Right this very minute, my mother is downstairs researching thong underwear. Or, more specifically, proper thong-wearing techniques. She’s making all sorts of notes, like “for maximum appeal, let the top of the thong peek out above your skirt” and “guys find red thongs way ier than black.”

In a word: ewww.

Mothers aren’t supposed to know about things like thong underwear. They’re supposed to wear granny and leave it at that. But not my mom. Nope, my mom had to go and become the new columnist for the St. Louis Observer.

I know this is a big career break for her and all. My mom’s a journalist, and she’s spent the past decade reporting on boring stuff like the shortage of garbage cans at Busch Memorial Stadium, or a city council member spending tax dollars to buy himself a new toupee.  So I can kinda understand her wanting to branch out. But did she have to pick this particular branch? Couldn’t she write about the latest Washington scandals or something? Instead, she’s brushing up on all sorts of disturbing topics, like Miracle bras, condoms that are “ribbed for her pleasure,” and-oh my God, I can’t even believe I’m about to say this—s.  

It’s a nightmare! Mom’s new career venture is going to make me the laughing stock of Copperfield High—or Cop-a-Feel High, if you want to know what all the “cool” kids call it. Not that I’m one of the cool kids. Not by a long shot. Between my ridiculously skinny chicken legs, pale skin and so-flat-it’s-practically-sunken chest, I’m not exactly the most stunning girl in school. And now Mom had to go and put the final nail in the coffin.

Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate it.

My best friend, Park Inyoung, thinks I’m totally overreacting. “This is so not a big deal, Heejoon,” she told me when I broke the news to her earlier today. We were sharing an enormous ranch chicken sandwich from Quiznos, which we do every Friday after school. It’s sort of our start-the-weekend-off-right tradition. We go shopping at Union Station (which is this train station from the 1800s that’s been converted into a shopping mall) and then we stop at the food court for an early dinner.

“It’s not like this is the 1950s,” she continued, taking a long, slow slurp from her Dr Pepper. “Everybody talks about these days. What do you care if your mom’s writing a column on it?”

That’s easy for Inyoung to say. She and her mom have this total Lorelai/Rory Gilmore relationship going. They plan all these cozy girls’ nights together where they sit around eating nachos and watching The O.C. As a matter of fact, when Inyoung went to second base with Lee Byunghun in the chemistry lab last fall, she actually told her mom about it before she called me! Naturally, I am thoroughly jealous, Inyoung’s family (which is basically just her and her mom) is amazingly cool. Nothing like my whack-job parents.

I mean, seriously, my family is way weird. Not only is my mom a—gulp— columnist, but my dad’s a secret agent for the FBI. Very few people know this, though. In fact, most of my friends think Dad sells car insurance. Technically, his undercover agent status can be revealed only on a “need-to-know basis.” But, seeing how Inyoung’s my best friend, I figure she should be in the loop.

“You’re so lucky,” she always says. “Must be nice having James Bond for a father.”

Sadly, my dad looks more like Dr. Phil than 007. And it’s not like he’s out hunting down international villains or anything. He spends most of his days filling out paperwork and staking out suspected criminals’ houses and stuff. It makes for long hours and, to hear Dad talk about it, it’s excruciatingly dull.

“Like watching paint dry,” he told me once. “You just sit and stare for hours on end and absolutely nothing happens.”

Every now and then Dad will get called away “on duty.” Usually, it’s only for a week or two, but right now, he’s been on some mysterious assignment for six weeks. He never tells us much about where he’s going or what he’s doing. I do know  (because I overheard Dad talking on his super-jumbo-encrypted cell phone one time) that he sometimes helps witnesses who are getting ready to testify. He doesn’t have much to do with the actual Witness Protection Program (that’s handled by the U.S. Marshals), but he helps protect witnesses at first before they get relocated. Dad catches them are that weird in-between stage when they’re hiding out but haven’t yet assumed a whole new identity.

I stand up from my bed and walk downstairs in search of Mom. I’m going over to Inyoung’s in a little while, and I want to know if I can take Mom’s straightening iron. We’re planning to give ourselves hair makeovers tonight and I want to be prepared.

Predictably, Mom’s still hunched over the computer, hard at work on her thong investigation. “Heejoon,” she mumbles when I enter the room. “You’re just the person I wanted to see. Do you have a second?”

I shrug. “Inyoung’s mom is picking me up in half an hour,” I say. “But I’m free until then.”

“You’re going to Inyoung’s tonight?” she asks absentmindedly.

I nod. “Yeah, don’t you remember?” Mom’s been a real space case for the past few days.

She pauses for a long time, and I halfway expect she’ll tell me I can’t go. “Ah, okay,” she says finally. “I’ve been so preoccupied with this column and then with your dad being gone so long, I guess I must have forgotten.” She smiles. ‘Sit down, honey. There’s something important I’d like to talk to you about.”

Uh-oh. I decide to forget about the straightening iron and make a run for it as soon as possible. Mom has one of those my-baby-is-growing-up-so-fast looks on her face, which is never a good sign. And then I notice a book called Teen : The Shocking Statistics sitting next to her computer. Which is pretty laughable. I mean, if mom wants to have “the talk” with me, she’s a little late. I’m sixteen, after all. I’ve known about since I was eleven. Reluctantly, I sink down onto the couch and brace myself for the worst.

“Let’s just talk for a minute, you and me,” she says, inching her chair closer.

“Ohhh-kay,” I saw, drawing it out. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Since I started working as a relationship columnist, my eyes have been opened to a variety of topics.” Relationship columnist? Who is she kidding? The title of her column is Marks the Spot. Pretty to the point, don’t you think?

“Everything all right?” Mom asks, as I attempt to stifle a giggle.

“Sure, I’m fine,” I tell her, putting on a serious expression. “Anyway, what were you saying?”

“Right,” she continues. “Because of my new position as relationship columnist for the Observer, I’ve been given several topics to report on. The first, as you may know, is lingerie.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You’re writing about thongs.”

She blushes slightly. I still don’t know how my mild-mannered mother is ever going to have the guts to do the right job right. There’s no way she’ll be able to push the envelope very far. And thank God for that!

“That’s true,” she admits. “And to be honest, I’m a little put off by this particular topic. But next week’s column is going to be much more interesting. Have I told you what it’s about?”

Here it comes, I think, bracing for the worst. “No, mom, I don’t think you have.”

“I’m writing about teenagers having ,” she blurts.

I think she expects me to be shocked, but I just shrug.

“Do you know enough about this topic, honey?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.

I jump in surprise. I’m starting to panic a little bit. What if she’s been listening in on my phone calls with Inyoung? I mean, it’s not like all we do is chat about , but the topic does come up from time to time.

“I’m not asking for personal experience, of course,” Mom says. “But maybe your friends are having or are involved in, you know, heavy petting or other ual activities. It’s natural for teens to experiment, of course.”

“Heavy petting?” I groan. I know what she’s talking about, of course, but I’ve never heard it called that before. It sounds so positively retro.

“Not that I’m talking about you necessarily, of course.” She pauses. “But perhaps your friends are ually active. Perhaps you have some, er, questions you’d like to answered.”

I am now thoroughly humiliated. Is she implying that I am having ?

I am so not having .

“I want you to know you can always come to me, no matter what. And I would never use your name in my column, of course!”

“Of course,” I mutter. I don’t know what to make of this conversation—or my newly enlightened Mom. What kind of questions does she want me to ask? I may be a , but I’m not totally inexperienced. I mean, hello! I did have a boyfriend for four-and-a-half months. (Although, for some bizarre reason, Mom and Dad seem to think my ex-boyfriend, Henry, is a totally saint. I guess all his “yes, sirs” disguised the fact that he’s a major horndog.)

“Look, Mom, I’d love to help you out here, but there’s nothing I could add to your story. I’m just an innocent sixteen-year-old girl, remember? I mean, ? What’s that all about? I barely even know it exists.”

I’m being a smart , but I don’t really care. This whole conversation is totally patronizing. What does Mom expect me to do? Hand over a list with the names of the girls and guys in my class who are getting some? Tell her about my own experiences? As if. She sighs her big, deep, you’re-really-working-my-nerves-sigh. “Heejoon...” she begins.

I tap my watch. “Hey, I’ve gotta get ready to leave. Inyoung’ll be here in like fifteen minutes and I haven’t even packed yet.”

“Since when does it take you longer than five minutes to pack?” Mom asks. She breaks into a wide grin. “They could make a movie about you: Packed in Sixty Seconds.”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, cringing at her ridiculous joke. Can you see why this woman should not be writing a column? “Unfortunately, though, I look nothing like Angelina Jolie.”

“Heejoon, how can you say that? You’re very pretty!”

Oh no, she’s starting in with the Mom compliments. “Well, I’d better go throw some junk in an overnight bag,” I say, cutting the conversation short.

Mom looks like she’s about to object when the phone rings. She glances at the caller ID, then begins shooing me out of the room. “It’s Dad,” she practically squeals. My dad has been gone on assignment for so long that it’s become a big event whenever he is able to call.

“Can I talk to him?” I ask, hovering over her. Normally, I wouldn’t be so eager, but it feels like Dad’s been gone for a lifetime.

Mom ignores my plea and ushers me out of the room. I stop just on the other side of the door and attempt to eavesdrop. “Honey!” Mom says in an excited whisper as she answers the phone. I really have to strain to hear her end of the conversation. For some unknown reason, my mom always whispers whenever she talks to Dad on the phone. It’s like she thinks the FBI has our line bugged or something.

“I miss you, too.” There are a few minutes of silence, then I hear Mom go, “Heejoon’s fine. . . tried to talk to her about this earlier. . . I know, but these kids today are ually active at a really young age. . . No, of course I haven’t talked to Dr. Gifford about. . . Kibum, don’t start with me!”

I dart upstairs before I hear any more. Dr. Gifford is Mom’s ob-gyn. The last thing I want is for her to get any bright idea about making me go in for my first gyno exam.

Back in my room, I begin shoving clothes and underwear into my overnight bag. I quickly finish packing and then head back downstairs to wait for Inyoung. I’m surprised to find Mom crying softly in the living room. I knock on the door and then quietly let myself in.

“You okay, Mom?” I ask, perching of the edge of the couch. She’s no longer on the phone with Dad, and her face is all tearstained and red. I hope they weren’t fighting about me.

“I’m fine, honey. It’s very tough with your dad being so far away.” She smiles. “But I do have good news. He’ll be coming home really soon—maybe even this weekend!”

I immediately brighten. “Really? Dad’s coming home?”

“Well, it’s difficult to explain,” she begins, then stops. She looks like she wants to break something to me gently, but doesn’t know how. She stands there stalling for a good minute, and the Inyoung’s mom pulls into the driveway and taps the car horn. “There’s a slight complication.”

“What kind of a complication?” I ask, ignoring the honk. And then, just to be cheeky, I break into the chorus of that Avril Lavigne song “Complicated.”

Mom shakes her head. “You know what, don’t worry about it. Really.” She stands up and gives me a hug.

I’m totally baffled by her behaviour. She’s acting all menopausal or something. “But just a second ago you said—“

She shrugs it off. “Forget what I said. Just go out and have a good time with Inyoung. We’ll sort everything out tomorrow.”

I start to ask her what she means by “sort everything out” when I feel her hand on my arm, pulling me up off the couch. A second later, she’s opening the door and waving at Mrs. Park.

“Look, Heejoon,” Mom says, wrapping her arms around me for another hug. What is this, a Lifetime Television for Women movie? Why’s she getting all touchy-feely?  “What I was trying to say earlier is that I just want you to be prepared for change. I’m not one hundred percent sure about this, but I think our household may become a little more crowded. At first I was concerned, but I think you’re mature enough to handle this.”

Before I can respond, she gives me a firm push out the door. I stand there like a deer in the headlights, trying to absorb the weight of what she’s saying. I feel pretty silly seeing as how I am literally trapped in the headlights of Mrs. Park’s 2004 Saturn.

“Bye, honey,” Mom says, slowly shutting the door in my face. I turn and hurry down the path. With shaky legs, I climb into the backseat of the Parks’ car.

“Hey, Heejoon!” Mrs. Park says, smiling brightly. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say stiffly. Inyoung swings around in the front seat and eyes me. She can tell something’s up.

“What’s going on?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. I put my finger to my lips, but she presses on. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head and motion for her to zip it. A terrible, awful suspicion is creeping its way into my mind. I try to push it out, but I can’t.

“Seriously, you look ghostly pale!” Inyoung continues.

Can she not take a hint? I rest my elbow on the car window and the casually lean forward until my nose is peeking through the tiny crack between Inyoung’s seat and the door. “We’ll talk about it later!” I hiss. The car lurches unexpectedly, and my head bangs hard against the back of Inyoung’s seat.

“Ouch!” I yell, rubbing my fingers against my sore noggin. It that Inyoung doesn’t have her driver’s license yet (she’s not taking driver’s ed until next semester) because then she could have picked me up alone. I have an intermediate license, which basically means I can drive wherever I want, just so long as I’m off the street by one a.m. (in Missouri you can’t get a full license until you’re eighteen.) A lot of good it does me, since my mom never lets me take the car without her or my dad.

“Heejoon, hon, put your seat belt on,” Mrs. Park reminds me. “Safety first,” she chirps ironically.

Numbly, I go through the motions, fastening my seat belt into place. I don’t want to say anything about my suspicious in front of Mrs. Park, though. I don’t care how cool she is, she’d probably grab her cell phone and call my mom immediately. She’d say she wanted to “get to the root of the problem,” when, really, it would be little more than nosiness. Deep down, parents are all alike.

Inyoung keeps turning around and giving me funny looks. And I can barely keep still because I’m going crazy inside! This is too strange for words.

The crying. The mood swings. The way Mom practically shoved me out of the room when Dad called so she could speak to him in private. Her words flash through my head. No, of course, I haven’t talked to Dr. Gifford about. . . Our household may become a little more crowded. . .

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. There’s only one thing this can mean.

My mother’s pregnant!

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The first chapter is up! Enjoy and don't forget to leave a comment! ^^

Updated on: 11:23am, 21.11.2011