The Radical Element by Jessica Spotswood (7)

We have the same first name. We are almost of an age. We hail from the same county. We have a lot in common, Carrie Buck and I. More than anyone might think.

It isn’t obvious at first. She doesn’t look a bit like me. She carries herself with purpose and dignity. Her black hair is cropped short, while my brown hair falls over my shoulders. Her dress is plain and worn, while mine is soft and new. She is called feebleminded, while I’m considered difficult. But we are alike.

And no one can know.

“The sole effect of the operation is to prevent procreation by rendering the patient sterile. In short, it is a eugenical measure and nothing more.” The attorney’s voice fills the chamber, and I gently rock back and forth to the cadence of his words.

It’s relatively empty up in the visitors’ gallery. Perhaps because of the weather: after a hot spell, the April weather has turned and the afternoon is looking dreadful. Perhaps because this case is too sensitive for most. After all, sterilization procedures are hardly subjects for proper conversation. Mother would have apoplexy if she saw me here. The only talk we’ve had of reproduction was when she told me she expected me to find a husband back home and start a family.

“It would be better for all, Carrie,” she told me on that occasion and countless others, “if you would keep your head down. This is what the world expects of us, not your grandiose ideas of education and a career. Stick to a boy who will tolerate you and the pretense of a normal life.”

But I don’t want the pretense of a normal life. I want an education. I want a career. And she can’t stop me. For all that she tried and tried, she can’t stop me.

I’m here.

When I arrived in Washington, Aunt Elizabeth asked me why I wanted to pursue a career in law when only a handful of law schools even accept women. There are a thousand reasons, and I can name them all. The world’s expectations were not made to fit me. The laws and structure calm me. In the practice of law, no one minds an inquisitive and obsessive mind. But as I listen to Carrie Buck’s attorney argue against a doctor who called his client a genetic threat to society, I cling to the most important reason of all: it matters. What these attorneys and judges do, the cases they argue and decide, the cause they serve, it matters.

And I want to be a part of it.

“Excuse me?”

The young man sitting in front of me turns, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve spoken out loud.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” My cheeks grow warm. Someone shushes us, and I wish I could melt into these seats, but they’re stiff and unyielding.

The boy in front of me smiles. “It’s your first time?”

Two rows ahead, an elderly man turns to both of us with a scowl so ferocious, even Mother would be impressed.

I nod, quite unwilling to say anything more.

The boy’s smile widens to a grin, and I’m terrified he’ll continue speaking, but he merely winks at me and returns his focus to the court proceedings down below. The elderly man continues to stare. I shift and try to avoid his glance. I bounce my foot against the seat in front of me, but it does nothing to distract me.

My heartbeat picks up and my skin crawls. I’m used to stares and scrutiny — I got enough of that back home — but if he stares long enough, he’ll see I’m different. Different, different, cold, uncaring.

I can’t —

I rock back and forth until I settle into the familiar sense of repetition, and I remember how to breathe again. In front of the court, the plaintiff’s attorney continues to talk. His voice drones on, warm and assured, pleasant even. It reminds me of Grandfather, who believed in Aunt Elizabeth’s dreams and who believed in mine. That helps, too.

I focus on the attorney’s arguments. The Fourteenth Amendment and bodily integrity, and the state’s intention “to rid itself of those citizens deemed undesirable according to its standards.”

We have a lot in common, Carrie Buck and I.

The oral arguments take hours, and I drink in every single moment. The elderly man up and left after Attorney Whitehead’s statements, but the young man in front of me is still there. When the Court rises, we do, too, and he turns to me. He holds a legal pad scribbled full of notes. Is he a law student? He appears to be a year or two older than I am, which makes it both possible and enviable, and I cannot deny a stab of impatience.

He catches me staring and moves forward. Before I can stop myself, I take a step back, bumping into the seat behind me. He doesn’t move forward again, but he doesn’t turn away either.

“I wish to apologize for imposing upon you earlier. It was horribly impolite, and I promise you my manners are usually better than this . . . although my father might disagree.” He scratches his temple. In demeanor, he is all too like my younger brother, caught in a wrongdoing. But in appearance, he is nothing at all like our family. His suit is tailored and speaks of society.

He bows slightly. His dark hair flops around his eyes. “Alexander Holmes, at your service, Miss . . .”

A flutter of panic teases me.

“Allen. Carrie Allen.” I wonder if I should curtsy or reach out my hand to him. Aunt Elizabeth has been educating me on the rules of etiquette, but I’m not yet comfortable enough with them to know how to respond to this — to a boy who talks to a girl without an introduction. I don’t know how to deal with it when someone doesn’t follow the rules.

And Alexander Holmes doesn’t. His bright smile is back, uncharacteristically bold for these dark and dignified surroundings. He smiles freely. “Delighted to know you, Miss Allen.”

He walks around the row of seats and waits for me at the end of my row. “May I walk you out? It’s not often I have the pleasure of meeting other legalese enthusiasts.” He colors slightly. “And certainly no one like you.”

I’ve never heard anyone say that like it’s a good thing. “You are quite unlike anyone I’ve met in Washington so far,” I tell him.

He offers me his arm, but I keep my hands close to my sides and squeeze past him into the aisle. I am uncomfortable being touched. He seems unfazed.

“You’re from out of town?” He does not wait for my answer but instead falls into step with me. “Then what brings you to these arguments? Or, more specifically, to this hearing?”

I reach for the closest truth. “Fortunate timing.”

“For both of us, then.” He holds the door open for me, and we walk out of the hallway, into the rotunda, where we pass underneath the magnificent dome. Aides and lawyers are walking around and talking, and it’s as if we’re leaving behind the sanctity of a church for the overwhelming chaos of politics. Voices everywhere, and I cannot drown them out.

I shrug into my coat and curl my fingers around the small, round pebble in my pocket. It’s cool and comforting, but the energy I took from the quiet courtroom is already draining from me and I shrink toward the walls.

Alexander Holmes glances at me, and his brown eyes crinkle. “Come, I’ll show you a quieter route. It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? Don’t worry — you’ll fit in soon enough.”

I want to believe him. At home, I could not walk around town without eyes on me, without stares and whispers. Cold, uncaring Carrie. She thinks she’s better than us. Her poor mother, she’s at wit’s end. Best to send the girl away.

I hoped I would be able to breathe here. To get lost amid history. To become who I want to be.

I just don’t know if I will be enough.

After dreaming of it for so long, observing this Court case both fills me up and wears me down. I’m bone tired and my mind won’t stop going over every single detail of the case and of the entire past week — not just what I saw, but how I acted. Did I say the right thing? Did I say it at the right time? Did I act normal enough? Were people staring? Did I draw attention to myself? I may be able to shrug into a guise, but I’ve never learned to fit in; it’s always been pretense.

I’m curled up in a large leather chair in Aunt Elizabeth’s office reading about the history of law when the door opens and closes.

“Come with me to tea this afternoon,” Aunt Elizabeth says. She stops in front of my chair. She wears a deep-green day dress and holds her coat in one hand. She looks resplendent, and I am momentarily disoriented. Today is Saturday. We didn’t make any plans for today. Today is Saturday. We didn’t make any plans for today.

She continues, “It’ll be a chance to meet an old friend of mine, with whom, I believe, you may have a lot in common.”

I close my book with more force than I usually would, to try to snap myself out of the repetition. But my hands tremble.

“Today is — We didn’t make any plans —” I breathe in sharply. I don’t want to betray the panic building inside me, but my voice quivers. I escaped small-town expectations when Aunt Elizabeth invited me here, and she accepts my oddities with more grace than most everyone back home. She supports my right to choose my own path. She allows me to carve out my own space. But I know it is sufferance. Mother made that very clear. We live in a world that measures people according to standards of desirability and undesirability. And I am undesirable.

“Carrie, I know you have your heart set on a legal career, and in this day and age, it’s not just about knowing the law; it’s about knowing the right people. Grace Hays Riley is the dean of the Washington College of Law. An introduction to her will be an asset to you once you apply there for your baccalaureate.”

“Yes, Aunt Elizabeth,” I say. “Except . . .” Today is Saturday. We didn’t make any plans for today. I wring my hands so tightly, my knuckles crack, but it doesn’t help.

“Carrie?”

I can’t find the right words. The chair becomes uncomfortable and Aunt Elizabeth is too close and my head hurts and we didn’t make any plans for today.

“Carrie, look at me.” Aunt Elizabeth crouches down in front of me. Mother would have forced me to meet her eye, but to my shock, Aunt Elizabeth places her hand on the chair’s armrest, careful not to touch me, and she allows me to stare at the fabric of her dress instead.

“We didn’t make any plans for today, did we?”

I shake my head, the words threatening to stumble out of my mouth again.

Aunt Elizabeth shifts. “Are you tired?”

“Yes.”

“Would you rather stay in?”

I nod.

After a moment, she nods, too, and her dress billows around her. “On the condition that we do go out next weekend. You can’t only divide your time between the Court and our house. People will . . .” She sighs.

“People will talk,” I finish for her. “They always do.”

Mother would tell me to mind them.

“They ought to know better,” Aunt Elizabeth murmurs, and I feel a rush of gratitude toward her, not just for accepting my no, but for directing her anger at other people instead.

“Do we have an agreement, Carrie?”

I sit back in the chair. My shoulders ache. I don’t want it to be this hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

She pulls up another chair and folds her coat over the backrest. She sits down next to me, and I glance up just in time to see her smooth a frown. “Will you tell me about the arguments? I do not know a great deal about this particular Supreme Court case, but I trust you can fill me in on the right details.”

I don’t tell her about Alexander. I call him Alexander in my mind. I don’t tell her, because I don’t know what he means yet. He was kind to me, but it may just be good manners. Etiquette.

Still.

It’s not etiquette when Alexander appears on Sunday after church and asks me out for a walk. Aunt Elizabeth frowns at me, a deeper frown than yesterday, tinged not with the disapproval I expect but with questions she doesn’t ask.

Alexander and I walk in silence at first. He leads me toward the National Mall, where my eyes stray toward the Washington Monument and then toward the Capitol. I cannot look away. The buildings — their meanings — they transcend us.

“Have you been here before?” Alexander asks.

Aunt Elizabeth showed me around extensively when I first got here, but back then, the sound of construction on the Arlington Memorial Bridge drove out all sense of peace. Today the Potomac is quiet; the ships and dredging work have ground to a halt.

“How did you find me?” I counter instead. It’s not an answer, but I want to know.

Alexander leads me past the newly dedicated Lincoln Memorial. Its gleaming white columns remind me of the Capitol Building. It makes me wonder if this memorial will still stand fierce and tall in a century and a half and beyond.

“I try to keep abreast of everything that happens in this city’s society,” he says. And again he reminds me of my brother, who also makes up the most outrageous lies, and who has more charm than sense.

It’s so familiar, I know exactly how to deal with it: I snort.

“It’s true,” he protests. “Or rather, I’d like it to be. In effect, it only holds true for those members of society who attend Father’s socials. It just so happens that one of them heard that Miss Elizabeth Allen, infamous bachelorette and erstwhile writer for The Suffragist, took in a stray.”

I smile. It’s been so long that I didn’t think I would remember how. “Mr. Holmes, did you find me by heeding gossip?”

“That sounds far more ugly than being ‘well informed,’ don’t you think?” Alexander puts his hands in his pockets. He walks me to West Potomac Park, where the paths are covered in faded and trampled pink flowers. It’s a little too late for cherry blossoms.

There are more trees than people. And he may not know it, but I appreciate that.

“The thing is, Miss Allen, I’m usually the youngest in the visitors’ gallery by a mile, and I’m usually the only legalese enthusiast. You intrigued me.”

“Are you a law student?”

“I start Georgetown in the fall. One might say it’s a family trait. I would disappoint Father if I didn’t make judge somewhere, although I’d much rather argue cases.”

“I’d much rather argue cases, too,” I say, softly. Too softly, perhaps. I curl my fingers around the pebble in my pocket and clear my throat. “I hope to enroll at Washington College of Law in a year.”

Alexander cleans a bench for me to sit. “Madame Justice Allen.” He inclines his head.

“Clerical support somewhere, more likely,” I say.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Miss Allen.”

I’m not. It’s a step up from not-believing, and I know how to be realistic. Most law firms don’t take well to female lawyers, and even a single case exhausts me. Besides, Aunt Elizabeth was right about my lack of connections. I do not have the family name to make a place for myself in society, and I would likely flounder even if I did. I will have to stand on merit alone, and I merit little.

Alexander produces a paper bag filled with taffy and offers me one. I want to decline, because I hate the texture, but I don’t want to be impolite. I pick out the smallest piece and unwrap it as slowly as I can.

“So if you’re not a student yet, why do you go to the arguments?” I ask.

Alexander picks a larger piece of taffy, as if he doesn’t notice the sticky sweet chewiness and the way the taffy wraps around your gums. I can’t ignore it for even a moment, but he seems to appreciate the candy.

“To learn from the best, of course,” he says. “And it interests me to see which cases are brought to the Court. What did you think of Friday’s arguments? Why would anyone wish to take a case like that to a court — and to the Supreme Court, no less?”

“Doctors trying to sterilize a young girl for no apparent reason? Why wouldn’t anyone take that case to the Supreme Court?”

“Because it might be seen as inappropriate?”

“To discuss a matter of law?”

He cocks his head. “Miss Buck is feebleminded. Her doctor prescribed sterilization to avoid further . . . What did they call it? Socially inadequate offspring. It wouldn’t have any effects on her general health. It’s not a question for the law; it’s a matter of medical integrity.”

“No.” I grow cold all over. “It’s not just medical integrity, Mr. Holmes. It’s bodily autonomy. She is a person. She has a right to decide for herself whether or not she wants to have children, like all of us. That’s personal choice, and by denying her that, her doctors made it a matter of law.” I tap my foot, and I can’t stop. I don’t know if any of this is appropriate, but I cannot stop. These are the questions I wanted to hear at the court case, and I need to share them with him. “She has a right to due process like all of us, does she not?”

He stares at me for a moment. He opens his mouth and closes it. Something shifts behind his eyes, but I don’t know what it means.

Then he ups and walks away, and I’m left sitting there, on a bench in the park. Alone. And the convincing words I pride myself on, all the points I want to argue, flee me, too.

I do not return to Aunt Elizabeth’s home until hours later, chilled to the bone. She keeps me with an elderly tutor for the next couple of days. According to her, there’s more in this world than the law, and she wants me to study literature and mathematics in the comfort of her house. I quote Hobbes at her — that without laws to govern us, there would be “no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time; no arts; no letters; no society.” It does not convince her, but the relative quiet and safety calms me.

It’s Wednesday before I find my way back to the Capitol, ready to hear more arguments. From up close, the grandeur of the building still overwhelms me. This Capitol was built to weather ages, and it’s a stone-carved reminder that anything is possible.

Atop the steps, I’m greeted by a surprising presence: Alexander.

He stands — or rather, paces. He wears a long coat and leather gloves, yet he still looks cold. It’s almost May, but it feels like winter. When he sees me, he smiles. His whole face lights up. “Miss Allen.”

I hesitate. “Mr. Holmes. Were you waiting for me?”

“I hoped I’d find you here.”

“That seems like a gamble.” He’s only seen me here once; he can hardly draw conclusions from that. For all he knows, I only meant to observe those arguments and nothing more.

“Were you here the last two days, too?” I ask.

He looks down a little. “I wished to explain my sudden departure on Sunday.”

“It was rather unexpected.”

“It was, and I apologize.”

I reach for the pebble in my pocket and roll it between my fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Alexander clears his throat. “When I told you law was a family trait, I wasn’t joking. My grandfather sits on the bench.”

Oh. “Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.,” I say. I wonder why that didn’t come to me sooner.

“Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States.”

“That must be . . .”

“Intimidating? I’ve never known any different, though you can imagine the family gathering, I’m sure. We all want to live up to his legacy.”

Not knowing what else to do, I wrap my arms around my waist and walk into the Capitol, and he falls into step with me. I don’t quite see (or want to see) how his grandfather could have caused Alexander’s sudden departure on Sunday. When I say as much, he takes my hand and draws me to a quiet corner. I pull back my hand.

“I don’t just go to the arguments to hear the attorneys. I go to see if I can anticipate the Court’s rulings or explain them afterward, especially in those cases where Grandfather wrote the opinions. That’s what I meant when I said I wanted to learn from the best. He is the best.”

I cannot meet his eyes, but I wait to see what comes next.

“And you . . . you challenged that. You challenge everything he taught me. You probably don’t even do it on purpose, but you come to me with arguments that I haven’t considered — that I should have considered. You see connections as easily as he does, and you make me want to listen to your side of the story.” He flushes. “I want to. I can’t.”

I hesitate. “Thank you?”

“You’re different, Miss Allen. And you leave me uncertain.”

I flinch.

Alexander winces. “I’m sorry, Miss Allen.”

“So am I.” Though I do not know if I can honestly blame him. I am different. I know the weight of expectations and of family.

And it’s not just that. I know the weight of society. Carrie Buck’s case is clear-cut to many. It is to Dr. Priddy, who first suggested sterilizing Carrie Buck. To Dr. Bell, who took up the case. A genetic threat to society. Alexander may not have come right out and said it, but why should it not be clear-cut to him?

The thought nags, but at the same time, I don’t want to walk into this building alone. Alexander made me smile. We share the same dream. He did what no one has ever done before: he waited for me.

“I know the answer now. I believe in public welfare,” he starts, apparently ready to revisit our argument.

I raise my hand to cut him off, and I swallow hard. I am used to pushing away my discomfort. “What’s on the roster for you today, Mr. Holmes? Will you join me in hearing arguments on why gains from illicit traffic in liquor are subject to the income tax?”

That afternoon, it’s illicit traffic in liquor. The next day, we listen to arguments about forest fires. As the attorney drones on and on, Alexander slumps in his seat and mutters, “Just get to the burning point.” It surprises a laugh out of me, and I have to start coughing to mask it. I can’t remember the last time I laughed out loud. But once Alexander realizes wordplay amuses me endlessly, he makes it his mission to come up with the most hopeless of puns.

Even with a mind for structure, it is far more natural than I anticipated to fall into a rhythm with Alexander. We meet each other at the Capitol’s steps every morning and sit in on the day’s arguments. It becomes easier — though not easy — to walk through the crowded hallways. We discuss the cases we hear, we compare notes, and we battle our respective positions. More often than not, we disagree, although rarely as radically as in the case of Carrie Buck. He brings it up again. He’s convinced he’s right. He tries to convince me. “Society should be warded against lesser —” “She isn’t as human —” “You don’t understand —”

It becomes harder — though not impossible — to cut him off instead of arguing. It’s simpler that way.

Because he makes me laugh out loud. And this may be friendship. Masked and cordoned off by the knowledge of who we truly are, but friendship nonetheless.

I don’t usually forget, but it’s only when the weekend arrives that I suddenly remember the promise I made to Aunt Elizabeth. A social function. Meeting with the dean of the Washington College of Law.

I can’t do it. I’m raw and exhausted from too many days of trying to become who I want to be and being who I’m not. And I’ve only been at court three days this week, to observe, nothing more. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.

“Why are you so hesitant, Carrie?” Aunt Elizabeth tentatively places her hand on mine. I know she expects me to either pull away or smile at her. I do neither of those things, but it takes all my focus to keep my hand on the desk in front of me.

I would never answer this question if Mother asked it, but if home is a place to let one’s guard down, Aunt Elizabeth is working hard to build me a home here.

I tap my foot against the leg of my chair. I owe her an answer, even if I don’t quite know what it is. “People look at me and think I’m different. Maybe not at first — just like no one thinks Carrie Buck is different just from meeting her. But we cannot hide forever. I understand the rule of law. I do not understand the rules of society. I do not understand how to fit in, even when I’m trying my hardest to learn.”

I expect Aunt Elizabeth to agree, but instead she counters, “You are new to the city, Carrie. When I first arrived here, I didn’t feel like I belonged, either. It’s magnificent, but it’s overwhelming. You have to give yourself time; you’ve come so far already.”

That isn’t it, though. I should fit in. I should keep my head down. But I can’t do it. “I have so far still to go. And I can only pretend to be someone else for so long.”

“You shouldn’t have to pretend,” she says. “You have a mind for arguments. It may not work the same way as mine, but why shouldn’t that be an asset? You could be a magnificent legal strategist.”

I sway back and forth. My foot stills. I could belong here. “It frightens me.”

Aunt Elizabeth sits back. “Are you afraid they won’t accept you? I can’t imagine they won’t. You have so much potential.”

That’s hardly a good counterargument. We are in Aunt Elizabeth’s office, surrounded by books and copies of The Suffragist. Surrounded by the thoughts and opinions of a great number of people who all had great minds and great potential — but they were all able to find their place in the world. A great mind and potential is not enough.

“Or” — she breathes in deeply — “are you afraid that they will accept you and you’ll not be enough?”

I still, my eyes fixed on the wooden paneling on the walls.

No. Yes. I don’t know how to admit to that.

“Do you think I’ll send you back home?”

I don’t know how to admit to that, either.

“I would never,” she says softly.

I stay silent, because I don’t want to argue it.

Worry edges around her voice. “This had better not be about that Holmes boy. Is it? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing, he — he could be a friend,” I say, and I wait for her to tell me his company is too good for me — or mine not good enough for him.

She doesn’t. Instead she keeps her voice neutral. “What makes you say that?”

“He listens to me.” I never had a friend before. “He respects my opinions.” At least the ones we talk about.

“And it feels good to be heard?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You deserve to be heard,” Aunt Elizabeth says. “You deserve to be seen. You deserve to be respected.” She said these same words to me when she collected me off the train. “Does he respect you?”

“He respects who he thinks I am.”

She doesn’t respond to that for the longest time, and an uncomfortable silence settles around us. Then she squeezes my hand and lets go.

“I still want you to meet with Dean Grace Hays Riley. We’ll have tea together. But we’ll set the appointment when you ask for it. Agreed?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I get to my feet, grab a book from her shelves, and curl up around it, while Aunt Elizabeth sits down at her desk.

“Respect yourself, Carrie,” she says. “Respect, and perhaps, one day, even love yourself. It’s the most radical decision you can make.”

Ten days after those first arguments, ten days after meeting Alexander Holmes, he stands outside the Capitol again. Waiting for me. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, but in his case, I think it’s excitement rather than a way to soothe an overly active mind.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes.”

He nearly pounces on me when I walk up the steps. “Miss Allen. I’ve seen the slip decision. I want you to read it.”

The world stops turning, for just a moment. There’s no question which case he’s referring to, and there’s no question he’s excited. It makes me ill at ease. The words are on the tip of my tongue: Alexan — Mr. Holmes, you can’t convince me, please do not try. I don’t want you to convince me.

But I want the ruling. I’ve wanted this ruling for weeks. Months. Years. Even if he’s happy. Even if this is the worst-case scenario. I want to know.

So I let him drag me to his grandfather’s office while I push my pebble deep into the palm of my hand. The pain doesn’t calm me the way repetition does, but it centers me. As a result, when Alexander pulls me into the empty office and shows me the writ, the words make sense.

I wish they didn’t.

I read aloud:

I try to catch my breath, but I still feel like I’m choking. My eyes glance over a sentence in the next paragraph: “Three generations of imbeciles are enough.”

I can’t read on. I can hardly think. I can only stare at the writ in my hands, the cruel words.

“I know we stood on opposite sides, but I wanted you to know Grandfather cared about public welfare when he wrote this.”

I stare at the words before me, and I can’t find my voice.

“It’s the same principle that sustains compulsory vaccination. This is a matter of public health, too. Do we not, as a society, want to banish undesirable elements? It’s not that Grandfather — and I — don’t think she should have rights. But there’s the greater good to consider, too.”

The words sound familiar. It takes me a moment to realize they’re akin to what I heard during oral arguments. This is the state’s intention to rid itself of those citizens deemed undesirable according to its standards. Only, it hadn’t been the doctor’s side. “That’s what Whitehead said. In defense of Carrie Buck.”

Alexander shakes his head. “Even Carrie Buck’s lawyer knew that this was an impossible case. He knew we must weigh the autonomy of the few against the protection of the many.”

I place the writ on the table in front of me. I keep trying to breathe, but I feel light-headed. I need something to calm me. I need something to calm my mind. Then Alexander steps forward to support me. It’s only a split second — his hand underneath my elbow — but I jump back. “Don’t touch me.”

Instead of moving back, he takes another step forward. “Miss Allen — Carrie, I didn’t mean to upset you. I wanted you to know the utmost care went into this decision, and eight judges agreed.”

I turn away. It’s the smallest mercy that one of them dissented. Eight judges agreed Carrie Buck’s rights didn’t matter. Eight judges agreed that she wasn’t enough.

“Come, let me take you to lunch. It’s the end of the term. We heard the arguments. We’ll read more decisions and opinions. We live to study the law another day.”

Except, out of all the arguments we heard and all the cases we argued, there wasn’t another one like this for me. It was never just about one girl’s right to reproduce. I told Aunt Elizabeth I loved that Alexander made me feel like he valued my opinions. But this. This matters to me. And he doesn’t see it.

“Remember when you asked me why I came to this particular case?” I say softly, and Alexander stops shuffling papers at the desk.

“Fortunate timing, you said. I happened to agree with that. It was most fortunate, in that it allowed us to meet.”

He smiles. He hasn’t a care in the world. And right there and then I hate him for it. “Truth is, Mr. Holmes, I lied.”

He stills. The room grows dead silent.

“Carrie Buck’s case . . . I’ve followed it since it was in the Circuit Court at Amherst County. My county, as a matter of fact. We’ve never met. She’s from Charlottesville and my family lives in Schuyler. We’ve never even crossed paths. But we have a lot in common, Carrie Buck and I. And I wanted to believe she had a chance.”

“It’s better for all —”

It’s better if you keep your head down. It’s better if you leave to stay at your aunt’s. It’s better if you hold your tongue. It’s better if you forget your dreams.

“If what? If we start deciding who’s good enough? Who matters enough to deserve rights and sovereignty?”

“She is feebleminded.”

“She is human,” I say flatly. “Eugenics has nothing to do with the public welfare.”

Alexander sits down in one of the high-back leather chairs. He rakes his fingers through his hair. “You said you and Carrie Buck have a lot in common.”

We do. I want to tell him that I know too well what it feels like to be lesser, to be constantly judged and found wanting. That after seventeen years, it still seems to me as if the rest of the world knows rules that I was never taught. That sometimes my mind snags on words, phrases, repetitions. That I can pretend, but it’s all I can do.

But maybe that’s not entirely true. This city overwhelms me with its busyness and noise, but for the first time, I want to shout back.

I breathe in sharply. “We have more in common than you may think. Feebleminded? By whose standards?” I take a step forward, and all the words that have floated just out of reach snap into place, fueled by rage and despair and everything I’ve ever wanted to do and be and reach for. “Carrie Buck is a girl like me. Despite everyone telling her that she didn’t matter, she came here to fight for her choices. She has the inalienable right to do so. But instead of recognizing that, we assign value to her, to each other, to ourselves. We tell her she isn’t competent enough. She isn’t fit enough. She isn’t equal enough. Do you know what would be better for all the world? If instead of fighting to limit her rights — our constitutional rights, our fundamentally human rights — we fought to embrace them and strengthen them. If we limit equality, we can never be truly equal.”

I am trembling all over, and I am relieved.

Alexander has paled. He trembles, too.

“You really should be a lawyer, Miss Allen.” He extends his hand, but he doesn’t acknowledge my words. “Come, let me apologize and take you to lunch. I know a quaint little place close by that I’m sure you would appreciate. The weather’s turned again. We could walk the Mall and talk, perhaps.”

I regard his outstretched hand. His words are stuck in my head. You really should be a lawyer, Miss Allen.

I really should be a lawyer.

When I said I wanted to believe Carrie Buck had a chance, I wanted to believe I had a chance.

I keep my hands to my side. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes, and a greater pleasure still to spar with you. And I will be a lawyer one day.”

Before he can respond, I turn away. I walk out of the room, and through the hallway, underneath the proud dome, where the sandstone walls rise high and golden light filters through. I hold my head high.

When it’s better for all the world that we are not to be given chances, the only option we have left — the only option I have left — is to grab them instead. To fight for them, even if it means courting probable failure.

I hope Aunt Elizabeth will be at her office. I want to reschedule that tea. Perhaps she can introduce me to the dean after all — though I will do this on my own merits. I want to do this on my own merits, no matter how much time it takes. I curl my fingers around the pebble in my pocket. I’ll carve out my own space.

I believe I may be starting to understand what Aunt Elizabeth meant. Given time, I could grow to love myself. And in a world where we are considered undesirable elements, Carrie and I, perhaps that is the most radical act of all.