“I didn’t text you,” I shoot back, my mouth the only thing I still have control of. But even that feels slippery, as if it might jump the last few inches between mine and his without permission.
“Huh . . . ,” he says. “That’s funny ’cause . . .” and he holds up his phone, showing me a text that came in early this morning at three fifteen—
What r u doing?
“One”—I hold up an index finger, hoping it’s an effective barrier between us—“I was asleep at three. Two”—another finger goes up, adding a board to the wall I’m building—“I use real words when I text. And three”—last one, to hold it all in place—“that text came from someone named Lady, not me.”
He flips it back open, pulls up his contacts and shows me the entry for “Lady.” It’s my number, sure and true, a dark rendering of facts as concrete as the books in Jane’s office.
“You’re a lady, all right,” Isaac says, his voice husky in my ear as he leans closer.
“I . . .” My voice fails me, my hand trailing up to his neck to touch the tattoo there rather than push him back like I told it to.
“Something’s wrong,” I say, sidestepping away from him, my hand leaving his chest and going to mine to feel the pace of my heart. Very allegro.
“Yep,” he agrees. “And I know what it is. You like me . . . but you don’t like that you like me.”
“Based only on that sentence, you’re an idiot,” I say just as the parole officer’s door opens and a man sticks his head out.
“Sounds like she’s got your number, Harver,” he says, gesturing for Isaac to come inside.
“Uh-huh . . . ,” Isaac says. “And I’ve got hers.”
And then he winks at me.
And I like it.
five
“I asked Melanie if she knew what color the carpet was in her brother’s room, and she said green.” Brooke brings the wooden mallet down on the skull of our fetal pig, sending some cartilage onto my safety goggles.
“So taking that and the toe of the shoe I spotted in the pic, I’m guessing that is Cole’s dick. Hardly worth Instagramming.” She gives the pig another whack.
Lilly perches on a stool, elbows resting on the black countertop of the biology room. “Dammit,” she says. “It is a little dick.”
My friends have been plumbing the depths of the mysteries of the size of Cole Vance’s dick for a few days, not coming up with any solid evidence as of yet.
“Hmmmm . . .” Brooke watches Lilly carefully. “You could always ask Charity.”
Lilly flushes. “No way.”
“I can find out for sure,” Brooke says, pressing her thumb on the cranium.
“Excuse me?” Lilly says, her embarrassed pink kicking up to an angry red.
“Chill,” Brooke says, “I’ll just ask him to whip it out sometime.” The skull gives way underneath the pressure with a distinct pop.
“Does it matter how big it is?” I ask Lilly. “I mean, do you like him or not?”
“It matters,” Brooke says with conviction.
“It matters more if you like him,” I say, putting a reassuring hand on Lilly’s shoulder.
Lilly’s face scrunches up a little bit like she might cry at the unexpected support. “Thanks, Sasha.”
It’s not something I’d usually say, but I’ve come to the realization that while I might be the alpha of our group and Brooke the firm beta, Lilly can’t ever decide which one of us to please. She’s a toddler getting conflicting advice from her parents, and watching her confusion is solid entertainment. I’ve learned that if I can veil my words in something like kindness she tends to respond better, and I could use the distraction of being a good friend right now. Isaac gave me a knowing nod in the hall this morning that sent my stomach plummeting but my pulse skyrocketing.
I checked my phone the second I got to my car yesterday. No texts had been sent in the middle of the night—to anyone. None had come in either. I’m chalking it up to some semiliterate trying to connect with Isaac for God knows what and an errant radio wave identifying it as my number.
“I definitely like Cole,” Lilly says. “But I don’t want to end up in a micropenis situation.”
“You’re not the only one who enjoys a guy with a ’boner, Sasha,” Brooke adds.
I roll my eyes. “Do you have that brain exposed yet?”
“Ohhhhh yeah,” she says, ignoring the tools on the tray and cracking bone away with her gloved fingers. “Nervous system, here I come.”
“Also endocrine,” I say.
“You need to get out more.”
A sudden shriek makes everyone jump; Lilly almost topples off her stool.
“Mrs. DeBrau,” Charity Newell yells from across the room. “I think my pig is totally pregnant.”
“Like it could be only kind of pregnant,” Brooke says under her breath. I think of gray shadows and twining umbilical cords, one baby born, one forever in limbo.
“No, that’s not possible,” I say, and Brooke makes a duh face because she thinks I’m talking to her.
“Not possible at all,” Mrs. DeBrau echoes me. “It’s a fetal pig, Charity, only a baby herself. However, you’ve done excellent work here.”
She leans over Charity’s tray to inspect the splayed animal, skin pinned around it like a macabre cape. “You preserved the reproductive system while dissecting. You have a deft touch.” Mrs. DeBrau looks at Brooke pointedly.
“I prefer my mallet,” my friend says, spinning it in her fingers.
“Mrs. DeBrau,” I ask. “At what point can a fetus stop existing?”
She looks up from Charity’s table, a cautious look on her face. “What do you mean, Sasha?”
This is exactly the problem. I don’t know what I mean. Last night I did search after search on my laptop, ruling out the obviously wrong answers right away. Mom’s stance on abortion has always been unwavering, so that’s out. I have no way of knowing if a miscarriage occurred, but we both seem healthy and whole in the ultrasound.
“I mean . . .” Everyone is looking at me now, because Sasha Stone not knowing what to say is an event worth noting.
“Can there be a fetus, no miscarriage or abortion, and then . . . suddenly no fetus?”
“Sure,” Mrs. DeBrau says, leaning back over Charity’s fetal pig. “That’s called resorption. It happens alongside a miscarriage, and the mother’s body reabsorbs what’s left of the material. Typically she won’t even know she was pregnant.”
That doesn’t work. Mom definitely knew. There aren’t ten fingers in that ultrasound. There are twenty.
“But what about twins?” I blurt, and Mrs. DeBrau looks back at me. “What if there are twins and then . . . then there’s not?”
“Aahhh.” She smiles. “You’re talking about vanishing twin syndrome.”
I smile back. That sounds about right.
Vanishing twin syndrome: also known as fetal resorption, is a fetus in a multi-gestation pregnancy that dies in utero and is then partially or completely reabsorbed by the twin.