Pamela

Pamela’s sitting on her bed,

her phone is glowing in the dark.

“Hey, are you staying here on Saturday?”

Three little words that hit

too hard.

She types “Yes” first,

then deletes it, writes “Maybe,” puts the phone away.

’Cause somewhere in between the movies there’s a fear she cannot say.

What if she doesn’t wake up?

What if someone sees somehow

what she hides beneath her clothing,

buried deep inside her bag right now?

Maybe they’ll call her “Pampers Pam,” and everybody understands what she’s trying

hard to hide away,

what no one’s meant to know firsthand.

“Baby Pam,” “Diaper Girl,” she hears the names inside her head.

No one’s ever said them to her,

but she hears them all instead.

So she smiles and sends the message: “Sorry,

I can’t make it tonight.” And nobody knows why Pamela always turns

these nights aside.

She knows the rules,

she knows the tricks: don’t drink too late,

go one more time.

Set an alarm, stay awake— she’s tried it all a thousand nights.

At home, the morning means just laundry,

quiet sheets beside her bed.

No best friend there to notice,

no whispered jokes or chats instead.

But there, the bathroom’s down the hallway,

and the bedroom door’s too near.

How could she ever change unnoticed with that crinkle someone else might

hear? And what if someone’s still awake there?

What if plastic gives a sound?

What if someone looks and asks her,

“What is that you’re wearing now?”

Maybe they’ll call her “Pampers Pam,” and Monday morning

it begins.

One girl knows and two girls tell it,

then it spreads through all her friends.

“Baby Pam,” “Diaper Queen,” she sees the worst before it starts.

Nothing bad has even happened,

but the fear has done its part.

So she smiles and sends the message: “Sorry,

I can’t make it tonight.” And nobody knows why Pamela always turns

these nights aside. Maybe no one would be laughing.

Maybe no one even cares.

Maybe one good friend would tell her,

“Hey, it’s fine. You’re safe in here.” But a “maybe” feels so

tiny when the “what ifs” start to race.

Shame can make a thousand voices without one real voice in the

place. She keeps excuses ready-made: Mom said no,

I’m up too soon,

family plans, a headache,

homework— anything will always do.

Friday night, a little after seven,

her phone lights up again.

“We’re all here, you should come over— you can sleep here with

us then!” Pamela reads it twice in silence.

Next to her, already packed,

there’s a little bag she’s hidden underneath a folded stack.

She looks at it,

then at the message,

starts to type the word “Okay.” Then she deletes it,

writes instead: “Sorry, I can’t come today.”

No “Pampers Pam,” no whispers,

no one laughs and no one sees.

No embarrassing discovery— because Pamela simply leaves.

Her friends reply with little hearts: “Too bad.

Next time, maybe then.” Pamela puts her phone face down and doesn’t

answer them again. The little bag stays packed awhile,

then she puts it all away.

Saturday they’ll sleep together— Pamela will stay home again.