The How & the Why Page 5

Clean slate, right?

  But I’ve got some free time at the moment. And there’s not much else to do.

  Heather’s gone. That’s the big news around Booth.

  Her seat is right next to mine in algebra. We don’t have desks here, because it would be tough to squeeze our bulging bellies behind them, but we sit at a series of folding tables, two or three girls to a table, usually. And every day for first period, which is Algebra II for me, I sit next to Heather.

  Except today.

  “Where’s Heather?” I asked when it became clear that she wasn’t going to show up.

  “What are you supposed to do when you have a question?” Miss Cavendish said. She’s not a bad teacher, just the shy, baby-faced type who thinks she can only keep her authority if she’s a stickler for the rules. This is her first year teaching, and it’s obvious.

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Where’s Heather?”

  “She’s gone to St. Luke’s. Her water broke early this morning. She might have even delivered by now,” Miss Cavendish reported. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  I don’t know what it is, but wonderful doesn’t seem like the right word for it.

  Of course the other girls instantly started talking amongst themselves. It’s always a huge deal whenever one of us gives birth. We want to know all the details: When did she start having labor pains? How bad were they? But how bad, really? On a scale of one being stubbing your toe and ten being like having your foot chopped off, how bad was it? Did she have an epidural or try to be a hero? Did she end up with a C-section? Will she have a huge scar now? Did she have a male doctor or a female? How long was she in labor? How long did she push? Did she poop on the table? Did she have to have stitches, after? Did she scream and cry? No, really, how bad was the pain?

  We don’t usually get the answers to these all-important questions until much later, of course. Each girl is given a two-week maternity leave after giving birth before we have to return to school. More, if it’s a C-section. But we like to speculate. It passes the time.

  So Miss Cavendish went back to explaining functions and the rest of the class kept whispering about Heather. I was thinking that my room is right next to Heather’s, and I didn’t hear a peep out of her this morning. Not a groan or a cry or heavy breathing or any of it. It must have happened early. And I must have really been out.

  But then I heard this girl Amber say something rude.

  Now, first off, I never liked Amber. She’s one of those girls who act like they should get a medal for being here. And she’s always talking about her plans. She’s keeping the baby, and after it’s born she’s going to get her stylist’s license or whatever and cut people’s hair until she can save up enough money to go to college, and then she’s going to become an accountant. Because there’s always going to be a need for accountants. Which okay, yeah, is not the worst plan I’ve ever heard. Good for Amber, right? Go be an accountant. Live your dream.

  Except I have algebra with her, and the girl is flat-out terrible at math. The day Amber becomes an accountant, I’m going to be a rocket scientist. Which is to say, never.

  And this girl won’t. Stop. Talking.

  About how she’s going to be mother of the year: cloth diapers, organic butt paste—the works.

  About how she could never have even considered giving her baby up for adoption. Not even for a second. Oh no.

  About her “support system” of her obviously awesome parents and grandparents and friends, who are all going to help her raise said baby. It takes a village, right?

  About the benefits of breast milk and the newest industrial-grade breast pump.

  In other words, Amber’s annoying. Even on good days it takes a lot of restraint for me not to punch Amber in the nose.

  So she was sitting there, not listening to Miss Cavendish lecture about math, babbling on about Heather, and she said, and I quote:

  “I wonder if Heather will even want to hold her baby? Or maybe she’ll ask the nurses to take it away the minute it’s born.”

  I clenched my teeth.

  She wasn’t done. “I mean, how could you hold your baby and then ever let it go? That’s the thing I can’t understand. It’s your baby. It’s part of you. I could never do that.”

  I counted back from ten. Melly’s been trying to get me to count as a way of keeping my temper. I can be hotheaded at times, and being pregnant doesn’t help. But this time the counting didn’t work. I kept thinking about Heather’s letter and how much she obviously cared about her baby. The blushing thing. The way she wrote about a better life.

  “It’s so selfish,” Amber continued. “She’s going to give her baby to a stranger, all so she can go back to her old life and, like, get wasted at parties and act like it didn’t happen.”

  Okay, secondly, I can’t picture Heather at a party. She plays the flute in the school band. Not that flutists can’t party, but I can’t imagine her sloshing around with a red cup in her hand, laughing at some guy’s tasteless joke. Heather’s got this layer of . . . I don’t know . . . dignity about her. Heather’s not the type of girl who goes to wild parties.

  I should know. I am the type of girl who goes to wild parties.

  “Do me a favor, Amber,” I said quietly.

  She looked startled. I don’t usually talk to her. “What?”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  Everything went completely, blessedly silent for about five seconds. I thought maybe that was it. Maybe she’d shut up.

  “What is your problem?” Amber said then, still half whispering.

  “Why do you have to talk smack about Heather?” I countered. “You don’t even know her.”

  “Oh, and you do?”

  Well, no. I mean, we aren’t friends, Heather and I. Not really. But I’ve lived next door to her for the past couple of months. I know her well enough to know the term selfish should not be applied.

  A throat cleared timidly. Miss Cavendish had turned around and was attempting to glare us into submission. “No talking, girls. Focus, please. Now, are there any questions about the function of functions?”

  Amber smirked at me. Like she got the last word.

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Can you please tell Amber to shut the hell up?”

  “Oh my God.” Amber raised her hand, too. “Can you ask her why she has to be a bitch all the time?”

  Thirdly: I do not like being called a bitch. Why do people always jump to that word? It’s so unimaginative. Plus, I like dogs. On behalf of canines everywhere, I take offense. I mean, I don’t like Amber, but I wouldn’t call her a bitch. I’d say she’s more of a dunderheaded douche canoe.

  “Why am I the bitch when you’re the one bitching?” I fired off. Which I thought was pretty good.

  Amber got up. Her belly is enormous, so it took her a minute. She’s also a bigger girl than me. Six inches taller. Meaty shoulders. I honestly can’t picture her as an accountant. (Actually, that’s unfair. I guess accountants can come in all shapes and sizes.)

  “Bitch,” she said again, which got some hoots from the rest of the girls.

  Well, shit, I thought. I can’t sit here and take it. I stood up, too. “Mucus plug,” I said. A little pregnancy insult there.

  “Girls!” Miss Cavendish looked back and forth between us. There was a quiver in her voice. “Girls, stop it.”

  “You think you’re special, don’t you?” Amber said coolly. “Living here, but acting like you’re above it all. We all know about you. Your dad, the big politician. Your mom, the beauty queen. Your brother, the football star.”

  “She’s not my mom,” I clarified. “She’s my stepmom. Get your facts straight, at least.”

  Miss Cavendish clapped her hands together. “That’s enough.”

  “So they’re hiding you here.” Amber waddled up to get right into my face. “You know why? Because they might be all rich and fancy, but you’re trash.”
>
  “Shut. Up.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me that you’re going to abandon your baby.”

  Oh man, I was going to have to hit her.

  “Do you even know who the father is?”

  That’s when I punched Amber in the nose.

  I shouldn’t have. I’ll admit that. But in my defense, she was really egging me on. And I didn’t hit her too hard. I didn’t break her nose, for instance. That’s something. It must have looked kind of funny, though, that whole scenario, two pregnant chicks facing off. I punch her—she pulls my hair, all the other preggo girls jump up and start yelling or crying. Like a weird form of sumo wrestling.

  So yeah. I’m currently in detention. Which at Booth means in the chapel. I’m in here with a bunch of Holy Bibles and the exercise mats they use for the Lamaze classes and the trusty yellow legal pads where I’ve been writing these letters. Writing another goddamn letter.

  And here’s the thing I want to know. Do you think I’m selfish?

  I still stand by what I said in the first letter: I’m not meant to be a mother. Not now, anyway. Maybe not ever. I just used the word goddamn in a letter to my unborn child. I’m not really the nurturing type, and that’s unlikely to change.

  If I kept you, I’d only screw you up. I don’t have some master plan for my life. I can tell you that I’m definitely not going to be an accountant. Or a rocket scientist. I don’t have wonderful, supportive parents who would help. They’d only screw you up worse—trust me on that one. They did a number on me. You deserve to be raised by grown-ups. People who get along. Who love each other, even.

  But does any of that matter? Are you going to think I was selfish, no matter what the reason? Are you going to think I abandoned you?

  I hope not, X. I really hope not.

  S

  7

  Cassandra Rose McMurtrey. That’s what was on the birth certificate.

  My name.

  Born to Catherine Elaine McMurtrey (mother) and William Patrick McMurtrey (father) on September seventeenth, eighteen years ago. Looking at that high-quality piece of paper, you’d never know it wasn’t my original birth certificate—it’s got the official signatures and the state seal and a watermark and everything—except that it’s signed and dated in November of that year. A couple months late.

  Idaho, the internet rather snarkily informed me when I looked into it more closely, is a closed-record state. As in, they’ll never give me my original birth certificate, no matter how old I am. I’d have to get a court order. And to get a court order, I’d have to have a good reason. Like a medical reason. A legally sound reason.

  Curiosity, it turns out, is not enough.

  So this is who I am: Cassandra Rose McMurtrey. That’s my answer.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” Mom remarks.

  I blink up from my phone, where I was supposed to be finding this funny cat meme I wanted to show my grandma but was actually spacing out. “I’m fine,” I mutter, because I am. Fine, that is. It was an impulsive thing, requesting my birth certificate, and nothing came of it, and that’s okay.

  I’m fine.

  “You’re too skinny.” Grandma pokes me in the ribs. “Isn’t your father feeding you? I swear that man thinks a person can survive on bark and pine nuts.”

  I put a hand up like I’m swearing on an invisible Bible. “I’m eating three square meals a day, I promise.”

  “Well, you should eat more,” she pronounces.

  “Mama, back off about her being skinny.” From the hospital bed, Mom smiles at me. “My daughter is practically perfect in every way.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s true.” Grandma doesn’t get the reference to Mary Poppins. She lifts Mom’s legs one by one and rolls a thick sock onto each foot, then unfolds a blanket and tucks it around Mom’s hips. After that she goes out to refill Mom’s water. Comes back with the water. Adjusts my mother’s straw in the water. Then disappears again; I don’t know where. That’s how she is when she’s here. Grandma likes to have tasks to accomplish.

  “Don’t mind her,” Mom says after Grandma bustles out of the room.

  “I don’t mind her.” I adore Grandma. She says what she thinks, but she’s still kind and generous and an all-around good person. I want to be exactly like her when I’m an old lady.

  “How’s school?” Mom asks.

  “Fine. I got a B-plus on my chemistry test, which I consider a minor victory.”

  “Congratulations. And how’s the play going? Off to a good start?”

  I smile. “We did a table read yesterday, and we’re going to start blocking act one tomorrow.” Just saying the lines out loud for the make-out scene between the baker’s wife and Cinderella’s prince gave me butterflies. Bastian was so funny at the reading, making everybody laugh because of how totally into the prince’s role he was.

  “I was raised to be charming, not sincere,” was his best line, and he said it so deadpan that the entire cast cracked up for like five minutes.

  But when we read the kissing part between the prince and the baker’s wife, he didn’t look directly at me. He was shy. It was kind of adorable.

  “I still can’t believe you’re doing Into the Woods,” Mom sighs. “My favorite musical.”

  “It’s going to be great,” I tell her. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  The actual performance is months away, though. I try not to think about how there’s a possibility that she might not see it. I force myself to believe that she will. She’ll be in the front row. With Dad.

  Mom gives me a weak smile. “And there’s a new boy, right? What’s his name again?” Ugh, she’s too darn perceptive for her own good. I wonder if she’s been talking to Nyla, who comes by on her own to visit her sometimes. She always brings daisies, Mom’s favorite flower. I glance around. Sure enough, there’s a fresh vase full of daisies next to the window.

  “Bastian,” I say to answer Mom’s question. “He’s, um, fine.”

  “Fine as in fine? Or fine as in fine?” Mom wags her eyebrows up and down. I can’t help but laugh.

  “He’s reasonably attractive,” I admit.

  “And . . . ?”

  “And what?”

  “Well, dear, you know you always get a crush on the leading man.”

  I gasp in fake outrage. “I do not.” Dangit, Nyla.

  Mom wrinkles up her nose. “So you don’t actually like this new boy.”

  I don’t answer right away. It feels like some kind of trap, and it seems weird, sitting here in a hospital with my dy—my sick mother, and she wants to talk boys. But I also know if we were a normal family, a regular old mother and daughter, we’d talk about boys. So I decide to give in and play it up for her a little.

  “I don’t know,” I confess. “Bastian is kind of perfect.”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Perfect?”

  “He’s cute. Funny. He seems nice, too. And he’s a theater person,” I say. “So yes, okay, fine, let’s just say I’m open to wherever the universe decides to take me, romance-wise.”

  “Excellent.” Mom seems pleased that I’ve picked up on her philosophy. She sighs wistfully. “I had a boyfriend in high school. His name was Justin Irish. He was six two and had red hair and was completely dreamy.”

  “You obviously have a thing for tall gingers,” I laugh. Because Dad.

  “Indeed.” She grins. “And you have a thing for the leading man.”

  “I do n—” I throw up my hands. “Bastian is not even the leading man in this play. He’s . . . Prince Charming.”

  “I see.” Mom taps a contemplative finger to her chin. “Is this why you’re being so quiet? Because you think I might not approve of you dating someone? Because, believe me, I am fine with it, honey. You haven’t had a boyfriend yet, and that’s okay, of course. But maybe that’s a little bit my fault.”

  I glance up, startled. This conversation is swiftly crossing into the no-fly zone. Like we’re actually going to act like Mom’s heart thing happened, an
d it was a big fricking deal.

  She pats my hand. “You should take a chance on love anytime you can. So go for it—go out with this guy, if you decide you like him. Don’t feel like you have to spend all your free time waiting here with me for my new heart to show up. Live your life. That’s what I want for you. And then you can come back and tell me all about it.”

  And now we’ve returned to our regularly scheduled program of “acting like everything’s normal.” I swallow. “Okay.”

  “You’re still being quiet,” Mom observes.

  “I’m fine. I have a lot going on right now, is all, without even adding dating to the mix. School. The play. College plans. There’s so much happening.”

  Mom gets an expression on her face I can’t quite read, like she’s waiting for something unpleasant to happen. Or like she’s scared. She glances at the door.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” I ask.

  She sighs. “Your father told me you got your birth certificate.”

  And here we go. I’m busted. Crap. “Yes,” I say slowly.

  “He said you needed it to apply to Juilliard.”

  That’s the thing about lies. They’re like boomerangs. You think you’ve gotten away with something, you throw the lie as far away from you as you can, but it always comes hurtling back.

  “Yes,” I say again.

  Her heart rate monitor picks up speed. Beep beep beep, it goes, like the beat of a fast song at the school dance. I sit down next to her. “Mom?”

  She closes her eyes for a few seconds. Takes a breath. “You can’t go to Juilliard. With the medical bills and the second mortgage and all that, we don’t have the funds to send you. I know you’ve been dreaming about going there since you were a little girl. And I know we told you that there was a mutual fund we set up for your college education, but . . .” She looks away, toward the door again. “That money’s all gone now. I’m so sorry, honey.”

  For a few minutes I can’t say anything. I’m shocked. I wasn’t even being that serious when I said Juilliard to Dad. In the back of my brain I know it’s a pipe dream, really, but to hear Mom say I can’t go—it packs an unexpected punch. I shouldn’t be this surprised. I might not have known all the details, but I’ve been paying attention this past year. I know that my parents had decent health insurance through my dad’s job before my mom’s heart thing happened, but even with good health insurance the medical bills decimated my parents’ savings, gobbled up their retirement, the cake shop, the second car we used to own. Nyla’s been silently paying for me all year, slipping a twenty into my hand when we go to the movies and telling me to buy our tickets, paying for lunch, for the cute shirt she saw me eyeing at the mall, for last weekend’s pizza. Because my family’s broke.