Chapter Seven
Tamsin
I’m in my dorm room practicing for Experiments in Drama. Professor Washington said she wouldn’t give us advance notice on scene set ups, but I know I’ll be partnered with Daniel and I want to be ready.
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours reading about abortion rights and thinking about abortion rights and talking with people online about abortion rights. I’m determined to win the argument once and for all, and I want to do it so convincingly that Daniel actually changes his mind.
Because in spite of him being pro-life and possibly a religious nut, I think he’s a decent guy. And no decent guy should be handicapped with wrong-headed notions about the abortion debate.
“That sounds kind of judgmental,” says Claire, when I start my speech to Will with that.
She, Rikki, Izzy, Mena, Julia, Will, Dyshell, and Sam are in here with me providing moral support—and in the case of Will, dramatic support. He’s not an actor, but I need a stand-in for Daniel and the two of them are close in size.
Although Daniel, in my private opinion, is a little more muscular.
Will and I are standing facing each other, and the audience is sitting on the two desk chairs and on the beds—mine and Rikki’s.
I’m still surprised—and really happy—that Rikki and I are sharing a room again this year. I’d been expecting her to ditch me. We’ve been roommates since we were freshmen, but she and Sam are practically married and I figured the two of them would get a place off-campus at some point.
But not this year, apparently.
“I’m not ready for that step yet,” Rikki said. “And anyway, I like living with you,” she added, giving me a hug.
That’s Rikki for you. Any other girl would jump at the chance to live with her boyfriend, but Rikki knows herself and she knows she isn’t ready.
Like I said, she has her shit together.
So we’re sharing a room again. Rikki has a whole tiger theme going on with her decorating (there’s a story behind that, having to do with a sculpture Sam made of her freshman year) and her side of the room is full of tiger posters and tiger figurines and stuffed tigers.
On my side of the room, punk and goth are a major theme. Vintage vinyl album covers from the Ramones and the Clash, Rocky Horror Picture Show posters, and some of my old vampire outfits from my cosplay days.
Half of one wall is covered with peacock feather masks, voodoo dolls, and jazz posters from when I went to visit Dyshell and Andre in New Orleans. There’s also some Hamilton stuff (I am a theater major, after all) and photos of friends from here at Hart and back home in San Francisco.
The only family photo is one of my grandmother.
“No pictures of your parents?” Rikki asked the first week back, the way she asked freshman and sophomore year.
“No pictures of my parents,” I answered.
“You still hate them?”
“I still hate them.”
And like she did freshman and sophomore year, she left it at that.
Rikki’s gotten neater in the last couple years and I’ve gotten messier, and the room is always in a tug of war between the two states. Tonight it’s fairly tidy since I asked everyone to come by. My bed, which Claire and Izzy are sitting on, is actually made for the first time in a week.
We’ve already chowed down on pizza and breadsticks, and I offered everyone Mezcal as an after-dinner beverage. Izzy and Claire and I were the only takers. Then I explained how the scene would work—for the set-up, I decided to be a pro-choice activist trying to change a pro-lifer’s mind—and made my opening statement to Will (aka Daniel) in which I said he was a decent guy who shouldn’t be handicapped by wrong-headed notions about abortion. Now Claire, sitting cross-legged on the end of my bed, finishes her Mezcal and makes her comment.
“That sounds kind of judgmental.”
“Don’t you think his ideas about abortion are wrong-headed?”
“Sure. But if you start out like that, you’ll put him on the defensive. You said your goal in this scene is to persuade him, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I’ve learned from experience that when I flat-out tell Will he’s wrong about something, which he often is, he’s not super inclined to listen to me afterward.”
“That’s true,” Will says, grinning at her.
“Okay,” I say. “No prologue calling him decent but misguided. I’ll just go right into my arguments. I want you guys to tell me if they’re convincing. I mean, I’m obviously preaching to the choir here, but—”
Then, suddenly, something occurs to me.
I turn away from Will and toward the rest of group. They’re sitting there looking expectant.
“Uh, guys? I didn’t mean to…that is…” I hesitate. “I don’t want to assume that we’re all pro-choice or anything. I mean, I know Rikki is, and Izzy and Mena and Julia and Dyshell and Claire, because we’ve talked about it, but…”
Sam is sitting with his arm around Rikki. “That just leaves me and Will. The guys.”
“Well, yes. I don’t think I’ve ever talked about this with either of you. If any of this offends you…”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m pro-choice. And even if I weren’t, this wouldn’t offend me.”
That leaves Will. When I turn to look at him he’s just standing there, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking uncomfortable.
“I…don’t really know what I am,” he says finally.
Claire gasps. “You’re not pro-choice?”
Her eyes are huge as she stares at her boyfriend. She looks shocked, and Will looks miserable as he stares back at her.
Shit. I only brought this up because I didn’t want to make assumptions, like we all did in Experiments in Drama.
But now I realize that I have made assumptions. I assumed that none of my close friends…this group that’s like family to me…could possibly be anti-abortion.
Will drags a hand through his reddish-brown hair. He’s grown it out a little since last year, when he had to quit football after an injury.
“It’s kind of a personal thing for me,” Will says. “I mean…okay. My mom got pregnant with me when she was eighteen, and it wasn’t planned. Like, big time not planned. Like, my biological father is a giant asshole. He didn’t want anything to do with me or my mom when he found out.”
I think of my friend in high school.
“Her parents were pretty upset too. They wanted her to have an abortion. In fact, they told her they’d kick her out of the house if she didn’t.” He takes a breath. “But she had me anyway. Obviously.”
Claire’s cheeks are pink, which happens to her when things get intense.
“I’m glad your mom had you. Obviously. But she got to make the choice that was right for her. Don’t you think other women should have that same choice?”
Will doesn’t look any less miserable. “Yes. Or no. I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like I think women should be forced to give birth or something.”
“But isn’t that the only other option? Either women can choose or they can’t.”
Mena breaks into the conversation then. She’s British, and I’ve spent the last couple years reminding myself that her accent doesn’t mean she’s smarter than the rest of us—although she’s premed and definitely is smarter than the rest of us. In some things, anyway.
“I don’t know if we can think of it that way,” she says. “As far as decision-making goes.”
“What do you mean?” Dyshell asks.
“Decisions don’t work like that. We can’t think of them as the same thing both before and after they’re made. If you’re talking about the possibility you might not have been born, you’re talking about something meaningless, because you were born. And if you’re talking about a fertilized egg that might have become a person but didn’t, that’s meaningless, too. Because it didn’t happen. And because of the things that did or didn’t happen, peoples’ lives took a certain path. But the paths that weren’t taken don’t have their own reality. Not in this universe, anyway.”
Every so often Mena goes off on a tangent that I do not get. The one who usually does is Sam.
“Are you talking a Schrödinger’s Cat kind of scenario?” Sam asks now, sounding interested.
Will sits down on the floor with his back against the closet door. I follow his cue and sit down with my back against the bookcase. I’m pretty sure neither one of us—or anyone else outside Mena and Sam—knows much about Schrödinger’s Cat scenarios, but Will doesn’t look as tense and bummed out as he did a minute ago, and neither does Claire.
So I figure letting Mena and Sam make the conversation a little less personal and a little more theoretical—even science nerd theoretical—isn’t a bad thing for a few minutes. And anyway, it’s obvious the scene between me and Will is on hold.
“Could you maybe tell the non-scientists what a Schrödinger’s Cat scenario is?” I ask.
“Sure,” Sam says, as Rikki gives me a why-are-you-encouraging-him look.
“Basically, you have a cat in a steel box who will die when a radioactive particle decays. But because the decay is unpredictable, you don’t know when it will happen. Until the box is opened, the cat’s state is completely unknown and therefore, the cat is considered to be both alive and dead at the same time until it’s observed. In other words, you have to treat it as if it’s doing all of the possible things—being living and dead—at the same time.”
“How does that—” I start to say, but Sam just keeps going.
“If you try to make predictions about the status of the cat, you’re probably going to be wrong. But if you assume it’s in a combination of all of the possible states that can exist, you’ll be correct. Now, as soon as you actually look at the cat, the observer will immediately know if the cat is alive or dead and the ‘superposition’ of the cat—the idea that it was in both states—would collapse into either the knowledge that ‘the cat is alive’ or ‘the cat is dead,’ but not both.”
My eyes are actually glazing over, but Mena’s nodding like this all makes perfect sense.
“Schrödinger came up with this paradox to illustrate a point in quantum mechanics about the nature of wave particles,” she says.
There’s a short silence.
“Well,” Claire says after a moment. “That was quite something. But I have absolutely no idea how that relates to what Will and I were talking about.”
“I’m a little fuzzy on that myself,” Will says.
“My point,” Mena explains, “is that it doesn’t make sense to look at the abortion issue on an individual level as though both possibilities—the fertilized egg becomes a child, or it doesn’t—are realities. That’s only true until the woman makes her choice.”
Another pause.
“Yeah…still fuzzy,” Will says.
Mena sighs. “It’s just that points of decision create timelines. Forks in a person’s life. And there’s absolutely no way to judge the outcome based on what might have happened if you made a different choice. I mean, everyone who knows you is glad you were born, Will. But isn’t it also true that a woman who had an abortion might be glad she made that choice? And that the children she goes on to have might also be glad? I mean, if she didn’t have an abortion when she wasn’t ready to be a mother, her life would have gone in a very different direction. She wouldn’t have had the children she did later on when she was ready. And don’t you think those children are glad they were born, too?”
Will and Claire speak at the same time.
“But wouldn’t that—”
“How can you—”
They both stop, and Mena shrugs. “I’m just saying that the whole ‘Abortion is wrong because your mom didn’t abort you and aren’t you happy about that’ argument doesn’t make much sense.”
“Definitely not from a theoretical standpoint,” Sam says.
“Yes. But also not from a common sense standpoint. I mean, you can’t compare an event that actually did happen to all kinds of hypothetical possibilities. They’re not the same, quantitatively or qualitatively. Life doesn’t work that way. To put it simply, life and potential life are not the same.”
“There’s a thought experiment about this,” Julia says suddenly.
She’s been pretty quiet tonight, and we all look at her expectantly. A curl of red hair is straggling out from under the thick green headband she always wears, and she tucks it behind her ear.
“So…okay,” she says. “Imagine you’re in a fertility clinic. Or, you know, someplace where there are embryos. Say a thousand frozen embryos, all in one container. And they’re viable. I mean, they could become babies if they’re implanted in a woman’s uterus. I don’t know if it’s actually possible to fit a thousand frozen embryos in one container, but—”
“We’ll assume it’s possible for the sake of the thought experiment,” Sam says.
“Right. So. The fire alarm goes off and flames are engulfing the building. You only have time to go into one room for a rescue. To your left is the room with the thousand frozen embryos. But in the room to your right there’s a five year old child, terrified and crying for help. What do you do?”
“Rescue the child,” Dyshell says immediately, and there are murmurs of agreement.
“Definitely the child,” I say. And in that moment I feel a kind of clarity. The answer seems so obvious.
Julia looks at Will. “What about you? Not to put you on the spot or anything,” she adds quickly.
“No, that’s okay,” Will says. “I’d rescue the child, too. No question.”
Julia nods. “The point is that we don’t really think embryos are the same as children. We think of embryos as potential life, and we don’t think potential life has the same value as actual life.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I thought that might tie in with Mena’s thing,” she adds, almost apologetically.
“It definitely does,” Mena says. “It sort of navigates what I was talking about from a moral position as opposed to a quantum mechanics position, but—”
“There’s another perspective on the whole abortion debate we haven’t looked at yet,” Izzy says abruptly.
She, like Julia, hasn’t said too much tonight. Now we all look at her.
“What?” Dyshell asks.
“We could talk to someone who’s actually had one.”
“Well, sure,” I say. “But no one here has—”
And then I stop. Because it’s suddenly obvious—to all of us—that one of us has had an abortion.
None of us says a word. We just sort of sit there, looking at Izzy.
I finally break the silence. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “If any of this has made you uncomfortable or—”
“It hasn’t,” she says. “I mean, it’s not something I normally talk about, but you guys are my closest friends. And I was sitting here listening to everyone, and I started thinking that maybe women not talking about their abortions is one reason people feel like it’s okay to talk about them in the abstract, you know? In theory instead of in reality. Because those of us who’ve actually gone through the experience don’t talk about it.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Mena says fiercely. “It’s your business and nobody else’s.”
“I know,” Izzy says. “And I’m not planning to do a Facebook post or anything like that. But you guys have made me think about some stuff.” She pauses. “I don’t remember the procedure very well, because I was sedated. But I cried afterward. Not because I thought I murdered a baby, but because I ended a pregnancy. Potential life may not be the same as life, but it’s something. And choosing to end that potential isn’t nothing. It affects you. Or it affected me, anyway. I didn’t make the decision lightly. It had weight.
“I’ve wondered what if sometimes, like I do about other things. But there’s never been a time I wished I made a different decision.”
We all just kind of sit there for a minute. Then Mena and Rikki reach out at the same time to hug her.
She puts up with it for a moment. Then, “You guys know I’m not a hugger,” she says, and they let her go.
“Thanks for trusting us enough to tell us that,” Will says. “Especially after what I—”
“There’s nothing wrong with what you said,” Izzy tells him. “You were talking about something really personal, like I was. Your mom made a choice that was right for her. I just don’t think that means other people have to make the same choice. Isn’t that the point of the pro-choice movement? It’s a decision that should be made by a woman with the people she trusts to make it with her. I mean, there is a pro-life side to this. Only I think it’s on the individual level, not the political level, if that makes any sense.”
“Yeah,” Will says. “That makes sense.”
We’re all quiet for a few seconds, looking around at each other.
“Man, this night turned intense,” Claire says after a moment.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “But we probably should have expected it when Tamsin invited us over to watch her and Will do an abortion improv. Which they still haven’t done, by the way.”
“It’s okay,” I put in. “I’m cool. I think I’ve got all the material I need for tomorrow night. Daniel Bowman doesn’t stand a chance.”
Dyshell is sitting backward on my desk chair, her arms folded across the top and her chin resting on her forearms. Now she straightens and stares at me.
“Hold up. The guy you’ve been talking about is Daniel Bowman?”
I nod.
“I know him. I mean, not well or anything, but I’ve met him. He’s on the team with Andre. He doesn’t party with those guys—Andre says he doesn’t drink—but they all like him.” She turns to Will. “You played with him too, right?”
Will nods. “Yeah. I didn’t realize it was that Daniel we were talking about. I gotta say, out of all the guys at Hart who might have signed up for a class called Experiments in Drama, he’d be at the bottom of my list. But he’s a really good guy. He’s not a star athlete or anything, but he’s tough as hell and defines the phrase team player.” He hesitates. “I like him.”
“Well, don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not planning to eviscerate him. I just want to do a good job in my scene. And thanks to you guys, I think I will.”
“This has been good for me, too,” Izzy says. “The truth is, I was a little worried about my own scene. I don’t know who my partner will be or anything about the setup, but it’s always hard when you have a personal stake. I feel better now, though. More centered.”
Julia asks her a question then, something about acting, but I’m distracted by a buzz from my phone. When I pull it out of my pocket, I see a little red number one on the Twitter icon.
I haven’t been on Twitter since last night. I got a mini flood of mentions then, because a bunch of us were tweeting back and forth about abortion, but that convo died down by midnight. I click on my notification tab to see what’s up.
It’s a direct message. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a direct message on Twitter before.
I click on the little envelope.
The avatar is Daniel’s face. The handle is DANIEL BOWMAN, @heartofsaturdaynight.
A shiver runs through me, quick and intense. I feel cold suddenly, and then hot, like I’m getting a fever.
There’s something I need to tell you. DM me back if you get this.
I look up from my phone, waiting for Izzy to finish answering Julia’s question. Then I say,
“You guys think we should call it a night?”
Claire nods and gets to her feet. “I still have some work to do before bed.”
Rikki says, “I hope this doesn’t sound corny, but—” and then she stops.
“Finish the sentence,” Dyshell puts in. “I like it when you’re corny.”
“It’s just…well, this is what I always hoped college would be.”
“People bearing their souls about really personal shit?” Izzy asks, grinning.
Rikki smiles back at her. “Sort of. I mean, I always wanted to have a group of friends that trusts each other enough to do that. Friends who have fun but can also talk about serious things. Things that matter. Things that aren’t easy.” She looks at Mena. “Even weird quantum mechanics stuff.”
“We’re lucky,” Mena says softly, looking around at everyone.
“Yeah, we are,” Will says, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to Claire. “My lady?”
I roll my eyes. “Every time you call her that, I resent not having a boyfriend. Can’t you come up with an affectionate-yet-insulting nickname? Scruffy or Sneezy or Buttface?”
Will grins. “Let’s go, Scruffy.”
We all say our good nights and people start to head out. After a couple of minutes it’s just me, Rikki, and Sam.
I hold my breath, hoping. Then Rikki says,
“I think I’m going to spend the night in Sam’s room. If that’s cool with you?” she asks him.
He gives her a look that probably melts her panties right off.
“That’s cool with me, yeah.”
Rikki gets to her feet, her cheeks pink.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Tamsin. Lunch?”
“If I’m up by then. No morning classes for me, so I’ll be sleeping in.”
“Okay. I’ll text you.”
Then the two of them are gone, and it’s just me.
Me and my direct message from Daniel.