* * *
After school, I settled into my comfy pants and sweatshirt, pulled last year’s edition of The Beam off my bookshelf, and opened it to the juniors, this year’s seniors. Several of them already had checks by them from when I was looking for a junior formal date (as I viewed this document as an informational directory, rather than precious memories frozen in time). That effort went for naught. I ended up going with Claire since she’d broken up with her girlfriend and had sworn off dating that week. But this was more serious. This would be a semester-long commitment. I’d asked all my potential dates from last year, and all my friends, and all my friends’ friends. I dropped to last year’s sophomores. Only three possibilities stood out there, and four freshmen. There might be new kids in the mix, but I didn’t know how to find them in the lower grades. I’d already managed to snag the new junior in Izzy and the new senior in Grace.
There’d be another prom this year. Maybe I should ask Grace. Lock that possibility in early so I didn’t have to worry about it later. Would she wear a dress? She struck me as a vintage suit kind of girl. Or maybe something completely unprom like. I’d be wearing a formal gown, since there were so few real occasions for that in life. I wondered if she’d just wear what I requested.
Was my face burning? Here alone in my room?
When did I start getting even marginally interested in someone? This was not good timing to start.
Focus, Millie, I thought. Goals.
I texted a list of all my candidates to Claire, since she was my real social conduit in the world. I also texted one separately to Raina, who had equal but unique social connections. I needed one person. Two would be ideal.
Grace had texted me, so I’d have her number. I could text her. The new girl. Who only knew us. It made total sense. I had accidentally already added her to my favorites, for efficiency’s sake. Why not just …
Just then a gavel banged over and over. I jumped and dropped my phone on the bed, my ringtone scaring me out of my thoughts of a certain teammate.
“Hello?” I said.
“There you are!” said my mother. “You are hard to get ahold of these days.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Mom. Senior year and all.”
A baby cooed in the background.
“Gavin wants to talk to you,” she said. “Hang up so I can FaceTime you.”
Before I could argue, Mom hung up. I clicked the screen when it lit up again. One chubby cheek took up the entire screen.
“Don’t eat the phone, little man. Say hi to Sissy.”
“Hi, Gavin,” I said. Maybe the kid had my mom to himself now, but he certainly was cute.
“Maaaaaaa,” he said to me. He held the phone out, a little too skilled at it for an infant. “Maaaaaa.”
“Love you,” I said without thinking. I didn’t want to like him, this tiny stranger in my life. But he had golden ringlets framing his face and ridiculous eyelashes. Mom’s contractor guy was super hot. He produced beautiful babies.
Gavin disappeared from the screen.
“Daddy has him,” she said.
“Hi, Millie,” said a deep voice from off camera.
“Hi, Matt,” I said.
He even sounded hot. Poor Dad. He never had a chance.
“Let me look at you,” said Mom. “Hold the phone away from your face.”
I complied.
“You look tired. Are you getting enough sleep? Are you doing all the housework? Don’t do all the housework, baby doll. You look taller, even the bit of you I can see here. I miss you so much,” she said.
“Miss you, too, Mom,” I said.
I did. Miss her. She and I had never been close, exactly. We didn’t share secrets or gossip or go shopping or anything when she was here. But I liked having her around. In particular, there was that time sophomore year when I decided I should try to have sex with my boyfriend (because he was nice and it was something other girls had talked about) and came home sobbing because it hurt and I hated it; she didn’t freak out. She said it could be better with someone else. And when I declared I never wanted to do it again, ever, she said that was fine, too. She said that she figured a lot of people felt that way, and one day she was sure I’d find my own someone who would rather obsess over obscure rulings than get naked anyway. Then she went back to harassing me to brush my teeth for two full minutes and that was that.
In a world that sometimes made me feel crappy about what my body wanted or did not want, Mom always made me feel normal.
But then she left.
“How is school?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Mock Trial?”
I hesitated. She’d probably have something useful to say about the whole all-girl team idea.
But then. She had left.
“Good. Getting the team into shape,” I said.
Mom studied my face. I could feel her sensing I just wasn’t telling her anything on purpose.
“How goes the college applications? Ohio has a lot of schools, you know.”
“Yeah, in Ohio,” I said.
Mom laughed. “It’s not so bad here. It’s like Pennsylvania. Your vote toward the resistance will go just as far.”
“Do you just want free childcare?” I said.
“That might help. It’s more I think it’d be nice for Gavin to grow up knowing you. And Ohio State is known for its Mock Trial team.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I looked it up. Also, I’m pretty sure Miami University has a great program. They are up there in the rankings.”
I could tell her that I’d applied to Ohio State for exactly the reasons she was saying now (even if I hadn’t been able to visit them). I still had no desire to change diapers, but I’d always wanted a sibling. And maybe if I said my home base was with Mom, I could get in-state tuition.
“Oh. Thanks,” I said instead. I had already visited colleges. The season for that was basically wrapped up. I figured it’d be a school close to Dad. He needed a team player around to make sure he’d be okay. Who knew if this new lady he kept talking about would work out. There were a lot of colleges in our wide state that could fit the bill. Also, he hadn’t left me.
Mom smiled. “I see the wheels turning.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
Just then a text came in from Claire.
“I should go, Mom. Homework and stuff.”
“Good night, love.”
“Night, Mom.”
I should tell her I loved her, because she said it to me.
But then again, she left.
I tapped off the call. Mom’s face froze for a second. She looked younger than I remembered.
Maybe she just looked happy.
I have no idea who these people are, read the text from Claire. They go to our school?
I sighed. Yes, I texted back.
Sorry, lady.
Also, I might kind of like the new girl, I texted before I thought about it.
Are you serious? Hell yesssss, she texted back. I muted my phone so I wouldn’t have to go more in depth about that tonight. In fact, maybe I hadn’t meant it. I needed to focus.
I abandoned any hope of doing work. We were so close to having a full team but still miles away. I heard Dad come home from whatever late meeting that had held him up. The ding of the microwave alerted me to the fact that he’d found the mac and cheese I’d left him in the fridge. I turned off my light and rolled over in my bed. I thought about Ohio State and baby Gavin. Did I want that? Had I really forgiven Mom for just up and getting herself a new life, even if she kept offering me a place in it?
I drifted off to sleep expecting to dream about missing Mom, but the last image I remembered was Grace handing me a corsage.
7
RAINA PETREE,
:
IN THE COURT OF
:
REVENGE OF CAMBRIA
Plaintiff,
:
COUNTY
:
; v.
:
:
THE WORLD,
:
Case No. WHYYYYYYYYY980
:
Defendant
:
FEBRUARY 2: PROCEDURE APPLICABLE TO APPROPRIATE ACTIONS IN ALL COUNTIES
The local magistrate Judge Herman T. Wise had done something in a domestic violence and sexual assault case nobody agreed with. When I arrived at The Dropped Stitch, the knitters barely looked up. All knitting circles had become political.
Everyone looked haunted. Grace waved to me as I walked in the door and sat down next to her.
“What’s up?” I whispered.
“The apocalypse, apparently,” she said.
“You always think things will be different. Even when they are different, they are the same,” said Beatrice.
“Do you know how many years I’ve been fighting for women’s rights? Seventy years. More if you count the workers’ rights meetings my mother took me to. And here we are with people in office, this guy on the bench. Saying rape isn’t rape if you’re married. And saying that he has rights to the baby since he got her pregnant. I…”
I’d missed the earlier context for whatever Herman T. Wise had done, and I was glad that I had.
“Gretta…”
“I have to live another six years to get that guy out,” she said.
“What do we do?” asked Grace. “Can we knit our way out of this?”
The group sat quietly for a minute, needles clicking.
“There’s always the pussy hats,” said Alex. “Those are kind of relevant.”
“Those were cute. Not without their problems, but a visible statement nonetheless. They made a point years ago. We need to knit something new,” said Gretta.
“Yes. I have a plan,” said Carla.
“Bring it on,” said Gretta. “My grandkids say that. Or maybe it’s the kids. Somebody.”
“Your daughter is going to have my head,” muttered Carla to herself. To us she said, “Okay, we need to focus on the sending of more body parts.”
I raised my eyebrows at Grace.
“We tried it before on a small scale, but this time we go big. We each sent a uterus the last time they tried to take away abortion rights; this time, we send ten each. Last time, we sent a constructed penis when they tried to take away the rights of transgendered folks; this time, we send twenty. I would like as many people as possible to suspend their current projects and work on this, maybe by Valentine’s Day. Yes. That’s a good idea. This will be our love letter to justice.”
No one said anything.
“Okay, good. We are agreed. We stitch body parts for the next few weeks. Let me know what patterns you want,” said Carla.
I turned to Grace. “Will you help me? Everything I work on ends up with more stitches than I start with. How can that possibly happen?”
Grace laughed. “It’s easy to do, even when you are paying attention. What happens with me is when the cheaper worsted weight yarn frays a little bit, it looks like one loop is really two. Gets me every time. Then once there is one extra stitch, there are four.”
“Yeah,” I said. I’d never noticed my yarn fraying. Though I usually tried to knit while binge-watching something on my computer. “Maybe I just need to watch what I’m doing. But I tend to think too much. I wonder if Millie would want a practice uterus.” I surveyed my yarn options.
“You already made her a heart,” said Grace.
“True.”
“Are you two a thing?” said Grace.
I watched. She poked around in her bag, trying to seem casual. But clearly this was information the girl wanted.
I grinned. “No. Not at all. She just kind of saved me from a pit of despair, so I feel like I should show her gratitude. If I were really into her, I wouldn’t give her my crappy first tries.”
The Crappy First Tries. That’d be a good name for a band made up of Brandons. I made a mental note to tell that to Megan.
“Poor Millie,” I went on. “She deserves better. If there were a more experienced knitter who wanted to show her affection through expert fiber arts, that opportunity remains available.”
Grace put down her bag. “Oh, I see,” she said, clearly blushing. “I can totally do that. Maybe I’ll skip the uterus, though. With chunky yarn, a hat only takes a few hours. With a matching scarf even. How’d she save you from despair?”
“Good. I had wanted to make her a hat before and got distracted by anatomy. I sort of mentioned the boyfriend thing the other day. My ex-boyfriend—” I tried to start. “Lead singer of the Crappy First Tries…”
“He’s in a band? I’ve never heard of them,” said Grace.
“Oh no. He’s into Mock Trial and Model UN and girls named Ruby. He dumped me on the first day back at school after break out of absolutely nowhere and I fell apart.” My heart started pounding. “Brandon decided he wanted another girl. Knitting helped, got that from an advice columnist—thanks Two Hearts!—but my life had been theater to that point. And I dropped it and didn’t care nearly as much as I should have, and maybe I’d been doing a bunch of stuff because of Brandon all along. I was a mess. But Millie gave me a purpose. Or the beginnings of a new purpose, anyway.” I looked at her. “It’s been almost a month now. I’m still a work in progress. But I’ve stopped my daily crying. Now it’s only twice a week. Three times, tops.”
“Oh. Wow. That dick,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe I should make Millie one of those. A dick. But it’d probably send the wrong message.”
“Let’s go with the hat idea. Save the dicks for the elected officials,” agreed Grace.
FEBRUARY 4: COMPLAINT COUNSEL’S RENEWED MOTION TO COMPEL
“Raina, what is this?” asked Millie.
I’d managed to find her before we met to discuss the case materials she’d been obsessing over alone for weeks.
“It’s a hat, obviously,” I said. “It’s just inside out. Look.”
I took the hat from her and flipped the crisscross strands inward. “It matches this scarf, here.”
“Oh, cool! You made this for me?”
“Grace made it for you, so that I could give it to you. I wanted to make something else, to thank you for getting me into this whole thing and partly out of my funk. Something other than an internal organ. The heart had been a practice project. But most of my stuff doesn’t come out the way I want it. Grace was happy to do it, and that girl knits fast.”
“Oh?” said Millie. She absentmindedly flipped the hat inside out again.
“Yes. Actually, she seemed concerned that you and I were a couple.” I couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across my face.
“What?”
“Yes, there might have been some jealousy there. She selected these alpaca yarns just for you. They are quite fancy.”
Millie stared at the hat and scarf.
“Focus, Millie,” she whispered, more to herself than to me. She looked up. “No time for love! Anger! War! Trial law!”
“Why not time for all of it?” I said. Someone should be happy in this life.
“Why are you telling me this now?” she said.
“Because you’ll see her in a few minutes. I like to mix things up,” I said.
“Great. Yeah. Thanks,” she said.
“Anytime,” I said.
We walked to the back corner of the library that Millie had declared our spot. We nodded to the school librarian, Ms. McClain.
“Hey,” said Grace as we rounded the biography section.
Millie flushed a crimson similar to her new hat. “Is everyone ready to go?” She cleared her throat. “Ms. McClain said she downloaded everything from the district Mock Trial site and that everyone picked up their packets. Did you look through everything?”
“I did. And I brought Post-its,” said Izzy. “This case. Wow. Who knew there was so much to these things? I should have been in Mock Trial at my old school.”
“Right? I was supposed t
o watch the boyfriend’s game, but I got caught up in all the witness statements. I was sure the defendant was guilty, but now I’m not so sure,” said Veronica. “Boyfriend was pissed I didn’t pay attention. But like he can do better than me.”
“You thought they were innocent?” I said. I’d been hoping to play the defendant. “They are so guilty!”
“Did you read the rest of the case materials? It’s ambiguous at best,” said Veronica.
“Post-its will solve this conflict. A rainbow of Post-its. To annotate,” said Izzy.
“Do we get to pick?” said Veronica. She glanced up at Millie. “Whether we are defense or prosecution?”
“We are assigned,” said Millie.
The rules calmed her. Then she sat next to Grace and her face immediately turned bright red.
The rules calmed her a little.
“When do we find out? Do we practice both sides?” said Izzy.
“Yes. Since we are lacking in members, witnesses will have to learn two parts—one for the defense, and one for the prosecution. We’ll have to prep arguments for both. Outlines are acceptable at this point. Any luck on another witness?”
All of us shook our heads.
“Grace, did you ask your aunt about being an adviser?” Millie asked.
“Yup,” said Grace.
Millie perked up. “Really?”
“She said she’d think about it, but I am almost certain she is going to come through. She was a big intellectual property lawyer in Pittsburgh but got burned out or something. Now she teaches yoga somewhere here in town.”
“Is she … still a member of the Pennsylvania Bar Association?” said Millie.
“Uh…” said Grace.
“Does she really need to be?” I said. “I mean, I doubt the legal knowledge just falls out of your head in downward dog.”
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