She thought it would go a different way. She thought the way it would go would not include taking the east stairwell to lunch and seeing Ephraim’s hand in the shirt of Nouri Withers, whose eyes were shut and fluttering.
The daughter makes no sound. She creeps back up the stairs.
But she can’t breathe.
Breathe, dumblerina.
She sits on the landing, spreading her rib cage to make room for air.
Breathe, ignorant white girl.
Still has to finish the day. Get through Latin and math. Go pick up her new retainer.
Nouri Withers? Maybe if you like tangled hair and black eye shadow and nail polish made from otter dung.
She has never missed Yasmine more than exactly right now.
Yasmine, lover of strawberries, queen of whipped cream.
Singer of hymns and smoker of weed.
Who’d say: Forget that Transylvanian slut.
Who’d say: Are you even going to remember his ass in five years?
Yasmine, who was smarter than the daughter but who got worse grades because of her “attitude.”
Yasmine came out of the bathroom and held up the pee stick.
A month earlier the federal abortion ban had gone into effect.
The daughter was thinking: we need to get you to Canada. They hadn’t closed the border to abortion seekers yet. The Pink Wall was still just an idea.
A year and a half later the Canadian border patrol arrests American seekers and returns them to the States for prosecution. “Let’s spend the taxpayers’ money to criminalize vulnerable women, shall we?” said Ro/Miss in class, and somebody said, “But if they’re breaking the law, they are criminals,” and Ro/Miss said, “Laws aren’t natural phenomena. They have particular and often horrific histories. Ever heard of the Nuremberg Laws? Ever heard of Jim Crow?”
Yasmine would have liked Ro/Miss, who talks about history in a way that makes it memorable and who wears the clothes of a kid: brown cords, green hoodies, sneakers.
A tuft of cells inside her, multiplying. Half Ephraim, half her.
You can’t be sure.
She carries the test around unopened in her satchel.
If she is—
She might not be. Her body feels pretty much like it always does.
But if she is, what the hell is she going to do?
Don’t borrow worry.—Mom
Stay in your lane.—Dad
After all, she might not be.
In math Nouri Withers taps her steel-toed boot against the chair leg, from excitement probably; she’s thinking of her next time with Ephraim. Where will they go? What will they do? What have they already done? Ash isn’t there to comfort her; the daughter has no friends in this room; it’s calculus, all eleventh- and twelfth-graders except for her. The tenth-graders think she’s a snob because she moved here from Salem and takes AP classes and her dad’s not a fisherman and she once said it was dumb to call the teachers “miss.” To prove her lack of snobbery, she says “miss” now too.
After class Mr. Xiao pulls her aside for “a word.” She is already shaky from the combination of eight weeks late plus Ephraim’s hand up Nouri’s shirt; the prospect of a reprimand from her second-favorite teacher makes her eyes water.
“Whoa, whoa! You’re not in trouble. Jesus, Quarles, it’s cool.”
She dabs her eyes. “Sorry.”
“Everything all right?”
“My period.” Men teachers don’t touch that excuse.
“Okay, well, I’ve got some good news for you. Do you know about the Oregon Math Academy?”
The daughter nods.
As if she shook her head, Mr. Xiao explains: “It’s a weeklong residential program in Eugene. The most prestigious and competitive academic camp in the state. Nobody from Central Coast has ever been selected. And I’m nominating you for it.”
She hears the words, but no feeling follows. “Thank you so much.”
“I think your chances are good. You’re bright, you’re female, and as a little bonus, I went to undergrad with one of their admissions guys.” He waits for her to look impressed.
The Matilda Quarles of last year—of last month—would be euphoric right now. Would be dying to get home and tell her parents.
“The deadline is January fifteenth,” adds Mr. Xiao, who is not good at noticing how people feel unless they’re crying or yelling and so believes the daughter is just as happy as she should be.
“I look forward to applying,” she says.
She knows quite a lot, in fact, about the Oregon Math Academy. She has wanted to go since the seventh grade. She and Yasmine planned to apply together. In eighth grade Yasmine scored highest in their school on the math section of the state exam; the daughter was two points behind her.
Going to the academy would help her get into colleges with top marine-biology departments.
Her parents would be over the moon.
The academy happens in April, over spring break.
If she’s three months pregnant now, she’ll be eight months pregnant then.