Tamsin

by Abigail Strom

  Just act your ass off, Tamsin.

  Okay, Voice Inside My Head. I will.

  “Begin scene,” Professor Washington says.

  I turn on Daniel. He’s a lot bigger than I am—like, a lot—but I don’t feel small.

  “Get out of my way.”

  He’s got a deer-in-the-headlights look, and I wonder how much improv he’s done in his life. Which brings me back to the question of why he’s even in this class.

  Or it would bring me back to that question, if I wasn’t acting my ass off and not letting things get personal.

  “I—”

  I take a step toward him. “How dare you try to shame and intimidate my daughter.”

  “I—”

  “It’s easy for you, isn’t it? Carrying a sign that says ‘Choose Life’ when you don’t know anything about our lives.”

  I gesture toward the imaginary sign I’ve just invented, and he actually looks up at it. His hands even shape themselves as though they’re holding it.

  He’s got a few improv instincts, at least.

  He looks back at me, still holding the invisible sign, and I see the muscles of his throat jump as he swallows.

  “It’s true, I don’t know you or your daughter. I don’t know anything about your lives. But I know you are alive. Don’t you want your unborn grandchild to have that gift? The gift of being born?”

  “When my daughter decides she’s ready to have a child—if she chooses to have a child—she’ll bring a baby into this world who’s wanted. A baby she’s ready to care for and raise. But she’s sixteen years old right now, and she’s not ready for any of that.”

  Daniel frowns. “She made the decision to have sex. Shouldn’t she take responsibility for that decision? Actions have consequences.”

  My spine goes rigid and my nostrils flare. I’ve never been pregnant myself, but one of my closest friends in high school had an abortion and it’s her experience I draw on now.

  “Why aren’t you saying that to the guy who got her pregnant?”

  “Because—” He stops.

  I take another step toward him, and now I’m pretty much in his face.

  “That’s right. You’re not saying any of that crap to the guy who got her pregnant because he isn’t here. He doesn’t have to be. He’s not pregnant. Do you know what he told my daughter when he found out? Your baby. Your problem.”

  “Okay, that’s—that’s obviously not—I mean, that sucks. That’s terrible. But if you prove paternity he’d have to—”

  “What? Pay child support?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would he have to face what my daughter would have to face? The reality teen mothers face? Less school, worse job prospects, worse health, worse quality of life? Would he risk death if the pregnancy turns out to be medically dangerous? Could he be legally forced to raise the child, care about the child, care about the mother? Could he be forced to be a father?”

  “I don’t—”

  I take a deep breath. “We live in a world where men can walk away from the consequences of their actions. Thank God we also live in a world where women can take control of their own lives, by deciding when and if they bring a child into this world.”

  And then, for the first time in my life, an audience bursts into spontaneous applause—for me.

  “Okay, end scene,” Professor Washington says, as the cheering dies down. “Good job, both of you—but I think we know where the intensity was in that one. Don’t worry, Daniel, you’ll get another bite at this apple. The two of you will start us off next time. The rest of you, find a scene partner before Thursday’s class. I won’t tell you what the setups will be, so be ready for anything.” She glances at her watch. “Okay, that’s it for today. Don’t forget your journal entries for next time.”

  Adrenaline is still pumping through my system.

  Where did all that anger come from? I’m pro-choice, but I’ve never been an activist or anything. Was it acting or something else that came out of me just now?

  Daniel and I make our way off the stage and back to our seats. I half expect him to say something to me about our scene, but he just grabs his backpack and heads for the door.

  Izzy leans toward me. “Even money says he’s not back next time.”

  “You think he’ll drop the class?”

  “Yeah. I mean, imagine the reverse.”

  “The reverse?”

  Izzy nods. “Picture yourself at a church in Utah or Alabama or someplace, surrounded by pro-lifers. Would you stick around?”

  Charlie says something to Izzy then, and the two of them start talking. But I don’t listen, because Izzy’s comment is making me think.

  Does Daniel feel like that? Like he’s surrounded by a hostile army?

  Well, why shouldn’t he? Women have been facing a hostile army on the subject of abortion for decades. And the stakes are a lot higher for us than him.

  But…

  I don’t want to win the argument by drowning him out or running him out of town. I want to win the argument because my argument is better.

  And I want to know how the guy who said the stuff he did freshman year could possibly oppose a woman’s right to choose.

  But I’m guessing Izzy’s prediction is accurate. I’m guessing Daniel won’t show up for our next class.

  And my feelings about all this are so confused I don’t even know if I’m relieved or sorry.

  On my way out I realize I left my backpack behind. I tell Izzy and Charlie I’ll catch up with them and go back to get it.

  Because of that, I’m the last person to leave the theater. It’s on the basement level of the performing arts building, and the hallway outside is dimly lit and a little chilly. I’m hurrying toward the warmth that waits for me outside when Daniel Bowman, waiting in the shadows under the stairwell, steps in front of me.

  “What conversation?” he says.

  My heart skips a beat.

  He doesn’t look mad, but he looks intense. He’s frowning and his arms are folded, which draws attention to how broad his shoulders are.

  Damn, he’s good looking. And tall. And…

  “I’m sorry,” I say after a moment. “What did you say?”

  He unfolds his arms and slides his hands into the pockets of those neatly pressed trousers.

  “You said you overheard a conversation of mine freshman year. You said I was sex-positive or some other feminist thing.”

  He uses the word feminist like it’s an insult instead of a compliment, which is irritating. But I can deal with that later.

  “It was in the coffee house at Heller Hall. Some guy from your dorm called me a skank because he could hear me and my boyfriend—Oscar—having sex through the walls. And you told him—”

  I swallow. Two years later, and I still remember what it felt like to have a total stranger defending me. And now it looks like I’m going to find out he never meant to defend me at all. Or something.

  “You told him not to call women skanks. And you said if he called a woman a skank for being loud in bed, it just meant he never made a woman come so hard she screams.”

  Daniel is still staring at me, and his frown slowly fades away until his forehead is smooth again.

  “I remember that conversation,” he says after a moment.

  Thank God for that, anyway. At least he doesn’t think I’m making it up.

  “I didn’t realize you heard us talking,” he continues. “I’m sorry.”

  What’s he apologizing for? Standing up for me?

  “What do you mean, you’re sorry? Sorry for what?”

  “Sorry that Shane was such a prick. And that you had to listen to his bullshit.”

  And just like that, my throat starts to ache and tears sting behind my eyelids.

  “That’s nice of you,” I say gruffly.

  We continue staring at each other, and I’m damned if I can remember why we even started talking about this.

  But Daniel remembers.

  “So
. What does that have to do with me being pro-life?”

  Right.

  I take a breath. “You didn’t slut-shame me. Another feminist phrase, if you’re keeping track. Like sex-positive. Which you also were. So if you respect women making choices about when and how they have sex and who they have it with, why don’t you respect a woman’s right to make decisions about her uterus?”

  That brings the frown back. He pulls his hands from his pockets and folds his arms again.

  “Why is it all about her rights? Who’s looking out for the rights of the unborn child?”

  “A fertilized egg isn’t a child. It’s a bunch of cells.”

  His frown deepens.

  “Have you ever seen an ultrasound picture of a fetus?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Then how can you say it’s not a child?”

  “Because it can’t survive outside the womb. And because most abortions are performed in the first eight weeks, when it’s an embryo and not a fetus.” I take a deep breath. “And what about the woman? She’s more than a baby incubator. She’s actually a person. A real, live person. Why don’t you care what she wants?”

  “I—”

  But I’m on a roll now. “And what do you propose to do if a woman wants an abortion after you make it illegal? Are you going to chain her to a wall or something? Force her to give birth against her will? One in four women will have an abortion in their lifetime. That’s a lot of people to chain up, Daniel. Is that really what you want?”

  My voice is loud enough to echo in the empty hallway, but Daniel doesn’t back down.

  “Of course that’s not what I want.” He’s getting louder, too. “That’s a stupid straw man argument. Do you think they chained women up before Roe v. Wade?”

  I take a step toward him, just like I did when we were doing our scene. “No. You know what happened before Roe v. Wade? Women still had abortions. Hundreds of thousands a year. Only they were illegal, and dangerous. Is that what you want? You want us to go back to the coat hanger days?”

  “No! Stop putting words in my mouth. I just want unborn babies to have a chance to live. The same chance you and I got.”

  “But you can’t talk about unborn babies and just forget about the women carrying them. And you can’t pretend that women will stop getting abortions if Roe v. Wade is overturned. They’ll just happen in back alleys, like they used to. If you want to stop abortions, provide free birth control. Teach kids about safe sex and preventing pregnancy. Or are you one of those abstinence-only assholes?”

  Daniel’s jaw is tense, and his eyes are glittering in the fluorescent light. “Actually, no. I believe in sex ed and birth control and teaching kids to have safe sex. But if that doesn’t work—if a couple gets pregnant anyway—then don’t you think, just maybe, that’s part of God’s plan?”

  I stare at him. “Oh, damn.”

  “What?”

  “You’re one of those. A religious nut.”

  It’s his turn to take a step toward me.

  “And you’re one of those.”

  “One of what?”

  “An intolerant liberal. An anti-religious bigot.”

  I put my hands on my hips. My chin is already up. As far as aggressors go, I probably resemble a small angry rooster facing a big angry dog.

  But you never see the rooster back down.

  “I am a liberal. But I’m not intolerant, and I’m not anti-religious. I just don’t want your religion anywhere near my constitutional rights.”

  “The right to an abortion isn’t enshrined in the constitution.”

  “Tell that to the Supreme Court justices who decided Roe v. Wade in 1973.”

  “Supreme Courts have made shitty rulings before. Remember Dred Scot?”

  “Oh my God. You can’t seriously be comparing the Dred Scot decision to—”

  “Are you guys practicing a scene? Or is this for real?”

  Daniel and I jerk our heads around at the sound of Izzy’s voice.

  She’s standing in the hallway a few yards away. I remember now that I told her and Charlie I’d catch up with them.

  How much time has gone by since then?

  I take a deep breath. “Sorry, Iz. I’ll be out in a second, okay?”

  Izzy looks curious, but she just nods, turns, and heads toward the exit. Daniel and I watch until the door closes behind her.

  Once she’s gone, we look at each other again. Daniel’s expression is different now. The anger is gone, replaced by uncertainty.

  I feel uncertain too. Our argument got so intense so fast.

  “Goodbye,” I say finally, the word sounding too abrupt and too loud.

  I turn to follow Izzy out of the building. But before I can take more than a couple of steps, Daniel reaches out and touches my shoulder.

  I’m not ready for what happens to my body. Goose bumps prickle every inch of my skin and my heart starts to pound.

  I turn back to face him.

  “I stand by what I said,” he tells me.

  Great. So he’s not letting go of the argument even after—

  “There’s nothing wrong with a woman enjoying sex. That’s how it’s supposed to be. And any guy who says otherwise is an asshole.”

  It’s obvious he means it. But how does his no slut-shaming policy tie in to his religious beliefs? Not to mention the whole pro-life thing?

  My emotions feel tangled. Underneath everything else, a part of me wants to solve the riddle of this man. To figure out what makes him tick.

  But I doubt I’ll have the chance.

  “You’re going to drop this class, aren’t you?” I say.

  He frowns. “Why do you think that?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. If I was in a class surrounded by right wing nut jobs, I’d probably drop it.”

  He grins suddenly.

  “No you wouldn’t. You’d stay and take them on.”

  Man, that smile. It’s lopsided and warm and sexy as hell, and a bunch of other things that make my stomach muscles tighten.

  “Well. If you’re not going to drop the class, I guess I’ll see you Thursday.”

  Then I turn and hurry away.

  Chapter Six

  Daniel

  I can’t stop thinking about Tamsin.

  It’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’m at football practice. As I lurch to my feet after a brutal hit by Andre—it’s his job to take me out of every play—Coach finally calls a five-minute water break.

  “Hey,” I say to Andre as we grab bottles from the ice bucket. “You know Tamsin Shay, right?”

  Andre nods. “She’s a friend.”

  I chug water and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “What’s her story? I heard she’s been single for a while.”

  Andre and I aren’t close or anything, but we respect each other. I figure he knows I’m not a player when it comes to girls, and that I’m not just looking to get laid.

  But still, he stares at me for a few seconds before he answers.

  “Why are you asking?”

  Shit. Is it possible Andre has a thing for Tamsin?

  “Hey, man. If I’m stepping on your toes, I—”

  “No. That’s not it.” He shifts his helmet from one hand to the other. “It’s just I don’t think you guys are types.”

  Types?

  It’s early September, hot and humid, and I’m soaked with sweat. I wipe my face with a towel and look at Andre again.

  “What do you mean?”

  Andre looks at me kind of appraisingly.

  “I don’t want to piss you off,” he says.

  “You won’t.”

  “It’s just…well, you’re a really nice guy, Bowman.”

  “Is that the part that’s going to piss me off?”

  He grins. “Well, it would piss off some guys. But you’re from, you know, this small town in Kansas or whatever and—”

  “Missouri.”

  “Whatever. And Tamsin is from San Francisco.�
��

  I blink. “Dude. Our quarterback is Muslim and his girlfriend is Jewish. Are you seriously talking to me about the great divide between city girls and country boys?”

  He grins again. “Okay, fair point. But it’s not just the San Francisco thing. I mean…” He hesitates. “This is the part that might piss you off. I’m friends with a girl you dated last year. Bree Simms?”

  Shit.

  I haven’t dated anyone since Bree. In fact, Bree is one of the reasons I stopped dating.

  I think I know what’s coming. “Yeah?”

  “Bree mentioned that you guys didn’t have sex.”

  Yep, I knew it was coming. And it does piss me off.

  “And that’s, like, news? The fact that we dated for three months and didn’t have sex?”

  “Bree thought it was because of your religion.”

  I start to say something, and Andre holds up a hand. “I’m not passing judgment on that. I don’t give a shit what you do or what you believe. But Tamsin…she’s a free spirit. Including when it comes to sex. And I don’t want to see anyone bring her down.”

  I’m not pissed off any more. Just confused.

  “Wait a second. You think if I dated Tamsin and didn’t have sex with her I’d be bringing her down?”

  Andre rubs the back of his neck. “I just think the difference in your attitudes might make her feel…I don’t know. Judged or something.”

  I feel my jaw tightening.

  “You know what? I’m sick of people assuming that because I’m religious I’m walking around judging people.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “I just asked if Tamsin was single. I’m not even planning to ask her out. And if I did, there’s like a ninety-nine percent chance she’d say no. So you don’t have to protect your friend, okay? Which, by the way, is kind of messed up. Tamsin can take care of herself. It’s not very feminist of you to jump to her defense. Isn’t that the patriarchy in action, or whatever?”

  Andre doesn’t look mad. But then he hardly ever does, even when he’s tackling someone.

  “What can I say? I’m from Louisiana. It’s hard to take the southern gentleman out of the southern gentleman. But I live in Bracton and I’ve been listening to the sisterhood for two years, and they kind of have a point about—well, everything.” He pauses. “Look. I know Tamsin can take care of herself. But that doesn’t mean she can’t get hurt, right? And I don’t want to see that happen. She’s in a really good place right now, and I—”