. even then, he remembered where it lay idly. it was one moment that he could have prevented if not for his damn testosterone. he searched for excuses that would help him feel better about the situation. there were none. sure, he’d complained to his parents about wanting more say and more responsibility. this wasn’t at all close to what he had desired.

he dropped the snowboard to the floor and peeled off his winter coat. he had to meet her at the clinic in ten minutes. there was no other choice. he grabbed the car keys from the top of his dresser and slowly reached for the doorknob. he shut his eyes tightly. he did not want to believe what was acutally occuring, not to his friend or to that guy from melrose place where everyone had sex with everyone. it was happening to him.

he glanced down at his snowboard — liberty, spontaneity, and youth — then to his car keys — drudgery, duties, and maturity — and breathed deeply. he threw the keys back on top of the dresser and pulled his coat on once again. in one swift movement, he grabbed the snowboard from the floor and was out of his house fleetly to meet his friends on the bus.

“fucking coward,” he told himself. he pulled on his wool toque, careful to shield his face from the harsh freeze of growing up in a realistic setting, but succeeded only in obscuring the timid yellowish hue that seemed to devour his face without fail.

and back at home, a scared young girl called yet again to see how long he would take to get there.