Ann-Marie Wilkens has a problem.

Ann-Marie Wilkens, Ann to most, has a pretty big ol' problem. Ann-Marie Wilkens is pregnant.

Ann-Marie's not sure how this happened. She's been practicing safe sex with her boyfriend, Bobby Harland, for over a year now. You know, despite Bobby's best efforts to change the situation. "Ann-Marie," he'd say, "Ann-Marie, you and me's been a couple for awhile now. We know we ain't gonna be getting no diseases from each other. Come on, Ann-Marie," he always called her Ann-Marie, "Come on, Ann-Marie, let's do the forbidden dance without our raincoats for once."

But Ann-Marie Wilkens was adamant. Raincoats would be doffed or no dancing at all would take place in the back of Bobby's pickup, long warm nights overlooking the Ozarks, overlooking the gentle curving mountains frosted with trees like a big green cloud. You see, Ann-Marie Wilkens has a secret. One that she hasn't told no one about. One that she can't tell no one about.

Ann-Marie Wilkens, Ann to most, Marie to her mother, has a problem. The problem is how does one continue going to junior college when one has a little breather forming inside your tummy? Because, believe you me, Ann-Marie is not quitting college. It took her two long years to get there, two long years to get the money, get the grades, get the car, get the permission, get the courage, two long years, and come hell or highwater, she is not going to be leaving now. Because Ann-Marie has a secret. One she's terrified of telling, for fear that it will no longer come true.

Ann-Marie Wilkens, A.M. to her sister, Anna-Maria to her grandma, has a problem. The problem is that everyone's going to be thrilled when they find out she's pregnant. Tears of joy will fill her mother's eyes and she will say, "I knew it! I knew it, Marie!" Ann-Marie's mother always called her Marie. Ann-Marie's mother got to pick the middle name when her child was born. "Marie, I knew the day would finally come. All the kinfolk kept saying to me 'When's that child gonna get herself a family?' You know, they said it discreetly but the whispers always did continue. And you know what I told 'em, Marie? I told 'em that girl takes her own sweet time about things. Always did, always will. Marie, you got a head on you that's stubborn like Aunt Rose's old mule, back in the days, back in the days before Aunt Rose broke her hip and ol' Bessie was sold to the glue factory. Marie, you've always done things your own way and you always will. Patience, I told 'em. Marie will find her family in her own sweet time."

Ann-Marie Wilkens, Ann to most, Annabelle to her father, has a problem. The problem is Bobby Harland, who's going to be beside himself when he finds out. Bobby's been screaming and hollerin' all the time recently about starting a family. "We're not getting any younger, Ann-Marie," Bobby would say over a tuna fish sandwich and cup of black coffee at the Double R Diner. "Ann-Marie, high school's about a million years behind us and neither of us are getting any younger. Now doncha think it's about time to give up this stupid school idea of yours and settle down and do what you know you're gonna do anyway? Come on, Ann-Marie. You know what's right." And she did. Ann-Marie knows what's right. And that's her secret.

Ann-Marie Wilkens, Ann to most, Annie to no one, has a problem. The problem is Elizabeth Joyce Wilkens-Polk, her older sister, almost thirty and still as beautiful as the day she was crowned Queen of the County Fair, back near a decade ago. Elizabeth used to be like Ann-Marie. Elizabeth Joyce Wilkens-Polk used to have the fire in her too, cruising the strip on Saturday nights, getting in deep with the bad boys, the ones who rode the motorcycles and shot out road signs on the back lanes late at night by the light of the Missouri moon. But Elizabeth done got herself knocked up, and it was thought to be in the best interest by everyone involved that Elizabeth get herself married and get that child on the way before any more time was spent contemplating a future for Elizabeth Joyce Wilkens-Polk. Elizabeth brought her own controversy to the family history, her own little gossip to the town charter when she refused to surrender her maiden name, instead tacking it on to her husband's with a short little hyphen. Elizabeth's dad, when informed of the decision, sighed and shifted in his chair and put down his paper and said, "What. Like Hillary Rodham-Clinton? Jeezis Christ." Then Elizabeth's mom told him not to take the Lord's name in vain and that was pretty much the end of the conversation.

Ann-Marie knew what Elizabeth was going to say. Elizabeth would sit in her favorite chair, bouncing her daughter on her knee while her other daughter watched Barney six inches away from the television and her other daughter scribbled all over the phone book with her crayons at the dining room table. "A.M.," Elizabeth would say, "A.M., now you just face facts. There are certain things that a person can do in life and certain things that they just can't. And when you're young and you think you're never gonna die, the world lays open to you like an oyster. But believe me, A.M., children can be a wonderful blessing. I mean, not mine in particular, but you get my meaning. A family is not necessarily the worst thing in the world that can happen to you. Staying here is not necessarily the worst thing in the world that can happen to you. You've become a woman, A.M., and you better put out the goddamn fire and open your eyes and realize what you've become." But Ann-Marie already knows what she's become. Which is why it's so important that she keep her secret secret.

Ann-Marie Wilkens, Ann to most, Ms. Wilkens to her teachers, knows what she's become. She's become yet another pregnant 21-year-old white trash waif, destined one day for a trailer home and a guest spot on Jerry Springer. Ann-Marie Wilkens is not stupid. She's not some hillbilly in a burlap sack sitting on the porch of her cabin drinking moonshine and waiting for her daddy to come fuck her later. Ann-Marie Wilkens has a Saturn and a pager and a subscription to Details magazine. She has a Macintosh Performa 6100 on her desk at home and she's on the Internet every week without fail. Ann-Marie Wilkens is not some ignorant backwater yokel. She could wear the exact same clothes the big city folks wear, drink the same coffee, own the same furniture. All it takes anymore is a phone and a credit card number, both of which she has, thank-you-very-much. Why, she even owns a pair of black shiny skin-tight patent leather pants from Victoria's Secret. She got them for a Halloween costume one year and she made quite an impression, felt pretty damn sexy tell the truth, but now they sit folded up in the back of her closet. The problem for Ann-Marie Wilkens is not owning the possessions but finding a context in which to use them. I mean, just about the only people in town who can get away with dressing like that are the angry little high-school skaters who sit outside the 7-11 every night, and I mean, Lordy, who wants to be one of them?

Ann-Marie Wilkens is not stupid. She reads the books. She watches the t.v. She sees the movies. She sees how her life is one big joke to all those people making those movies and t.v. shows and books. She understands that they find it funny that the only thing keeping her life from falling apart is an associate's degree in dental hygiene from the junior college. Hell, she laughs about it herself. Ann-Marie and all her friends laugh everytime they crack open another Budweiser around the campfire deep in the back woods of her father's farm, the fresh dusty smell of hay surrounding them like a Confederate ghost coming back to reclaim what is rightly his. White Trash Jubilee! they yell, laughing, as they clink their aluminum cans to each other again and again and get blitzed out of their minds again and contemplate driving down to Poplar Bluff for a night on the town again and end up cruising the strip. Again.

Ann-Marie Wilkens, Ann to most, Claire to no one but herself, has a secret. The secret is that one day soon Ann-Marie is going to load down the trunk of her Saturn with all her worldly possessions. She's going to cram everything that means anything to her in that trunk and she's going to whistle for her dog to hop in the back seat. And Ann-Marie Wilkens is going to stick her Blues Traveler cassette into her stereo and she's gonna drive, she's gonna drive as long and as far as her money and her Saturn can carry her. And then she's going to stop. Ann-Marie's going to stop and start a new life, right then and there. She's going to lose her accent and she's going to dress in black leather pants all the time. Ann-Marie's going to hang out in coffeehouses and make love to sensitive guys with goatees and sweaters, not do the forbidden dance in the back of a pickup but make love, in a white bed at the top of a high rise building. And there'll be no more Bobby Harland and no more Elizabeth Joyce and no more gun racks, no more snooping relatives and no more cruising the strip on Saturday nights. Ann-Marie's life will suddenly be a million miles away and she will finally open her eyes and realize what she's become.

And Ann-Marie Wilkens, Ann to most, will name her child Claire. Unless of course it's a boy, in which case she'll name him David.