Whoops

By Mandy McNamara

About Whoops
Of all nights to get accidentally pregnant, Melissa had to get pregnant on election night 2016. On top of facing the reality of a government and a culture that’s hostile to her as a young, unwed Black mother, she has to wade through the murky waters of pregnancy, dealing with a reluctant father, resolving her white mother’s Catholicism with her own beliefs, and learning to accept support from the family she’s chosen.

About Bryant Street Shorts
Bryant Street Shorts is a new publisher specializing in exciting short-form fiction from talented and emerging writers. We’re passionate about creating immersive works that represent our readers and celebrate what matters to them, which is why our catalog of stories reflects a wide range of experiences and voices.
Many Bryant Street Shorts are collections of stories that follow ensembles of characters across multiple storylines. We suggest reading these stories in order to get the most out of your experience. Simply scroll down to “Titles In This Series,” located just below the description of every Bryant Street Short, to find the stories in their correct order.
To find more short stories and novellas on Scribd, simply search for “Bryant Street Shorts."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781094410562

Mandy McNamara

Mandy McNamara was the bassist of the legendary riot grrl band Tampoff. She lives in Indianapolis with her husband, boyfriend, and three ghosts, not a single one of which is a succubus.

Book preview

Chapter One: Election Night

Melissa’s friends were staring at the TV in disbelief. She’d chosen a seat to the side of the room, because she was less interested in watching the election results roll in than she was in rubbing it in when her friends realized how wrong they’d been.

Alexis started crying, head in hands. Nicki immediately started rubbing her back. Hey, hey, Nicki said. Hey, it’s not over yet. Maybe she’ll still win.

She’s not gonna win! Alexis said.

And Alexis was right. Hillary Clinton was not going to win.

They’d gathered in Chelsea’s downtown Milwaukee high-rise condo for election night. Everyone had been in a celebratory mood at the start of the evening except for Melissa, who’d been warning them for weeks that they only needed to drive an hour north, or, for that matter, pay attention to Twitter or the news, to understand how fucked Hillary’s campaign was. Melissa’s family was divided in half on the election: her dad’s black family in Atlanta was underwhelmed by Clinton but reluctantly voted for her, while her mom’s white Appalachian Catholic relatives in Kentucky and West Virginia had initially pretended to clutch their pearls over Trump’s numerous red flags before finally settling in to the excuse that they couldn’t vote to kill babies.

A lot of Melissa’s friends in the condo had come from families deeply embedded in Milwaukee, Madison, and Chicago, with the exception of Ben, who was from Detroit. So maybe their optimism for the Democrats’ chances was just about that, about not even really having family that disagreed with them. But Melissa had a hunch that it’d also had to do with the fact that she was the only person in the room who wasn’t white. Saniyya — Just call me Sunny, she always told people — had been invited, but declined. I’m not going to be the token black, Melissa, but you do you, she said. Melissa couldn’t even bribe her with beer, since Sunny didn’t drink.

Nora started to hyperventilate, leaning against Chelsea’s granite counter. I think I’m gonna have a panic attack, guys, she said.

Nora had not made it out to vote, claiming that she’d been totally slammed during early voting and then just missed the polling place before it closed. She had shown up to Chelsea’s apartment with a Panera bag, though.

Fucking Nate Silver! Morgan said.

I told you Nate Silver’s a hack, Melissa said. He’s not even going to apologize for this, trust me. You all rail on white men all the time; why’d you trust this one?

Fuck you, Melissa, Morgan shot back. "How can you be so smug about this? Are you happy that Trump won?"

Melissa rolled her eyes.

Hey, let’s calm down, Aaron said from the back of the room. The women had overtaken Chelsea and Matt’s big leather sectional, leaving the guys to mill around the kitchen, mostly.

Fuck you too, Aaron. I don’t need another white guy telling me I’m being hysterical, Morgan said.

Aaron put his hands up and shut the fuck up.

Morgan, am I supposed to be surprised? Melissa asked. I’m sorry you’re disappointed. Maybe you should’ve started paying attention earlier. Welcome to reality for everyone else.

God, I’m gonna miss the Obamas so much, Nora said, holding her stomach like she was going to throw up.

You need some ginger or something, Nora? Melissa asked.

Nora just groaned in response.

Melissa rolled her eyes and got up, grabbing her jacket and excusing herself to the balcony. From there, she could listen to other election parties either celebrating or mourning, looking out at Lake Michigan over Veterans Park. This condo had to have been some insane price — a million, at least. Chelsea was a few years older than the rest of them and working in sales at Google, and her boyfriend — Fiancé now, I guess, Melissa thought — had some cushy at-home job in accounting for a company in San