“MS. KNELLER?”
Nathalie looked up. Class had ended about ten minutes ago, and the last student had finally left the room, after hanging behind to ask question after breathlessly worried question about the AP Literature exam.
Nathalie loved all her students, but she loved her AP students best . . . probably because they all worked so hard. But the seriousness with which they took the test had caused more than one anxiety attack over the years. She wished she could tell them to take a deep breath and chill out. To go to the beach for the weekend, and enjoy a book instead of trying to analyze it. But she had learned over the years that for hypercompetitive kids raised in a dog-eat-dogma of achievement, that usually fell on deaf ears.
If only she could transfer a smidgeon of their drive to some of her more maddeningly lackadaisical non-AP students, the world would be a much more pleasant place.
Well, at least she managed to get them to laugh at Shakespeare’s jokes along the way.
But today she had been dying to get that last kid out of there, because she hadn’t been able to check Twitter since that morning.
And when she finally got on her phone, she was rewarded with two new tweets.
@WTFPreg—so people molesting a pregnant woman’s stomach is just a given then? Cool. Cool cool cool.
@WTFPreg—I swear, if I get ONE MORE pregnancy marketing email, I might actually buy something. Yeah. That’ll shut them up.
Nathalie felt that little pool of warmth in the middle of her body every time she read the Twitter feed. Finally, there was someone out there she could relate to! She’d been complaining about the pregnancy marketing emails just that morning. They popped up ever since she set up their baby registry online.
Of course, she was the one to set up the registry. David barely acknowledged that they’d need to get anything beyond a couple of onesies and some diapers.
She’d been dying to get on her phone because over the past couple days, she’d noticed a pattern—the tweeter of @WTFPreg tended to post her thoughts around lunchtime. So invariably, there was a little treat waiting for her at the end of the school day, a gift for getting through another round of teaching overeager AP kids and some of their more apathetic counterparts.
But who—who—could possibly be writing them?
“I’m Sophia Nunez—Maisey Alvarez’s mom?”
“Of . . . of course!” Nathalie said, realizing she had been staring blankly at the woman who was in her doorway for some seconds, not comprehending anyone was there—her mind still on the tweets and their mysterious author. “Hi, please, have a seat.”
“We’ve met before,” Sophia said, as she pulled one of the desk chairs around and brought it in front of Nathalie’s larger teacher desk. “At the—”
“At the Los Angeles County poetry recital. Yes, Maisey did amazing that day. How have you been since?”
“Oh,” Sophia said with a crooked smile. “You know. Busy. Life keeps us on our toes. Yourself?”
“Much the same,” Nathalie said with a corresponding smile. She remembered Sophia. Remembered mostly being struck by how young she was—it was one of the first times she encountered a parent as a peer instead of seeing them as she would her own parents or older, more seasoned co-workers. (It could just be proof she was getting old.) She also remembered just how freakin’ gorgeous Sophia was, wearing clothes and makeup with a confidence that one usually found in magazines. Maisey was the kind of kid who didn’t broadcast her beauty—although she was a lovely young woman who would no doubt have all the boys in her pocket the minute she decided to notice them. Looking at Sophia was like looking at future Maisey, and being blown away by the sheer power of it.
“You didn’t have to come by,” Nathalie said abruptly, to stop herself staring. “We could have done this over the phone, especially if this interferes with work . . .”
“No, we’re doing night shoots this week, so I don’t have to be at work until later this afternoon.”
“Right,” Nathalie replied. “And I swear, I won’t ask you for Fargone spoilers.”
Sophia gave a small laugh. But they both knew this chitchat was nothing but stalling.
So best to get down to it.
“Ms. Kneller, we both know that parents don’t get calls from the teacher without a reason. That’s why I wanted to come in and do this in person. Maisey’s never been in trouble before.”
“And she’s not now!” Nathalie was quick to reassure. She set her shoulders. “As you know, I’m Maisey’s faculty advisor, and I . . . I just wanted to ask if things are okay at home these days.”
Sophia’s expression stilled. She sat up in the chair. “Did something happen?”
“Well . . . yes and no,” Nathalie said. “Maisey didn’t turn in her paper this week.” For Nathalie’s AP class, the only homework she assigned—other than extensive reading—was one paper a week, ten pages long. It was grueling (and no picnic to grade), but it taught the students how to interpret literature on their own terms—and more importantly, it taught them how to argue, how to persuade, and how to write.
Sophia sat up straighter. “That’s not like her.”
“No, it’s not.” This was the second year in a row Nathalie had Maisey as her student and it was definitely not like her. “The Maisey I know often hands in her homework a few days early.”
“Well . . . it is second semester senior year,” Sophia ventured. “Senioritis?”
“I thought it might be that, although, senioritis doesn’t usually strike my AP students until after the AP exam in a couple months. I offered to cut her some slack, asked if she’d like to turn in her paper late for a grade markdown but still she’d get credit. If it was an A paper, she’d get a B, for example.” The first B Maisey had ever gotten in her class, but better than nothing. “But when I made the offer, she just shrugged and said, ‘Why? It doesn’t really matter, does it?’”
Sophia sucked in her breath.
“Okay,” Sophia said eventually. “Okay, I’ll have a talk with her. Thank you.”
“Ms. Nunez—”
“Sophia, please.”
“Sophia—I don’t bring this up to get Maisey in any trouble. It’s just very out of character for her.”
“Yes it is. I just . . . I’ve never had to have this talk with her before. She’s never . . . Reading and writing are her favorite things in the world. She’s never been disrespectful to a teacher.”
“And she wasn’t now,” Nathalie replied. “Trust me. I could tell you horror stories about students so gifted with insults you pray that they’d one day use their powers for good instead of evil. But I thought if Maisey was having difficulty at home . . . I know she was severely disappointed to not get into Stanford.”
“Yes.” Sophia nodded obliquely.
“And I worry that that was enough for her to question her entire future. I spoke with the guidance counselor, and she said that Maisey hadn’t applied to any other schools yet either. Deadlines are fast approaching and—”
“She hasn’t?” Sophia said abruptly. “But . . . I saw her, filling out applications. Right after she heard about Stanford. She had stacks of them, to UC Davis, San Diego . . . even UCLA and Berkeley.”
“According to the guidance office, she hasn’t requested any transcripts for applications, so . . .”
Sophia put a hand to her forehead, leaning on her elbow. Her eyes fell to the surface of the desk, no doubt her mind running a million miles a minute, trying to figure out the mind of a brilliant but lost teenager.
Then she took a deep breath. “It’s not just Stanford. It goes back earlier than that.”
“Earlier?”
“Ever since she found out about the baby, I feel like she’s been pulling away.”
Nathalie nearly choked. “Maisey’s pregnant?”
“What? No!” Sophia replied. Then, she laughed. “God, if Maisey was seeing a boy, I’d know where to place the blame for her behavior, because that’s what I was like when I was her age. No . . . I’m pregnant.”
“Oh. Oh!” Nathalie blinked. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” Sophia said kindly. “It’s an adjustment for us. Me, Maisey, Sebastian—that’s my boyfriend.”
“Understandably.”
“Still. I would have thought Maisey would have been past the age of jealousy over a baby brother or sister.”
“I’ve been teaching for a decade now, and kids at this age aren’t quite adults yet, no matter how much they pretend to be. Big changes still throw them—and they are facing down one of the biggest with college looming.”
“Do you have any kids yourself?” Sophia asked.
“Not yet,” Nathalie replied. Then, a hand went automatically to her stomach. “Although, give it four months or so, and I will.”
“You’re pregnant, too?”
Nathalie nodded.
“Well, congratulations to you as well then!” Sophia smiled. “You don’t look it.”
“That’s because I’m sitting and wearing this loose blouse.”
But Sophia shook her head. “You don’t look pregnant, you just look—”
“Lumpy?”
“I was going to say ‘glowing.’”
“Now there’s a classic descriptor. For what it’s worth, you don’t look pregnant either.”
“Thanks—but I’m not as far along as you. I’m barely out of the first trimester. The only clothing I’ve outgrown so far are my bras.” Sophia looked down at her own boobs—Nathalie couldn’t help it, she looked, too. “It’s obscene. Come on, we’re reaching seventies porno levels here.”
Nathalie couldn’t help it. She laughed. Long and loud. It just . . . felt really good to laugh at something. Anything—but especially something that had to do with pregnancy. It just felt like everything that had to do with the baby lately had been so stressful. Doc’s appointments, 529 plans, whether or not she should do a water birth . . . Every little thing was so very, very important. And she was the only one paying any attention, so that just made it more stressful. So to be able to laugh at something . . . well, perhaps she was laughing a little too hard, because between the tears streaming out of her eyes, she could see a shocked expression on Sophia’s face.
“Sorry, that might be a little TMI,” Sophia said by way of apology. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be discussing my boobs with my daughter’s literature teacher.”
“No, please! That is the least TMI thing anyone has said to me in so long. I cannot tell you the number of personal stories of body fluids and functions that I’ve been subjected to when people find out I’m pregnant. It’s like the scene in The Shining when the elevator doors open—just a flood of horror people can’t wait to share with you.”
“Well, I could tell you some, if you wanted,” Sophia said, on the fade of a laugh. “But honestly, all that stuff becomes a blur. At least it did for me anyway. Once the baby’s here—none of that really matters.”
Nathalie sobered, then studied Sophia.
“What does matter?”
Sophia looked to the side, pulling from way back in her memory. “Well, for the first couple months, you spend most of your time trying to keep the baby fed, and clean, and comfortable—basically you focus all your energy on keeping the baby alive.”
“And then?”
“And then . . . they are alive. They start to become real people. They have their own way of looking at the world, and it’s truly amazing what they know. I remember so many little things that add up to the big thing that’s Maisey. Scribbles on paper that are drawings of whole worlds. Recited stories about every detail of what happened at the park. I remember . . .” Sophia gave a small laugh to herself. “Oh God, I remember ‘eat soup.’”
“Eat soup?”
“When Maisey was about two, she started asking me every day to ‘eat soup.’ So I made her every kind of soup imaginable. Chicken Noodle, Minestrone, Tortilla, New England Clam Chowder. If Campbell’s made it, I bought it. But she would take one bite and then not eat it any more. It took me weeks to realize that ‘eat soup’ was actually,” she held her arms wide and started singing, “Iiiiiiiiit’s Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, from Mary Poppins—which she’d seen at her grandmother’s house and fallen madly in love with. We watched Mary Poppins once a week after that for an entire year. To this day I have that damn movie memorized.”
Sophia was lost in the memory, thus, she didn’t notice as Nathalie began to tear up again. But this time, it wasn’t caused by extreme laughter.
All the little things that make up the big thing. They were so much more important than anything she was going through now. Any worries, any wondering. Any little annoyance at her stepmother or her little sister . . . or even at David . . .
WHUMP.
Nathalie’s eyes went wide. Her hand flew to her stomach.
“Oh!” she said, surprised.
“What is it?” Sophia asked immediately.
“I think . . . I think she just kicked me.”
Nathalie looked down at her lumpy stomach in wonder. The belly she’d been gaining wasn’t flabby, it felt like a small medicine ball sitting beneath her skin—solid and full. And now, it felt like there was something moving in that medicine ball.
She’d felt little flutters the past couple days. Mostly, she thought it was related to the anxiety she’d been feeling about, well, everything (and possibly also, her favorite Mexican food she picked up for dinner). But this wasn’t a flutter. This was a definite kick—or punch. Whatever it was, it was made independently of Nathalie’s body, and it had actual impact.
It was her daughter, saying hello.
She was there. She was real.
She would have Nathalie’s eyes and David’s dark hair and his soccer skills—
. . . David.
And suddenly, Nathalie started tearing up again. But this time, she couldn’t stop it.
She didn’t know why—it just opened up a flood of emotions that she’d been keeping below the surface. And she was doing it all in front of a student’s mother—who had the grace to not look too alarmed.
Just a little bit alarmed.
“Are you okay?” Sophia asked, leaning over the desk and pulling tissues from the box that Nathalie kept nearby, handing them to her.
“Th–thank you.” Nathalie sniffled. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”
“Might I suggest hormones?” Sophia said wryly.
Nathalie choked on a laugh. “I was . . . She kicked me, and the only thing I could think was that my husband wasn’t here to feel it.”
Sophia nodded. Although, she would probably nod at anything to deal with the hysterical crying pregnant lady. “Understandable.”
“He’s been so distant lately, I can’t explain why—we’ve been together forever, I thought we were on the same page about having a baby. But now that we actually are . . . God, I’m so sorry, this is deeply unprofessional. If we weren’t a teacher and a parent, and if we weren’t pregnant, I’d offer you a drink.”
Sophia paused. Then . . . “Would you like some pregnant lady contraband?”
Nathalie’s eyebrow went up between dying sniffles. “What do you got?”
Sophia reached into her bag, and drew out the most beautiful thing Nathalie had ever seen in her life.
It was glistening. Just out of the fridge, it looked like, from the slow beads of sweat sliding down the most beautiful silhouette market testing had ever managed to produce. Sixteen ounces of heaven, the deep amber color of a whiskey held up to firelight.
Diet Coke.
Nathalie’s mouth watered. Soda wasn’t *really* on the Do Not Consume If Pregnant list. But caffeine was best limited, if not outright avoided, and all the (wonderful, delicious) artificial colors and sweeteners in a Diet Coke surely were not great for a developing fetus. And as Nathalie wasn’t about to do anything that could harm the baby, she hadn’t had a soda in ages.
She’d tried to assuage her cravings for carbonated beverages with seltzer water, mixed with fruit juice, but it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. It didn’t slide down the throat and spread across the chest in the same way. It didn’t offer anything close to the satisfaction.
She must have taken an inordinate amount of time staring longingly at that bottle, because Sophia finally interrupted her nearly pornographic daydream about swimming in a pool of soda.
“If it’s any help, I drank a little soda here and there with Maisey, and she turned out fine. Minor issues with doing her homework lately aside, of course.”
Nathalie bit her lip. Then, gave a quick nod.
Sophia handed over the bottle. She cracked it open (that sound!) and took a deep swig.
“That’s amazing,” Nathalie finally said. She took one more long gulp, then handed the bottle back to Sophia—like they were sharing a flask.
“I bet your husband is more tuned in than you think,” Sophia said, but Nathalie just shook her head.
“He’s always working. And if he’s not, he’s de-stressing with video games. I can’t get him to focus long enough on the baby for him to realize we only have a short period of time before she’s here. It’s like he doesn’t pay attention to the fact that things are happening now.”
“I get it, you know,” Sophia said, taking a swig of her own. “Sometimes it feels like you’re the only person who is pregnant. Like this is only happening to you—and everyone else around you is just going about their lives as normal.”
Nathalie could only nod . . . and hold out her hand for the bottle.
“My daughter’s not exactly into having a little sibling,” Sophia admitted. “And while Sebastian is much better than Alan was—Alan being Maisey’s dad—he’s still . . . clueless. Worries over every little thing I tell him, then that concern disappears as soon as he thinks it’s been solved with a blood pressure machine. Goes back about his life. Don’t get me wrong, I love him, and when he’s there, he’s there. But he’s . . . well, he’s younger than me. And sometimes that really shows.” Sophia sighed, and looked to the ceiling. “They have no idea about the upheaval a baby will cause. Because their lives aren’t upheaved yet. You and me, we can see it coming, because it’s growing and kicking inside us every day.”
Nathalie’s hand went to her stomach again, the spot where she had felt the quickening.
“I just wish I knew what to expect,” she said finally. “Everyone has a pregnancy story, but none of them are my story, none of them are a map for what is going to happen to me.”
“Not knowing what to expect is great training for having a kid.” Sophia smiled ruefully.
“I have over a hundred students every semester, I wouldn’t be able to handle them without having a plan.”
“It also helps to have someone to talk about this stuff with.”
“Do you? Have someone, I mean.”
Sophia waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I just talk. I don’t care who’s listening. Kip, my co-worker, knows more about my body than any gay man should. My mother, she’s the same mold as me, oversharer, so we just talk over each other. When Sebastian is in town he tries to keep up but I can tell he’s panicking sometimes and just wants me to take care of everything. Maisey might never have sex in her life thanks to all she’s heard me say.”
Nathalie shook her head. “Maisey’s going to bloom in college. I hope you’re ready for that.”
“No mother is ready for that. But I can’t wait to see it.” Sophia smiled, her eyes getting a little watery herself. Hormones, no doubt.
“But what about you?” Sophia continued. “Do you have anyone to talk to? Parents? Siblings?”
“My stepmother is . . . a bit much sometimes. And my sister—well, my little sister is pregnant, too.”
“Well, there you go!” Sophia cried. “Someone who’s going through it.”
“My sister is so irresponsible, she got knocked up by her bisexual roommate, I don’t think she’s the one I need.”
Sophia’s eyes went wide, a hand covered her mouth. “Seriously?”
Nathalie nodded.
“How did that happen?”
“I assume she tripped over something. She’s only twenty-four.”
Sophia blinked. “Twenty-four’s not that young. My mother was married and had me by twenty-four.”
“My mom, too. But . . . it’s different. Lyndi’s a young twenty-four—she doesn’t know what she wants out of life, bounces from job to job. She’s basically a kid herself.”
Nathalie gave a little, hysterical giggle. Sophia followed suit. But then . . .
A shuffle. She heard it, by the door. Probably a student, Nathalie thought. Although, something prickled along the back of her neck. The same feeling she used to get when Lyndi was a kid and hovering outside her bedroom door, hoping to borrow lip gloss.
But when she turned around no one was there.
She frowned. She could have sworn . . .
But then, Sophia’s giggle had died down. And she’d grown reflective.
“I was nineteen when I had Maisey. It’s . . . it’s hard. You hardly know yourself, and you’re about to have another person you need to know, inside and out. Once you get to our ages, you have the benefit of knowing who you are and how you’re going to take care of everything.”
Nathalie’s smile fell immediately from her face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to infer anything—”
“No, I know,” Sophia said, waving her hand. “Trust me, I got used to speculation about my life when Maisey was little more than a baby. But it’s never easy. Even though I had a support system in my mom. Your sister, she’s going to need the same thing. Even if it’s just someone to talk to about how hard it is.” She cocked her head to one side. “You guys are lucky to have each other.”
Nathalie let that settle in her stomach, next to the pop and fizz of the half-drunk soda.
She was lucky to have her little sister in her life. Lyndi’s immaturity may be aggravating in the extreme, but she’d also always been the one to make everything better. Just her existence—her being born—made living with Kathy tolerable. And she deserved more than the annoyed scorn Nathalie felt every time she looked in her direction recently.
But it was damned hard sometimes.
“You know what?” Nathalie said finally. “Maisey is incredibly lucky to have you, too.”
Sophia chuckled. “I don’t know how she turned out to be such a good kid. When I was her age I was obsessed with whatever boy I was dating and getting my eyeliner wings perfect.”
Nathalie leaned forward in her chair. “Can I ask something?”
“Shoot.”
“How do you get your eyeliner wings perfect?” She’d been dying to know since Sophia had walked into the room how she managed to look so flawless.
Sophia blinked. Then, she reached into her voluminous bag, and pulled out a makeup bag, and a rolled-up set of brushes. Then she took one final swig of the Diet Coke, finishing off the bottle.
“Okay, but if we’re doing this,” Sophia said, “I’m going to need more soda.”